#INTONATION 2020

[connanro]

i'm listening to a recording of the mozart clarinet quintet my chamber group sophomore year made and it's a little painful....like @ me you're the first violinist did you not practise your solos???????

[undying-love]

Paul's grief over time: A Compilation

“During the session [in 1981] Paul fell into a lugubrious mood. He said, ‘I’ve just realized that John is gone. John’s gone. He’s dead and he is not coming back.’ And he looked completely dismayed, like shocked at something that had just hit him. ‘Well, it’s been a few weeks now.’ He said, ‘I know, Eric, but I’ve just realized." (Eric Stewart)

“It’s still weird even to say, ‘before he died’. I still can’t come to terms with that. I still don’t believe it. It’s like, you know, those dreams you have, where he’s alive; then you wake up and… 'Oh’.” (Paul, 1986)

"Occasionally, it wells up. Y'know, and I'm at home on the weekend suddenly and I start thinking about him or talking to the kids about him and I can't handle it." (Paul, 1987)

"Is there a record you like to put on just to hear John’s voice?" I ask Paul the next day. Paul looks startled. He fumbles. “Oh, uh. There’s so much of it. I hear it on the car radio when I’m driving.” No, that’s not what I mean", I persist. "Isn’t there a time when you just wish you could talk to John, when you’d like to hear his voice again?" For some reason, he instead responds to the original question.“Oh sure,” he says and looks a little taken aback. ‘Beautiful Boy". (1990)

"Also not obvious is that McCartney [for the Liverpool Oratorio] has penned a gorgeous black-spiritual-like piece for mezzo-soprano that intones the last words spoken to John Lennon as he lay dying of gunshot wounds in the back of a New York police car -- "Do you know who you are?" McCartney gets a bit choked up at one point when he reveals, "Not a day goes by when I don't think of John.” (1991)

"Delicious boy, delicious broth of a boy. He was a lovely guy, you know. And it gets sadder and sadder to be saying “was”. Nearer to when he died I couldn’t believe I was saying “was”, but now I do believe I’m saying “was”. I’ve resisted it. I’ve tried to pretend he didn’t get killed." (Paul, 1995)

"Paul talked about John a a lot, but the strange thing was that it was in the present tense, “John says this" or "John thinks that. Very weird." (Peter Cox, 2006)

“John Lennon was shot dead in 1980. That totally knocked dad for six. I haven’t really spoken to him a lot about it because it is such a touchy subject." (James McCartney, 2013)

"It's very difficult for me and I, occasionally, will have thoughts and sort of say: "I don't know why I don't just break down crying every day? […] You know, I don't know how I would have dealt with it because I don't think I've dealt with it very well. In a way… I wouldn't be surprised if a psychiatrist would sort of find out that I'm slightly in denial, because it's too much." (Paul, 2020)

"Like any bereavement, the only way out is to remember how good it was with John. Because I can't get over the senseless act. I can't think about it. I'm sure it's some form of denial. But denial is the only way that I can deal with it." (Paul, 2020)

"When I talked to Paul about John and when he missed John most, he couldn't answer me for a long time and his eyes teared up. And I asked him where he thinks about John and when John comes into his mind and he just … he lost it, he completely lost it." (Bob Spitz, 2021)

-------------------------------------------------

The following two are from the gossip website Datalounge, so they may or may not be true. Still interesting though:

"The one time I was ever actually in a room with Paul, zillion people between me and him (and no way I'm gonna bother him, all of us who travel in celeb circles have people we're fans of and all of us inexplicably try to hide it to seem "cooler"), he started talking loudly about himself and John, and how hard it was not to have him there. I remember him saying something along the lines of not a day passing that John's not still in it with him, but it's not like he can pick up a phone and say, "Hey, just needed to hear your voice today," and even when he got craggy responses, he still missed them. He misses it all, and it's bothering to him that he misses him more as time goes on -- it doesn't heal, he just learns new ways to bandage the wound."

“Since everyone is anonymous here, I guess I can give a bit of info I got from a female friend of mine who at one time worked as one of Paul’s assistants. [...] She does not know for certain if John and Paul were involved but she suspects it since to this day whenever John’s name is brought up he acts in her words ‘like a widow’ and he also addresses John in present tense. He would say things like, ‘John thinks that the music should be like this,’ and during his bitter divorce from Heather he was saying, ‘John says that this is getting nasty.’ Kind of creepy." (this one actually seems very intriguing because it sounds very similar to what Peter Cox said, about Paul often talking about John in the present tense, saying "John says.." or "John thinks...")

[fanhackers]

An Intimate Sound–Podfic and Confluence

This week, I’ve been thinking a lot about podfic, i.e.., audio versions of fanfic, read out aloud. Podfic, as an audio-based medium, sits at the confluence of disability accessibility, performance, and of course, simply being a new form of narrative text.

In the first ever published article on podfic, Olivia Riley states:

“Audiobooks, another auditory predecessor of podfic, share podfic's emphasis on fictional narrative and vocal performance as well as other qualities typical to all the audio mediums so far discussed, including portability and ease of access. The comparison of podfic to audiobooks is particularly important because in my investigation I ran across numerous instances of listeners explicitly comparing the podfic experience to that of an audiobook, while only one referenced podcasts in relation to these audio narratives; thus, we must take into account how fans theorize their own texts and experiences.”

This particular comparison between audiobooks and podfics interests me; podcasts, whether fictional or non-fictional, arguably may be more intimate, in so much as we may get to listen to the speakers’ personal opinions, thoughts, ideas, etc. And yet, podfic finds itself standing more with audiobooks, despite sharing half its name with podcasts. I’d like to complicate this further, drawing from my own experience of both running zines with audio components, as well as interacting with fellow fans who make podfic, and who have had podfic made off their own work: fans are sometimes hesitant to provide permission to have their work read out aloud, concerned about the voice and audio work “exposing” perceived flaws in their written texts.

There’s a certain intimacy involved in the process, certainly, more than just that of getting a work beta-ed, or proof-read. It’s similar to the collaborative nature of fanart for fanfic, except fanart is welcomed with a lot less hesitance.

In the same article, Riley further goes on to explore this very intimacy:

“The audio performances of podfic produce a queer network of relations between the performer, the text, and the listener. To begin with, the text itself is an actor in podfic. All the podfics examined for this article were explicitly queer in their content, featuring queer(ed) characters, queer themes, romance, and often explicit sexuality. The characters in these podfics carry variously transformed and reimagined genders and sexualities. These podfics are palimpsests of many texts and authors, including the fan fic being read aloud, the source text the fan fic was inspired by, the contemporary fanon and fan community that shaped the fic's production, the various music and sound effects often used in these recordings, and the labor of all the creators who made these media. Further, through the reader's performance, listeners receive a unique interpretation of the fan fic being read, conveyed through the intonations and other subtleties that emphasize and elide various textual significances. This profusion of overlapping and sometimes contradictory layers of meaning impact how a listener understands a character's gender and sexuality, refusing the simplicity of heteronormative binaries.” RILEY, OLIVIA JOHNSTON. 2020. “PODFIC: QUEER STRUCTURES OF SOUND.” TRANSFORMATIVE WORKS AND CULTURES, NO. 34. HTTPS://DOI.ORG/10.3983/TWC.2020.1933.

There is, then, a definite sense of vulnerability in getting podfic made off one’s work. But podfic, I’d argue, is almost the most celebratory fan-object fandom has ever produced—it sits again on a confluence, not just of medium and accessibility, but of multiple creatives, all of whom have a singular contribution in making the final product. Podfic is, in many ways, a community object, more so than most fan-objects, simply by its nature of needing multiple inputs. 

What are your thoughts on podfic?

[thiniceofeternalyouth]

MISLEADIN' ME SERIES: CHAPTER TWELVE

THIEF OF THREE DESTINIES

⊳ Gojo Satoru x f!reader

series masterlist

Genre: angst, fluff, sci-fi, cosmology.

Words count: ~13k

⊲ previous

[July 1, 2020; 02:17am; hunters' hq]

[02:01] You: Megumi's back, he's fine

Delivered.

Unread.

[02:11] You: u ok?

Delivered.

Unread.

Gojo wasn't answering your calls either. You were drowning in an abyss of intrusive thoughts, each one worse than the last. Was he okay? If he was all right, why was he silent? Such silence was like the silence of a dead man - just as endlessly cold.

You stirred, pushing the images away from you and setting the phone aside. Maybe that was your lesson to learn. Wasn't that what he meant by loneliness?

There was nothing left of Kyle, not even his cold corpse was honored to rest deep underground. His image along with the vague tracings of his voice seemed to beg you not to forget him, but you knew that every image and every melancholy has a year later. Eventually, a wave of new memories would erase his still-green eyes. 

The moral compass had been broken, trampled, torn to pieces. In which direction should the lost traveler go now? This entire time traveler had been walking along the dark side of the moon towards the calling sun - towards something bright and warm. Where would the road lead if the sun was stolen?

"Meg," you called out detachedly. "Asleep?"

"No," replied the mechanical voice.

"I have a riddle."

"I'm listening."

"There are two hunters," you began, staring blankly at the black monitor screen. "One is experienced, the other is a newbie. They were surrounded by demons, the experienced one was killed, and the newbie survived. What kinda a case is this?"

"The newbie was with the demons," Meg replied without hesitation or questioning intonation.

"Think again," you said, admonishing more yourself than the artificial intelligence.

Meg was silent, but it was as if you could hear her digging through the informational bowels of universal human knowledge, and she was doing it so fast that it would take you a lifetime to absorb that much information. "Hmm...," Meg drawled. "The messengers don't get killed?"

"The messengers don't get killed," you confirmed in a whisper, watching in the extinguished monitor as your eyes went black.

You didn't even notice that you had chewed your own thumb to a bloody pulp. Those devils knew everything. From start to finish. They knew you'd broken into a settlement, knew which one, knew that Kyle would be going instead of you that day. So where was the rat lurking? Was it one of the people in the void? Or was it one of the people who lived in the house?

Knock-knock.

Your only task was to keep your head down. You knew exactly what they were after, and they seemed to be getting close. Every day it became harder for you to control the turns of the invisible blades embedded in your body. You wiped the moisture from your dark eyes with a sharp movement, and making sure you looked like anyone else, you walked to the door.

A pair of sad, frightened child's eyes greeted you. "Why ya still awake?" you asked Yuuji tiredly, trying to maintain a neutral, if not positive, attitude. The boy looked down at first, before peeking over your shoulder. "Okay, come in," you surrendered, throwing up your hands.

He walked hesitantly over to your bed and sat down on the very edge. It looked like he was about to fall to the floor. "I... I brought something," Itadori began in a shaky voice and reached into his pocket with the same hands. "I think...," he stammered, and you could see him literally chewing the inside of his cheeks. "I'm sorry, but I don't think you should have thrown it away," he stated in an already firm voice, looking you dead in the eye. In his outstretched hand lay a silver bracelet, mockingly sparkling. "Especially in the trash can," boy added more quietly, trying to hide from you again. "It's a memory."  

"I've never complained about my memory," you said, shrugging.

"That's not the point!" he protested, and the bracelet almost fell out of his hand. Itadori immediately pressed it to his chest. "Don't you wanna have a piece of him always near you? It's very precious," he whispered, pressing the jewelry harder against his chest.

"This thing's worth 20 bucks."

"Don't you dare say that," Itadori hissed. His fear faded away, making way for anger at the words you had said. "Take it!" he ordered, holding out the jewelry to you again. "Take it, now!"

It was the one shining thing that didn't make you want to take it or steal it. You walked over to the bed and sat down next to the boy, and you had no time for inner cries and agonizing - you couldn't show weakness in front of anyone. As soon as you took the bracelet in your hands, you felt like the ultimate fool. Why did you throw it away in the first place? It had never been a soulless piece of metal, at least not since you'd put it on your brother's arm.

You glanced around the workroom. Kyle wasn't here anymore, and he never would be. Maybe you'd never see him again, or maybe he'd see you in hell.

Along with everyone else.

"Thank ya," you smiled weakly but sincerely at Itadori. Maybe he sensed it, maybe he heard it in your voice, but he fidgeted restlessly, dropping his gaze to the floor again.

"What are you thanking me for...? I yelled at you. I'm sorry," he mumbled, and the swollen red face was drawn again with sorrow. Where is the artist who painted such things on children's faces? Maybe if you ripped their heart out, you'd feel a little better.

You wrapped your fingers around Yuji's chin, making him look up at you. "For being more mature than me today," you tried to wipe away the tears that had started streaming down his cheeks before you'd even finished speaking. He snuggled into your shoulder, muffling the tearing sobs. You didn't pay attention to how wet your sweatshirt was from his tears and snot, only gently stroking his back. "It's gonna be okay," you repeated the words like a mantra straight into the pink top of his head.

His body was clearly exhausted, and he collapsed in your arms. Yuji seemed to have cried for so long that all the water had gone out of his organism. "Try to get some sleep, 'kay?" you said, adjusting the pillow on the bed with your hand. At his exhausted questioning look, you shrugged. "Ya can go to your room if ya want. It's just that I remember ya saying it's quieter at my place."

You patted him on the top of his head and got up from the bed, heading back to the computer chair. A murmur behind you made you chuckle quietly - apparently Itadori had made his choice. "Y/N?" he addressed you quietly, covering himself with a blanket. You hummed questioningly. "You didn't call sensei?"

You didn't want to disturb an already wounded young heart. "He's busy right now, so I didn't bother him with the news," you said evasively. "Just texted him to say that Megumi is fine. Now go back to sleep."

A fresh morning breeze wandered through the room, taking all the memories with it as it made its way back through the window into the freedom of the bay. There really wasn't much stuff - you only needed three boxes to pack all of Kyle's clothes. Was it always this black and gray, or had you stopped perceiving colors?

You folded another T-shirt carefully, deliberately slow. After all, this was the last day you'd ever been this close to him. As you put the folded T-shirt in the box, you glanced at the unopened men's perfume on the bedside table. Would anyone need it now?

When you picked up the black sweatshirt, the door clicked open. The fresh air in the room was instantly freezing, chilling to the bone. Rachel was like the walking dead, even the large eyes on her gaunt face showed no signs of life. She stood on the other side of the bed, across from you, staring blankly at the sweatshirt you were holding.

You tentatively held it out to Rachel, and she took the sweatshirt in her hands after a few more seconds of staring blankly at the space. "Um...," you began quietly, watching her go through the clothes in her hands. "I packed everything here, so... When ya go to Hopetown, bring it with ya, 'kay?"  

Rachel covered her eyes for a moment, her nose buried in the sweater as if she hadn't heard you at all. You looked away awkwardly and headed for the exit. "Ya're going too," she demanded in a strangled voice.

You sighed convulsively and turned around - Rachel was still standing with her back to you. "Rach, I don't have time to stand by a tombstone that doesn't even have a body underneath it." 

Everything froze. Your ears heard nothing, your eyes saw nothing. Your skin felt neither wind nor touch. Even your memory stopped - all the images melted away, spreading out into the obscurity.

You came to your senses from the impact of your head hitting the floor. Rachel was on top of you, clutching your throat with both hands - she must have been doing it for a long time because your chest was already cramping helplessly. Certain places on your body were aching desperately, especially your ribs and cheekbones. "Rach," you wheezed, grasping weakly at her wrists.

She held it all in not making a sound, and you could have sworn you could see the muscles in her face tense behind the shroud of rage. You tried to reach out to her again, but another pathetic croak escaped your lips, and Rachel let go of your neck, whimpering suppressedly. "Ya're going," she hissed, getting up from the floor.

You pulled yourself up, coughing and rubbing your neck. "Rachel," your voice became an order of magnitude rougher as if your sister's hands were still clutching your throat. "I understand ya feel bad," you watched as she walked back to the bed, looking down at the same sweatshirt and wiping silent tears from her face. "But why ya so angry with me?"

She turned around sharply, meeting your uncomprehending gaze. "Because it's ya who should bear that burden, not me!" she shouted out desperately. "It's-," her own sobbing interrupted her, and she tried to push it away, hiding her face in hands. "It's all your fault, so why am I theone in tears right now?"   

"I didn't ask anyone to follow me-"

"Shut your fucking mouth!" the perfume flew just an inch from your face. When it hit the wall, it left nothing behind but shards that crumbled to the floor. "Shut up!" Rachel gasped and agonized with her own emotions. Despite the fact that she let them out, it didn't get any easier in the slightest. "Ya just an ungrateful bitch," she hissed weakly. "Ya'll go to the funeral. Otherwise your white-haired weirdo will find out-"

"He knows," you cut it off.

"That's how it is," Rachel said, naively slamming her eyes shut. "Then it's strange that he's still with ya. I can barely stand ya, even though I've been around since I was a kid."

"Rachel," you sighed tiredly. "Let's just not fight, 'kay? This isn't really a good time for that."

Wiping the nearly dried paths of tears from her face, your sister straightened to her full height and headed for the exit. "Ya're going or ya don't have a sister anymore either," she mumbled absently, shoving you with her shoulder.

It was definitely her favorite.

"We are gathered here today to honor the memory of our beloved son, brother, friend..."

The weather was clearly mocking. The midday sun brightly illuminated the growing greenery, the black-clad people, and the names on the tombstones. There wasn't a cloud in the sky, just a vast blue. Nature didn't seem to want to grieve with the people. She didn't care about all of you.

You stood away from everyone else, leaning against a tree. There was no place to hide in this cemetery field, and the tree seemed to be your only refuge. You pressed your shoulder against it as hard as you could, smoking your third cigarette.

"Words cannot express the full horror of this tragedy that has touched us all..." 

Tragedy.

Megumi and Danielle stood in the front rows, huddled together as if trying to become one. Both were pale and lifeless, but Dany still had the strength to cry. She stood with her face buried in his neck, unable to look at the closed coffin, and the boy stroked her head inconsolably, unable to take his eyes off of it. It was unclear which of them had it worse, but they decided to deal with it together.

It brought some people together.

Rachel stood beside them, holding Mike in her arms. She kept her hand on the redhead's head, pulling her son closer to her chest as if ordering him not to look. You could see his little body flinch and twitch. Rachel never spoke to you after that fight. She didn't even look in your direction.

Someone was distanced by it.

Frank's skin was the color of his hair and beard, but he struggled to keep that same good-natured expression, though it was completely drenched in sadness. He stared blankly at the empty coffin. How could you look him in the eye now that you couldn't even bring the body?

The people from the void who had come to the funeral were frightened. This man had saved them, fought for them, but if he was suddenly mortal, didn't that mean the rest of you were too?

Tragedy inevitably befalls everyone. For some it prepares them, for others it comes completely unexpectedly. It leaves behind either a hardened spirit or a broken heart - a person must choose for themselves.

"Wherever he goes, I believe he will end up in the arms of God..."

If God didn't have time to keep track of everything going on here, who's to say he had time to keep track of the other side? Did it even exist? You looked around the cemetery helplessly. There was a whole universe under each tombstone, but what would be under your brother's one?

"Y/N," greeted the woman who came up behind you.

"Camila," you said, taking another drag on your cigarette. The woman leveled herself at you and stared through her dark glasses at the spectacle in front of you. "I didn't think anyone from the old generation would come here."

"Can we be judged for that?" asked Camila plaintively. "Kyle's death hardly our business."

"He's Frank's son," you reminded her. "To Frank ya owe a lot."

"I didn't come here to bicker," the woman said sternly, nervously smoothing her already perfectly bunched hair. "I want you to give me my sons back."

"Did that one death scare ya like that?" you raised your eyebrows in surprise.

"One?" barked Camila, but immediately lowered her voice so as not to draw attention to herself. "Whatever. Anyway, I'm expecting Axel and Ryan home tomorrow. If not, we'll come pick them up ourselves," she gave you a meaningful look as if she wanted you to feel like you were nothing.

"Will mom's skirt save them in battle, too?"

There was a resounding smack. You bit your lip and put a hand to your aching cheek.

"It's called concern," she hissed, leaning over you. "You don't know of such a thing, do you? You don't care who you let go to waste."

"Concern?" you chuckled. "It didn't keep your hubby safe," when she tried to hit you again, you intercepted her arm, digging your nails into her skinny wrist. The hiss of bubbling blood eclipsed all sound, so you didn't immediately notice that there was no noise at all. No voices, no stomping. "Hit me again and I'll rip your heart out. Just like everyone else who will come to our house," you had barely finished grinning when a ringing silence that you hadn't sensed earlier hit your ears. Stunned by this, you turned towards the people gathered here to pay their honor. All of them were looking at you.

Shoving the frightened Camila's hand away from you, you strode away from the cemetery to the taunts of the midday sun.

Gojo thought he was doing the right thing. At least for the first couple days. Wasn't it fair to feed you the same pill you kept giving him? If you didn't give it a taste, how else would you know how bitter it was? That's how he reassured himself when he saw another missed call. If on the first day it made him smile stupidly, after a while he grew more and more anxious - maybe you've forgotten him already? He had to hand it to you - in all this time you called only four times, the last call was dated last night. It wasn't enough for him. He didn't want you to miss him only at night, he wanted to be in your thoughts every morning and evening, whether you were eating or fighting.

Gojo didn't miss your messages either. Megumi did well, how could he not? It couldn't have happened to any of his students otherwise.

He muffled the panic rising in his chest by poking curse's eye out with his heel. The eye burst with a squelching sound. He couldn't count how many times it had been these days because he had personally volunteered for mission after mission. "God, that's a lot of yelling," he muttered, tucking his hands into his pockets and pressing down on the ugly head even harder. Whether there was a brain inside the curse head or something else, Gojo's shoes were immediately stained with purple goo.

Gojo didn't hear the phone ring because of the ultrasound, but he pulled it out when he felt it vibrate in his pocket. Biting his lip in frustration, he stared at the caller's name for a while longer before answering. "Hey," Gojo chirped.  

"Jesus, what's that sound in the background?" hissed Megumi. The boy was heard to pull away from the phone.

"Oh, wait a second," Gojo rambled apologetically. He squatted down, and leaning over the curse, grabbed it by something that resembled a throat. When the covers crunched, when the curse froze, opening its mouth in an already silent scream, a mad chuckle escaped Gojo's lips. Clenching his hand even tighter, he ripped the creature's head off with a single tug. Tossing it away from him, Gojo leaned the phone to his ear again. "Better?" he asked carelessly.  

A long sigh sounded from the other side. "Are you really that busy or are you really just an unscrupulous asshole?"

"Hey!" he resented. "It's been so long since we've seen each other, and you don't have a warm word to say?"

"You should come. Anyway, the ceremony's already over, but I think it would be respectful to at least show up here," Megumi muttered moodily, and what was even more surprising to Gojo was the weakness hiding behind the usual scowl.

"Ceremony?" wondered Gojo, feeling his palms begin to sweat. "What did you guys do in there without me?" he asked, trying to suppress a nervous grin. 

"Uh," Megumi began uncertainly. "Didn't Y/N tell you?"

"Told me about what?" he inquired, smiling forcefully. There was silence on the other end, and the longer it lasted, the harder his heart began to pound. It pounded loudly and painfully, breaking all his arrogance and confidence in his own actions. "Megumi, told me about what?" 

Before his heart could stop, there was a rustling sound as if Megumi had pulled the phone as close to him as possible. "Kyle's dead."

They'd never been close. A few insults and promises to kick each other's asses were all they had in common. However, Gojo wasn't hurting for himself right now.

That's why you called him last night. You had called him twice in a row, and while Gojo had hesitated to answer the first call, the second one had made him throw the phone away. He'd been told that many times, directly or veiledly, jokingly or seriously, but as soon as he waved his hand, the words evaporated before they reached his soul. He couldn't even look up now, though. For the first time he felt like nothing.  

Sitting at the empty dining room table, Rachel stared out the window as if there were something more mesmerizing than the everyday sunset. Whether she prayed, pleaded, or argued, the inhabitants of heaven were adamant or deaf. The angels and their arrows did not care about human suffering.

Gojo was sure she heard the front door slam, so why didn't she turn around? The only thing that moved was her fingers, which scrabbled against the tabletop, occasionally touching the crystal ashtray that held at least twenty or so cigarette butts. The ashes smeared awkwardly against the table were like feelings - neither reversed nor returned, only wiped away with a damp cloth. "Hey," Gojo sounded muffled in spite of his ringing voice. "Sorry for your loss," Rachel never turned around. No nod of her head, no greeting. "Um... You know where Y/N is? Is she still in town?"  

"Why would I know where your monster is," she mumbled. Despite her slurred words, there was no bottle or glass on the table in front of her. Apparently, her father's influence was taking its toll.

"Uh? You're her sister," he said with a perplexed shrug.

Rachel clicked her tongue lazily, not taking her eyes off the window. "I wish I wasn't."

"Oh, I see," he drawled, an arrogant smirk in his voice. "So you're the poor unfortunate girl. The only one who lost someone, huh?" he tilted his head sideways, looking at your sister. There was no child sitting in front of him, so where did such childish behavior come from? "Grow up already."

Rachel sat still for a few seconds, then slowly turned her body and stared at Gojo with empty eyes. He'd come to her house, to her family, hung around her sister, failed to show up at her brother's funeral, and dared to mock her.

"Tranquillity."   

Gojo remained standing as he was. He realized that something had happened; even though he wasn't shackled, he felt strange as if the chain did exist and it was beginning to be slowly pulled around his neck. "Is that all you got?" he asked excitedly. There was only one desire burning in him now - to test the limits of his own abilities. 

If she'd had the strength to smile, her face would have contorted into a mad grimace, but right now Rachel just kept watching him. Nothing reflected in her glassy eyes. No surprise, no satisfaction. "What were ya saying about your infinity?" she asked blankly, not expecting an answer. It was not enough for her. If he couldn't feel the mental pain, let him feel the physical.

"Tranquillity."

She was ready to tear him and his equanimity. Thin black strips crawled along her fingers, wrapping around every inch of tanned skin.

It was hard for him to breathe, but the reverse technique was doing its job - it broke the chains time after time, but they were put back on, each one thicker than the last. His hand flew involuntarily to his throat.

"Rachel, that's enough!" shouted Frank, rushing down from the second floor. He hadn't even had time to change - he was still wearing his black suit. "I said STOP!" he howled, and Rachel's head popped up. When the chains of dark energy stopped restraining Gojo, he began gasping for air.

Frank walked over to him, and taking him by the shoulder, looked him over anxiously. "Son, ya okay?" Gojo nodded, rubbing his throat. "And ya," he turned angrily to his daughter. "What the hell ya doing?"  

Rachel showed an emotion other than total absence for the first time in a day. She laughed bitterly. "I'm just wondering why everyone is defending her."

"I don't know who exactly ya talking about," the man hissed. "But we have a duty to protect her because she's our family."

Rachel laughed even harder, and the louder her laugh was, the crazier it sounded. "Mom never carried her under her heart! She's here because you're a hearty idiot! You just felt sorry-"

"Shut your mouth!" snapped Frank sharply.

"I won't!" she yelled, jumping up from her chair. "None of this would have happened if it wasn't for her! I just want to come home and know that Kyle will meet me! Alive!" she gasped, muffling her own sobs. "And now he's gone. All because ya took pity on her once! You should have just left her to them," she whimpered weakly, her head collapsing onto her chest.

"You don't feel well. Go to your room," Frank ordered softly.

She glared sharply at him, for ire gave her strength. "Ya can't tell me what to do!"

"I am your father. Sure I can," he replied firmly, and though he kept his voice low, it sounded much louder than his daughter's screams. 

"Obedience."

Rachel groaned painfully and tried to keep her legs in place, but they were trying to get off the floor against her will. "Fuck you," she spat out, and then she went up the stairs and disappeared to the second floor.

Gojo watched Frank anxiously. The man was breathing heavily, staring after his daughter and rubbing his chest as if his heart were painfully throbbing. His arm was covered in dark, wriggling stripes, and when Frank's legs started to wobble, Gojo picked him up immediately. "Hey, hey, oldman," he gibbered worriedly. "What's the matter?" he dragged Frank to the couch, and sitting him down, poured him some water. 

"Thanks, son," the man took the glass with a shaky hand and took a couple sips. "Sorry for no warm welcome today. We're all on edge right now," setting the water aside, Frank pulled back the collar of his shirt. The dark lines wrapping around his collarbones almost reached his heart. "Shit...and here I thought I can live to fight another day," he grinned grimly.

Frank wasn't a fool. He may not have been the smartest man, but he had a lot of experience under his belt. He saw no anger or irritation on Gojo's face at what had happened, just the faded blue eyes. "Lost someone?" the man asked.

Gojo nodded briefly without looking up. "Yeah," he said quietly. 

"She's in the church now," Frank prompted politely. "She went to give some things away, so... You'll find her there."

"Do you really think I'd leave an old man with a heart attack?" clinging to the remnants of his temper, Gojo glanced slyly at Frank.

He got a fatherly slap, not hard enough to hurt him, but hard enough to set him straight. "Go already," Frank growled, and Gojo didn't bother to argue or bicker with him. Rubbing his aching heart, Frank barely waited for the door to slam shut. "Ya left too soon, Kyle," he sobbed, digging his fingernails into the blackened skin. "They still need your care."   

You dragged the boxes to the far corner hidden behind the columns and unlit by hundreds of candles. You did it as quietly as possible, trying not to disturb the praying parishioners. On days like this, the church came alive. The hall filled with light from the fire was crowded with people, and those who did not have enough room in the pews reverently said their prayers on the floor, on their knees. Everyone was silent, all those present turned only to God. Paradoxically, it only took one dead person to do this. On other days, the place was not gloomy, but rather empty - all the voices of those who came here echoed off the walls.

You could barely lift the boxes as if each one weighed a ton. When you would sneak quietly into a corner with a box, your forearms would ache terribly and you would want to drop everything or carry it back home. Were clothes always this heavy? Or was it the weight of parting?

When you reached the last box, you took your time putting it down. You held it tightly to you as if you were hugging it, and sat down on the floor next to the rest of the things. Watching the people in the gap between the columns, you wondered - perhaps you should have done the same. No one had ever explained what silent prayers could do. It was something intimate, something that remained only between man and the creature from above.

Man is all-powerful. Man is fragile. A person can move mountains or they can break their heel jumping off the bench. Person loves and hates, misses and has fun, makes mistakes and feats, but they forget that all this exists only because of them. Without them there would be neither conquered mountains, nor love nor hate.

And then the man dies.

"Y/N," a soft voice addressed you. "Don't sit on the cold floor. You'll catch a cold," you looked up and saw the Holy Father holding out his hand to you.

Setting the box aside with the rest of Kyle's belongings, you took his palm and stood up, shaking off your feet. "Kalev," you awkwardly tried to shove the boxes away so they wouldn't get in the way. "Um... Thank ya for performing the ceremony."

"What are you talking about?" wondered the Holy Father quietly. He was still dressed in his ceremonial robes, and unlike the others, it was completely white except for the wide collar - it was embroidered with silver threads. "Of course, I agreed to it. I don't care about the rumors. We're all human, and we deserve to go to the other world accompanied by a God."

"Yeah," you muttered, faltering and not looking up. "I guess ya're right."

"What's troubling you?" he asked worriedly, barely touching your hand. "We can always talk," seeing your gaze flicker around the church, he squeezed your palm harder, trying to reassure you.

You knew what awaited you behind those columns, away from the congregation. A small, cramped room that separated the speakers by a mesh partition. "There's no way I'm going to the confessional," you grinned nervously, feeling the back of your neck sweat.

"I didn't say anything about confession," the Holy Father smiled modestly. "I was talking about ordinary human interaction," the man spoke the most ordinary words, but the aura around him radiated a light-winged warmth as if he really was protected by a god. "I will always be happy to talk to you, Y/N," he continued to hold your hand in his, wrinkled and cognizant of the years that carried not only his joys and sorrows, but others' as well. "But it seems to me that someone else wants to talk to you now."

His kind gaze didn't change a bit as he looked over your shoulder. When he let go of your hand, he nodded softly, ordering you to go. As if it were a command from above, you turned around.

You couldn't see his face in the shadow of the columns, but you knew who it was. You walked past Gojo and sat down on the step without even looking at him. Since it was the will of the shadows, let the expression on his face remain a mystery to you forever. "I'm sorry," came the husky voice that had always been ringing and cheerful.

"Me too," you replied detachedly, watching the deserted town.

He carefully sat down beside you, keeping his distance. "Why didn't you tell me what happened?"

"So ya didn't see the calls and texts after all."

"I saw, but...," the heated tiles beneath his feet began to crumble. Gojo had heard once of that feeling of the ground leaving beneath one's feet, but no one had warned him that it would do so slowly. "If you only texted me about what happened, I would be here right away."

"Why," you couldn't even catch the sarcasm in the impersonality of your voice. "Did something like this really have to happen for ya to finally pick up the phone and say ya 'kay?"

So that was it. You didn't ask for help or pity. You just wanted to be reassured that he was okay. "I really am an asshole," there was none of his usual sass in his voice. Just the realization crashing down on him like a slab of granite, crushing all arrogance and carelessness. "I'm sorry. I'm not- I'm just- God," he buried his face in his palms. "I can't even find the right words."

"Whatever," you said, and your alienation did not catch his despair. "I still have more to think about besides another person being disappointed in me."

"No, no, no. It's not like that at all," he mumbled in a weak voice. He cupped your face. To his surprise, you gave in effortlessly as if you were a rag doll. "Only a brainless idiot would be disappointed in you," he leaned his forehead against yours. "And I'm an idiot, but I have brains. Right?" he asked you, and noticing the faintly familiar wrinkles in the corners of your eyes, he smiled, even though his eyes were glistening treacherously.

"If you had brains, you'd run away," you didn't realize that both his mind and his heart had been screaming to the contrary for a long time. That's why he was here now, in front of you and with you, all broken with naked soul. 

Gojo pressed you tighter against him and even pushed you back a little, so as not to disturb the exiting parishioners, but you didn't notice anything. On the other hand, he noticed everything, right down to the way you burrowed harder into his neck when someone walked past you. "Mochi," he rubbed his nose softly against the top of your head. "Is anyone home?"

"No," you replied without raising your head. "All here in Hopetown."

Not to a grieving Rachel, not to a worried Frank, not to a maelstrom of hissing hunters - he didn't want to give you to anyone. Gojo hoped you would understand his selfish desire. "Let's go home then, 'kay?" he whispered and, stunned by the church bells and the beating of his own heart, he kissed you shyly on the temple - your very first kiss. 

You washed away today - all the water running down the drain, taking the dust, sweat, anger, and pain with it. You tried not to disturb your mental equilibrium, and one way to maintain it was with a routine. After smearing moisturizers on your body and applying balm to your hair, you wrapped yourself in a robe and stood in front of the dresser with your clothes. Gojo wanted you to open up - it was time to start somewhere. 

You had no idea what was waiting for you on the floor above. You'd agreed to just watch something, but Gojo was running around the kitchen trying to make a quick meal. He's already gotten it into his head that you're an omnivore. Maybe there were some exceptions like boiled carrots or something, but he didn't like those things too, which meant you'd find something to your liking from all the things he'd quickly cooked and panic-bought at an unknown store - in his state of chaos, Gojo didn't even realize where he'd teleported to. Garlic croutons, mozzarella cheese balls, baked shrimp in bacon, nachos with chili sauce, a few chocolate bars - cholesterol plaques. Everything just the way you liked it. "Well... Acceptable," he muttered, eyeing the edibles.

"What is it?" you asked, peering out from behind his forearm. Gojo didn't even jump - he was used to living in this house with the thought that you could be behind him at any moment. He was ready for anything. Or he thought so until he turned around. 

You were wearing regular pajama pants. Avocado, kitten, funny writing, or solid colors - he'd seen them all. But instead of the usual closed shirt, you were wearing a top. A little stretched and faded, but it hid almost nothing. "Uh," you drawled uncertainly, noticing the lost expression on Gojo's face. "Is something wrong?" you took a step back.  

Gojo had long suspected what was under your clothes, and his suspicions were confirmed. Scars of all kinds - sunken, bumpy, torn, and stretched - adorned your skin, layered on top of each other. The whitish-pink indentations on your wrists were like bracelets, and your throat was covered with many thin tightened cuts, like a dried bloody necklace.  

That wasn't what Gojo was interested in. He knew that if he gave it a single thought, he would be consumed by rage, which was good only in battle and only if it was cold. However, in helpless rage one could only find the road to self-defeat. Anyway, a trigger clicked quietly in his head.   

Kill them all.

"N-no, it's okay," Gojo mumbled, averting his eyes in embarrassment. Your naked arms, shoulders, collarbones, and neck - it made it seem as if you'd exposed more than just a part of your body. "Y-you just- uh," he panted quietly and tried to brush away the unruly white strands that tickled his burning face with his hands. "You took me by surprise," he mumbled awkwardly, raising his eyes to you again.

"Well, I just wish I could wear something like that sometimes too. At least in your workroom," you shrugged. "When I told ya ya could sleep over sometimes, I didn't think ya'd end up living there," you chuckled, not noticing how the man in front of you was being pulled further and further into the abyss by the shame.

"Sorry, I- Uh, I-I just...," Gojo kept stammering like a flustered teenager, and his hands couldn't find their place - he was trying to shove them into his pockets, then cross them over his chest, then fix his hair again. "I'm sorry, I didn't even think of that," he admitted timidly. 

"Nothing, it's fine," you smiled, seeing his condition. "If it bothered me too much, I'd tell ya about it, so... Let's just take it all to the TV," you suggested, pointing to the food. Gojo nodded, and you walked over to the dining table. Seeing several bars of chocolate, you looked dumbfounded. "God," you whimpered. "Wait here. I forgot something." 

You had no right to do that. He'd been through too much emotion that day, and this waiting during your sudden outburst only made him more anxious. He tried to rub his face with his hands to get the red paint off it or to cool it down a little, but it was in vain. Even his hands were burning.

Gojo was eager to get everything ready. He moved all the food to the coffee table, fluffed all the pillows on the couch, brought a couple of blankets, turned on the TV and searched for a movie, but nothing worked. He was still in a panic. 

"Here," you drawled uncertainly, rising from the workroom and walking over to him, sitting on the couch and tapping his foot against the floor. "It's hardly tasty, so...," you bit your lip, holding out the chocolate bar to him. "Just a souvenir from the void," you chirped, flopping onto the couch and tucking your legs under you.   

Gojo stared dumbly at the bar of chocolate in the weathered wrapper - it had been pink, but there was no lettering or logo. Did you think of him?  Was there really room in your head for him in the midst of the cold and the demons, the half-dead people and the unknown? When you were all alone and didn't know how to get out? "I won't eat it, I guess," he said weakly, though he tried to smile slyly.

"Prissy," you snorted, grabbing the nearest pillow and throwing it at him. "Crank up TV."

You've seen several movies, but Gojo didn't understand any of them. The plot, the acting, the locations - he couldn't remember any of it, even though he was staring straight at the screen. Thoughts were rushing around in his head, and his side vision was emphasizing you. You were eating with an envious appetite on whatever he'd cooked or bought, which made him bury his face harder into the pillow he was cradling against his chest. Was it fair that you were so comfortable around him? Was he the only one in this room with a heart that was out of place?    

"That's it," you sighed tiredly, stretching. "I'm full and I can't move," you said, throwing the pillow on the couch and flopping down on it, keeping your legs tucked in so you wouldn't disturb Gojo. 

Okay, it may have been unfair, but it was rarely otherwise in this world. He made that decision on his own. If you were knocked out and made to run away by his attempts to get closer to you, he was willing to back off, but just one step back. No further. Everything was fine as long as you let him stay by your side in this room, on the same couch, eating mozzarella cheese balls he'd made.

"Hey," you poked your foot gently into his thigh. "You're falling asleep," you said, watching his eyelids slip shut. "At least lie down." 

Gojo glanced sleepily at the door; he didn't want to go down to the workroom. He sighed tiredly and lay down behind you. In a strangely familiar habit, he put his arm around your waist - your back was pressed against his chest. "Mochi," Gojo whispered gently into your shoulder, realizing it was time for a risky endeavor. "Look, this might seem weird to you, but... Is it just me or are you and Rachel not getting along?" 

He furrowed his brows at his own insolence, though he hadn't been bothered by those devils pulling his tongue before. You remained silent, stroking the back of his hand with your thumb, an action that made him relax a little. "We fight with her a lot," you finally uttered. "Nothing out of the ordinary."

"I just heard something I wasn't supposed to hear," he admitted honestly. "She said things like, uh... It's not like a common fight."

"She rarely watches her tongue," a shaky exhale escaped you, and Gojo, burrowing deeper into your neck, tried with all his might to show he was there for you. "Rachel, she's... She's not the bad person. It was just a bad day, that's all," he felt you squeeze his hand harder as if you were trying to hold him in place. "Besides... She has a right to be mad at me." 

He squeezed your hand in response. "Why?"

"I killed her husband."

You sat in the huge wooden barn, surrounded by sleeping cattle. The thin hay stung your skin even through your clothes, but you didn't dare move; you sat obediently as you had been told. The strong wind made the barn door wobble as if it were about to swing open. Nothing could be heard outside, only the long whistle of the night air through the cracks.

You tried irritably to wipe the dried blood off your hands, your skin itching and aching in places as you tried so hard to get rid of the scarlet liquid. With the quiet sleepy snorting of the animals and the shoving of another straw away from you, you wondered angrily. What had gone wrong? Where had you miscalculated? And where the fuck did Frank go?

No matter how fast or slow the time dragged on, he was already late. Did he really think that if he told you to sit still and keep your nose clean, he could disappear as long as he wanted?  

As irritation began to turn to frustration, the barn door swung open, banging loudly against the wall. "Shit," mumbled Frank to the howling wind that blew in. He examined the door, and making sure it was still on its hinges, closed it back with force.

You immediately jumped to your feet, approaching him. "Well? How bad is it?" you worried.

He put his arm around your shoulders, forcing you back into the haystack and sat down beside you. The stack immediately sagged, nearly flattening to the floor. "I'm not gonna lie. It's pretty bad," Frank admitted on an exhale.

"Hunters?"

"There's less than half of them left."

"And the people?" you asked hopefully.

"Everyone was slaughtered," Frank reported grimly, patting you comfortingly on the knee.

"Wonderful," you said desolately. "They were the first people we brought out of the void, and for what? So that a couple weeks later they could just be killed?"

"It's okay," the man put his arm around you, and noticing the deep cut on your eyebrow, touched it - dark lines immediately began to tighten it. "The important thing is that we're still alive."

"What... What's up with the plantation?" you asked through force, expecting the worst.

Your expectations were confirmed. "Burned down along with the village," Frank said threateningly quietly. "We don't have the black orchid anymore."

You jumped to your feet again, and even Frank's heavy hand couldn't hold you in place. You started pacing from side to side, wringing your hands nervously. "That's fucking bullshit," you bellowed. "Hunters have lived there for centuries, has anyone ever attacked?" at your rhetorical question Frank still shook his head. "Then what the hell? Did someone turn us in?"

"I have no clue," the man shook his head contritely. "We'll have to think about it on a fresh head. Right now it's better to rest."

Because of your worries and the excitement of the elements of nature, you did not hear someone knocking shyly on the barn door. The guest, not waiting to be answered, opened the door themselves.

You turned around, but Frank had already managed to step forward and covered you with his back. "Oh, Noah," he exhaled, and his body relaxed. "Thanks for bailing us out," Frank said, and he wasn't so hard at covering you anymore. Peeking out from behind his shoulder, you met the worried gaze of a man who was wrapping himself more tightly in a fur vest.

"It's nothing," Noah muttered, shivering from the cold. "But you can't stay here for long," he lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Don't think I'm chasing you out of here. It's just that they... They might find out through me that you're here."

"Don't worry. We'll wait out the night and leave at dawn," the insider nodded uncertainly at Frank's assurance and took a step backward, slamming his back into the wall. The clattering pitchfork made him jump up and he stormed out of the barn. "I dunno where to go, though," he admitted aloud.

"Then you'll come to our house," you said in a voice that didn't tolerate bickering.

"I doubt the hunters would agree," grinned Frank sadly.

"Let them go to motels then. I don't care," you waved it off, settling back on the haystack. "We ain't done with that settlement yet anyway. Those people need a place to live, and without hunters, there'll be more room in the house."

"Still... The house isn't rubber, after all," the man frowned.

"We have to rebuild the village," you tried to cheer Frank up. "Somewhere on the edge of the Earth. And this time we'll have to think seriously about how to protect it."   

***

Two months had passed since the bloody incident, and you were on tenterhooks again. It was comforting to know that you weren't the only one in that state. Kyle was sitting next to you on the couch in the hallway of the infirmary. He jumped up, walking to the closed door of the chamber, and then sat back down. Involuntarily watching his fidgeting, you began to get even more nervous. Doc had never taken so long to examine a patient before; had something terrible happened to Rachel?

Your brother wouldn't stop - he would pop his head up every now and then when there was a rustling and mumbling outside the door. "Ya're not helping. Sit down," you turned to him exhaustedly as he once again got up from the couch.

You shivered as the doc's replica rushed past you. The same white coat, the same hands that clutched the clipboard and pen, only the replica never had a face. A blank canvas with no eyes, no nose, no mouth. Doc was always good at optimization, but the implementation was sometimes horrifying.

You both rose from your seats as doc left the ward and closed the door behind him. Clutching the clipboard to his chest, he stared at you over his glasses. "Congratulations," he said glumly. "She's pregnant."

"What?" you both simultaneously blurted out, and were reflections of each other - both amazed, right down to your open mouths.

"I mean, it's...," began a panting Kyle. "That's great!"

"Go to her," Doc nodded, but as you took a step toward the room, he grabbed your arm. "Not you. In my office. Now," Doc hissed and immediately rushed off in the direction of his office. You and Kyle looked at each other dazedly, and after a little while, you headed after doc.

As you closed the office door, you saw doc fidgeting with his medical records, and when he found the right one, he began to flip through the pages. "Doc, what's the matter?" you worried, watching as he began to write something down. The pen was almost tearing the paper.

"Sit down," he called out without raising his eyes. You obediently took the chair and moving it closer to the desk, sat down. "I won't beat around the bush," he tossed the medical records aside and interlocking his fingers, stared at you again. "Rachel has uterine hypoplasia. Or rather, she had uterine hypoplasia."

"Uh," you began confusedly, digging around doc's desk with your eyes, not sure why. Maybe looking for answers. "Can we use human language?"

"Undeveloped uterus," doc chided. "Specifically in her case, no bigger than this thing here," he tossed a pencil eraser under your nose. "I examined her from top to bottom just a month and a half ago, everything was the same. And now she's pregnant," he said coldly.

"She never told me anything about her disease," you said wistfully, thoughtfully twirling a pencil eraser in your hands.

"She suspected her reproductive problems, but I never told her anything about her disease," doc explained glumly. "Rob wanted kids too much, and I wanted to find a solution to that problem before I told them everything," he grimaced as he watched you put the eraser back on the table. "But the problem seems to have been solved for me."

"Couldn't ya... Ya know, recover her or something?" you suggested weakly, crossing your arms.

"I can only replicate what is already available. Not create new things," doc shook his head, tapping his fingers restlessly on the table.

"So what ya getting at?" you asked, the corners of your lips involuntarily creeping upward, and there was no way you could stop that panicked nervous smile.

Was it because of this that a few months ago you all literally drowned in blood and lifeless bodies? Was the price of all this something ephemeral, something that had not yet come into this world? You didn't want to believe it, and you hoped that none of you would say it out loud.

Doc was of a different opinion. He was always satisfied only with truth and facts, and it didn't matter what they carried with them. "If you don't believe in God, I suggest you to start," he said, leaning back in his chair. "After all, if this isn't a miracle of God, I'll laugh in the face of anyone who says it's just a coincidence."  

***

Rachel didn't have any of those weird wants - no cucumbers with chocolate, no honey and chips, no chalk - but her appetite was growing by the day. Because of her cravings, you could go to the store several times a day, only to have her tell you afterwards that she didn't want it anymore. Just like that, you were shoving now unwanted strawberries into the fridge. The container crumpled from the force you exerted, and the walls of it turned scarlet - unable to withstand such violence, the poor strawberry simply burst.

When you heard your sister's mumbling from the couch again, you spread your arms out to the sides with all your fingers together, closed your eyes, and took a couple of deep breaths to catch the slipping calm. You weren't supposed to be angry, Rachel was pregnant. This behavior was normal.

"What the hell ya doing there?" whined Rachel, peering out from behind the back of the couch. "The show's already starting."

"I'm coming," you muttered, slamming the refrigerator door shut. As soon as you sat down on the couch, she immediately laid her head on your lap, not caring at all about the way your legs were going to cramp up. Sighing, you started stroking her red curls, realizing where this was going. "Ya can't sleep on the couch forever. It's bad for your back."

"Back off," she snorted, fidgeting and tugging the blanket over her. "What can I do? Rob stinks."

"What's that he smells like?" you laughed softly.

"How should I know?" she whined for the umpteenth time this week. "He just stinks. I get nauseous around him all the time."

"Ya sure it's about the smell?" you asked casually, smirking eagerly, for which you received a hard slap on the thigh. "Ouch!" Rachel only frowned more at your exclamation and squirmed harder into a ball, not taking her eyes off the TV. "Rach... How did ya even realize ya were pregnant?"

"Well...," she drawled thoughtfully. "I got my period first. When it first start when you're thirteen it's normal, but when you're in your early twenties... I had a real panic attack," she laughed merrily, remembering her flighty state. "I thought I had vaginal cancer or something."

"Rachel," you giggled quietly along with her.

After calming down a bit, she continued. "I went to the doc right away, and he calmed me down, saying I was just menstruating. Only he was looking unkindly at my medical records. Dunno, maybe I imagined it. Just a couple weeks later, I got so sick...," she whimpered, placing a hand on her still growing belly. "I thought I had poisoned myself with something, but Rob kept following me around and insisting to take a pregnancy test. So, it just happened," she pressed her palm harder against her lower abdomen, and she could have sworn she felt another heartbeat even though her common sense screamed that it was too early for that. "Ya think I'll be a good mom?" she asked muffled, almost bashfully.

"Uh...," you drawled surreptitiously, playing with a strand of her hair. "I guess so? Actually, it depends on the kid, too. It's a matter of luck," you shrugged, trying to choose your words. "If it's a gifted child - fine, but if it's not... Well, then ya'll be scrubbing shit off the walls," you giggled, which earned you another hard slap to the knee. "That hurts!" you squeaked.

The fact that she was unaware of it was neither comfort nor relief. The deeper you went into your thoughts, the more your hands shook as if your mind were a labyrinth, its icy walls stretching to the edge of heaven, leaving no way out. You didn't know if you had to do it or if you just wanted to, but it seemed like the best solution.

Toxicosis is a terrible thing. Either a woman eats a lot and then vomits, or she eats nothing at all and still vomits. After a few trips to the bathroom with Rachel, she finally fell asleep. You carefully put a pillow under her head instead of your lap and headed to the second floor.

You didn't spend more than a minute in there. All you had to do was walk as quietly as possible past the sleeping Rob, steal his phone, and carry it into the workroom. Trifling matter, but when you got to the desk, you couldn't bring yourself to plug the phone into the computer. You felt like you were shackled, and the more you resisted, the harder the shackles dug into your skin - a familiar feeling that made you collapse helplessly into the chair.

"Need help?" the suave mechanical voice was like a nudge or just a key to all the chains for you.

"Meg," you addressed the artificial intelligence, finally plugging the cable into the computer. "Find something," you sobbed raggedly, watching as his phone lit up, announcing that the connection had been successful. "Find something that says he had nothing to do with this."

***

Vito looked at you as if you were mentally unstable. Everyone else had left to celebrate the completion of Hopetown, and you were the only one sitting in the kitchen, in absolute silence and total darkness. No garland was lit. No crickets were chirping. No cold wind rushing in.

Doc probably only told you about it because he knew Rob was Kyle's best friend. He wouldn't have been able to judge impartially, and there was no telling which evil would show its face. A desperate attempt at vindication, or a brutal, agonizing murder. "Eh," Vito sighed, wrapping elastic bandages around his legs. "I was born to drink beer, not this stuff," he glanced at you sneakily. "And why aren't ya at the party?"

"I felt sorry for ya," you joked back.

"Come on," Vito said cheerfully. "I bet next year someone else will get a shift on those dates, and I'll make up for it then."

After waiting for him to lace up his boots and put on his mask, you got up and went to see him off. When you got to the training field, the same point from which every voidrunner departed, Vito nodded, and after telling you to drink a bottle of beer for him, disappeared in a purple flash.

You walked around the place where the man had been a few seconds ago, took a dozen steps toward the forest, and turned around, leaving footprints in the snow. The clammy anticipation of the inevitable made your palms sweat. The clouds of vapor coming out of your mouth were jagged, intermittent, but not from the cold, for all you felt was desolation.

You could feel his presence, but you couldn't sense his thoughts or his moods. You ran a hundred excuses in your head for him, but none of them fit. Your gut shook more and more as he approached. Before the purple flash was even born, you covered your eyes with your hand.

Rob didn't look hurt or tired, only frantically shaking something off his sides with his hands, unaware that there was someone standing ten paces behind him. Someone with obvious motives, someone with courage and no sympathy. Perhaps if he'd paid attention to the fresh footprints, he might have been able to do something about it.

"Relocate."

There was no longer a field beneath your feet - it was a scaffold. One of your hands rested on his shoulder, and the other, clutching the dagger, was between his shoulder blades. The dagger cut the flesh silently, so your conscience was silent, too. It was very quiet. No sobs, no whimpering. Only when you twisted the dagger and pulled it sharply from Rob's heart was there a gurgling wheeze.

The man tried to turn around, but he didn't have time - his legs gave up before he could. He fell to his knees, and only after a few long moments, collapsed face first into the ground.

You'd always loved the sight of blood running down a back - a sure sign that the reaper had gone unnoticed. You watched blankly as the scarlet puddle spread beneath Rob, desecrating the pure white color, and you never realized that this was the first murder you'd ever committed that didn't make your hands tremble.

Your world froze, but everything continued to live without your participation. To the songs of the white wind under the northern sky, winter was sweeping everything away. The ground, the cooling body, the sins of the living and the dead. The only thing left untouched and naked were your bloody hands.

There were two persons in the field. One was the best friend, the father, the husband. The other was the one who took it all away. 

It was a sudden revelation that was never meant to be spoken, and Gojo froze in place, trying not to scare you away. You took it in your own way, though you tried not to think about how badly you might have spoiled his attitude toward you by telling him about your past. It was better to keep your mouth shut as it had been, and though Gojo was sometimes angry at you for it, you'd never felt like he was about to leave for good before. "Rob never had time to figure out who killed him, and Rachel never found out what happened to him," you continued to drown yourself, forgetting your sense of self-preservation. "I just told her that he never came back from the void," you were disturbed to your shaking knees by this uncertainty - Gojo still had his arm around your waist but remained motionless, you couldn't even hear his breathing above your ear. "I used to reassure myself that it was best for her, that she'd never know what he'd done or how much Mike's life really cost, but... I guess those were just pathetic excuses for a coward like me. That's all."  

"Look at me," though there was nothing commanding in his tone, his hand tugged at your waist, forcing you to turn around. "A real coward wouldn't have done anything and let it go, but not you," Gojo said, stroking your cheek soothingly. He would have given anything for you to look at him now, to feel how sincere his words were, but you only squinted your eyes harder. "I killed Megumi's father," he admitted on an exhale, and you opened your eyelids. "I'm not seeking for attention, it's just...," Gojo mumbled embarrassedly, but didn't take his palm away from your face. "It would be fair of me to admit something in return. And... Uh, he doesn't know about it either." 

"How come?" 

"It's just happened," he grinned bitterly. "He had a person to kill and I was just in the way. To be honest, he kicked my ass pretty good, but it was that bastard that made me stronger," Gojo sighed wistfully at the recollection that seemed to have faded into oblivion. "I never got to protect that person, though," he added more quietly. 

"But ya've protected many others."

"Exactly!" he brightened, burying his nose in your cheek. "So do you. Don't ever forget that, 'kay?" you nodded your head weakly, but it was enough for him. If need be, he was willing to repeat it every day, and it didn't matter that there was a chance he'd pester you to the point where you'd ban him from the workroom forever. He could have come in through the window anyway.

The annoying feeling of worrying for someone had long ago turned to trepidation, and when Gojo felt you fidget once more, there was no way he could keep another question inside him. "How long ago did you stop sleeping?" your stunned stupor made him chuckle. "It's not like I'm a blind fool. You said you were gonna sleep in the other room, but when you're home, you don't leave the workroom at all." 

You climbed under the blanket and pressed your forehead against his chest. "Ya've reached your limit of questions for today," you muttered sullenly, pouting your lips.

The only reaction he had to your behavior was tenderness. You may not have remembered it, but he'd seen you asleep once. In this very same spot, on this very same couch, which was illuminated by the light from the TV. He remembered covering a restless you with a blanket and sitting next to you all night, pretending to watch cartoons. "Come here," Gojo whispered softly into the top of your head. "Come here," taking advantage of your lack of comprehension, he rolled over onto his back, wrapped both arms around your waist, and laid you on top of him with enviable ease. His arms closed around you in case you decided to run away, even though he realized that if you wanted to disappear, you would. But you remained motionless, leaning your head against his chest. "Try to get some sleep, 'kay?"   

The song of his heart was fast and feverish, but it wasn't annoying. In the timid embrace of such a rare guest as a dream, you heard another melody, unfamiliar one. The longer this melody was played, the more embrace became tender and stronger, but did an ordinary dream know how to embrace like that? 

Gojo hummed softly to himself, hardly saying any words. It was a muffled melody, and he doubted you could hear it. Either way, you began to fidget less and to raise your head less often, looking around the space with a blurred gaze. "Shh," he hushed quietly as you jumped up once more and gently returned your head back to his chest. "It turns out you're snuffling. You knew that?" after all, he had already kissed you once, would it make it worse if he did it again? Gojo didn't remember himself as his lips covered everything they could reach with tender kisses. "My baby," he whispered softly, touching with his lips the spreading black lines on your forehead. "You're so beautiful," he breathlessly babbled nonsense into your blackened hair and smiled foolishly, but his face changed immediately as if someone was trying hard to take you away from him. "I'll always be there for you. I promise."  

You were pushed from side to side as if you weighed nothing, but it wasn't anyone's fault. There were more people in the bar this time, but everyone was still as drunk and happy as ever. When you heard the threatening creak, you unconsciously bounced. An old wooden sign fell where you had just been standing. A cheeky hooting sounded, profanity was heard everywhere, and a bottle smashed against the wall a few feet away. You ducked as if you were in a battlefield and headed for the familiar staircase.

It was still the same fog of cigarette smoke, but it was a lot calmer. Maybe it was the quiet people who gathered here or maybe it was the influence of the sullen-looking bartender. He was still polishing the glasses.

No one was interested in anyone here. When you walked in, not a single head turned in your direction. The people here were happy in their own way, and they didn't care about anyone else. "Sunshine!" a joyful, familiar voice called out to you.

When you looked over, you saw Kyle sitting at a round table. He had a glass of light beer in front of him, and judging by his blissful look, it wasn't his first glass. He was surrounded by painfully familiar faces, but that pain carried with it only surprise. Vito was slyly pouring more alcohol into Kyle's glass, and your brother's shoulder was gripped tightly by a man's hand. Rob sat next to him, encouraging them both.

"Hey guys," you smiled, taking a seat across from them.

"Hey! Why ya sitting so far away?" whined Kyle drunkenly, holding out his arms to you. "Come here!" you looked at this picture through your fingers. Shifting your gaze to Rob, you saw him raise his eyebrows guiltily.  

"I see ya two are best friends again?" you asked snidely, pulling Kyle's beer glass to you. Kyle was drunk, but he was able to focus and send you a questioning look, even though you thought his eyes were about to drift apart.

"All right, lad, let's go bring ya to your senses," Vito announced businesslike, lifting Kyle by the shoulders in one jerk.

"Oh my," you said meaningfully, watching as Vito dragged Kyle's collapsed body on his back. "It's not even a day later, and he's already on a roll."

"He's been looking out for ya all his life," Rob reminded you, laughing. "He's long overdue for a rest," he sighed as the door to the restroom slammed shut behind the men. An awkward silence hung. You had a lot to say to each other, and only one of you needed the courage to start. "Ya mad?" asked Rob quietly, looking into your eyes.

"No," you replied simply, shaking your head and pressing your lips together. "I'm not."

"Ya didn't tell him?" he nodded his head in the direction of the restroom.

"Kyle's not stupid. I think he figured it all out on his own."

"I just...," he began tentatively, and all his movements seemed awkward, embarrassed. Rob scratched the back of his head thoughtfully before continuing. "I just want ya to know. I don't regret anything."

"Yep," you chirped, sipping from Kyle's glass and immediately grimaced. You sighed heavily, wanting as soon as possible to say goodbye forever to the feeling that made your soul clench into a helpless lump. "Me too."

"That's your style," Rob laughed and immediately relaxed. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs. "How's... How's my baby boy?"

"Mike is fine. He's nothing like ya," you stated, wrinkling your nose. "Not in looks, not in personality."

"It's for the best," he said, raising his glass as if his words were a toast. Taking a sip from the glass, Rob set it back on the table with a thud. "And how's my wife?"

"She is okay," you lied, shrugging indifferently. "Ya know her. She can handle anything."

"Oh yeah," he drawled meaningfully, stretching and putting his hands on the back of his head. "I never thanked ya," he started laughing softly again, and you realized what he was getting at.

"Kyle brought ya two together, not me," you tried unsuccessfully to remind him, but Rob was already flying in his memories.

"He just gave me her number and some idiotic advice," he waved it off carelessly. "And ya," he literally jabbed his finger at you. "Ya're the one who told me to bring a bouquet of garlic bread and dried squid instead of flowers on our first date," you clucked your tongue and involuntarily hid half your face in your palms, hoping he'd get your sign and not continue. "And how she chased it all with beer, mmm," he thought blissfully, closing his eyes. "I was all gone," he chuckled again. "Here comes our drunk," he announced, nodding toward a sobered Kyle.

He looked like he was being dragged to trial. His face was still wet and red, and he clutched his clenched hands to his chest with all his might. "I'm sorry," he said quietly to you, sitting down next to you. "I forgot myself a little," he stared guiltily at the table, not daring to look you in the eye.

"You deserve it," you reminded him, shoving him gently with your shoulder. Suddenly, on cue, a thought popped into your head as if your mind was a jewelry box and someone had just put a piece of jewelry in there. "By the way, Kyle," you chirped, reaching into your pocket with your hand. You didn't take it with you, you didn't even think about it, so why did you have it? "Ya left something," you said, holding out a silver bracelet to him.

"Oh shit!" worried Kyle, taking the jewelry from your hands and placing it on his wrist. "I thought it was gone forever..."

"Don't lose it anymore," you jokingly chastised him.

"Thank ya," he wrapped his arms around you and began kissing your face, and you wrinkled unhappily at the touch of wet black strands against your skin.

When he was done with his affection, you unceremoniously pushed the beer glass away from him. You decided to stay out of the men's conversations and musings - they'd been gone too long already. You'd heard stories about their first dates, their first fights, and there seemed to be some generational difference between Vito, Kyle and Rob.

Kyle wouldn't be himself if he hadn't noticed your state of mind even in the midst of a cheerful conversation. He could see your desperate gaze circling the bar, searching for someone. "Sunshine...," he began, taking your hand. "I'm sorry, but she's not coming tonight."

"I thought so."

You're just now noticing that there's been music playing in the bar the whole time. Quiet, but energetic. You only realized this because your brother looked playfully into your eyes. "Shall we dance?"

"Kyle, I can't dance," you protested weakly, flinching away.

"Just a twitch, then," he chuckled, taking you under the arm and pulling you from the table.

There wasn't a single person here dancing. Maybe they didn't know it was allowed or maybe they just didn't want to. Either way, no one paid any attention to you. Everything merged in your clumsy movements, and did so tightly that it ceased to exist at all. You forgot what happened yesterday and didn't know what would happen tomorrow, the only thing that mattered to you now was Kyle dancing and laughing right in front of you. He was alive and whole, and no one tore him apart. He still loved and supported you even when you failed.

The two of you, panting and red, Kyle from the exertion and you from the embarrassment, didn't notice as the bar began to empty. People lingered here for a long time, but they left quickly one by one, and now there were empty tables all around you. "Okay, that's it," he put his arm around your shoulders, trying to catch his breath. Kyle saw Rob and Vito already getting ready, slipping their jackets over their shoulders. "Sunshine," he whispered, looking into your eyes confused. "I'm sorry. But we really have to go."

"It's okay," you cheered him up. "I understand everything. Go."

He pulled you hard against him, but at this point, you couldn't feel how much love he actually put into it. "See ya," Kyle whispered into the top of your head, and he could barely pull away from you as if every inch between you was causing him a tremendous amount of pain.

"See ya," you said after him.

The same bartender was still sullenly going about his work as if he had an endless supply of dirty glasses under the bar. When all the door bells rang out, you looked around and realized you were alone in that corner bar again.

The crackle of burning wood in the fireplace and the smell of smoldering timber brought calmness, one of the few states of mind available to them. Not discerning day or night, sun or moon, love or hate, but only pretending to know everything around them, these creatures sat in corners, in shadows, trying to sort out their own affairs. "It's time to stir up the hornet's nest."

Rei reluctantly raised his head. "Hm?" he lazily uttered, examining the ceiling of the room as if the person speaking was sitting there. "If you meant kill them all, there's a different expression for that. You should be around people more often," Rei stuck back into the fashion magazine and slid the whiskey glass closer to him.

"Who has access to the repository with the artifact?" the creature asked, ignoring the barbed remarks.  

"Frank and his kids," Rei replied nonchalantly, admiring the model's sultry skin on one of the pages. He ran his finger across the page. Why instead of a soft smooth texture he didn't feel even a pitiful semblance?

"How fortunate you killed the lad," the creature hissed

"Do I hear sarcasm in your voice?" grinned Ray, looking up again. "Oh, come on," he laughed, grabbing a glass of whiskey, the ice rattling as if it were afraid. "You're the one who advised me to watch out for the redheaded girl. We didn't need the lad. He just got in the way."

"Any luck finding anything out?"

"Nope," Rei muttered, pouting his lips demonstratively. "Her only weaknesses are alcohol and sex. I like her, by the way," a smile slowly formed on his face, and he turned back to the model. Rather, to her sultry skin.

"You can't be entrusted with anything at all," the creature disappointed, and the glass the demon clutched in his hand crackled. The thin glass shattered into hundreds of small shards, but never broke. "We need someone with powers of observation."

Taking a couple deep breaths, Rei came to his senses. "Stop underestimating me. Even if we did have it, the town is protected by relics," he said irritably, carefully setting the glass aside. "They only protect it from demons and dark energy, though. No one said anything about the rest," the indignation was replaced by a mad chuckle so quiet and short it could penetrate anywhere. Under the skin, under the bones, into the heart.

"Is there someone in mind?"

"Yeah, kinda," Rei chirped, wiggling his leg flirtatiously. Maybe he should have done it for nothing because every movement of that body created an rage in him that he couldn't get rid of. The more he spat it out, the harder he let it out, the more it came back to him. There was only one thing that could do it all.

"You're still not happy about something."  

"Give me one good reason why I should stay in this body or I'll change it immediately," he bellowed, tugging on a shirt that was twice his size.

"Have you tried working out?" the voice suggested sincerely and courteously. "They say it builds muscle."

"Why don't I start eating fucking porridge in the morning too?" Rei clenched his teeth in anger, pitching forward.

"You can't change your body right now," the creature warned. The glass, already battered and hitherto standing peaceful on the table, burst. "Your date hasn't happened yet. She needs to see this," there was a huge upside to each creature seeing and hearing what the other creature saw and heard. At least, if it wasn't hiding. Rei moaned quietly, pitifully in pleasure as he saw your image through the prism of the one who spoke to him. "Calm down. It'll be a while yet, but until then... You need to stay in this body. If you hate it so much... I think you could change it a bit."

"That's right," he said cheerfully, taking off his glasses and breaking them in half. Only one small detail remained. Grabbing the shears from the table and going to the mirror, Rei cut off a long black braid in one motion.

next ⊳

[denimbex1986]

'*****

The National Theatre At Home's website is a Rolodex of some of the theatre's greatest productions to date, an ever-updating library of acting royalty. On 6 December, the site is welcoming the arrival of Noël Coward’s Present Laughter - as staged at The Old Vic in the summer of 2019, along with The Grapes of Wrath.

Matthew Warchus’ production’s stellar cast (Andrew Scott and Indira Varma both won 2020 Oliviers for this production) brings its own expectations. They star as the separated but yet-to-be divorced couple, Garry and Liz Essendine. Such are their larger-than-life personalities, that we’re kept guessing about whether it’s all for show or if it’s fundamentally who they are.

The cast is rounded off by Joshua Hill as Garry’s ever-so-real Valet, Fred; Kitty Archer as one of Garry’s many (many) admirers, Daphne Stillington; Luke Thallon as Roland Maule, a budding playwright with a slightly overheated addiction to Mr Essendine; the always so ‘charming’ (and destined to be your favourite character) Monica Reed is played by Sophie Thompson; Abdul Salis and Suzie Toase star as manager-producer duo, Morris and Helen respectively; Helen’s ‘wandering’ (for one of a better word) husband, Joe, is played by Enzo Clienti. Wrapping up the cast list, Liza Sadovy stars as maid and medium, Miss Erikson.

Present Laughter tells of Garry Essendine, an actor and producer in London who is preparing to go on a theatrical tour of Africa, when news of a potential affair, in both the friend group and theatre firm, comes to light. Garry’s loved ones try to support him through not only the tour, but also in how he deals with his obvious loneliness. What they fail to realise is that the only person who may actually be committed to being their authentic self is, in a very weird turn of events, Garry himself! A perfect comedy emerges.

As you would expect, this 21st century version of Coward’s provocative play has seen a fair few changes from the original 1942 production.

Firstly, let’s talk about the queer representation this adaptation beautifully brings to light. Coward initially wrote the part of Garry as a man who filled his loneliness with evening after evening in the company of women whom he barely knew - even spending a night with the wife of his longtime friend and producer. But Warchus has added an even deeper level to Mr Essendine’s antics. The production sees a gender-swapped cast for a few of the supporting characters. Toase’s character, Helen, was originally that same producer, Henry; and Helen’s wandering husband, Joe, was initially her cheating wife, Joanna.

Nothing about the plot essentially changes, however, showcasing a complex and beautifully told story of openly (and some not-so-openly) queer characters in a setting where the plot isn’t necessarily about their sexuality - it is a part of them, not the totality of them.

The play is genuinely side-splittingly funny from start to finish, with powerful scenes of tenderness and humanity to ensure those moments of comedy truly land.

Andrew Scott’s versatility should be studied. The fluidity of his portrayal of Garry Essendine is beautifully orchestrated as if each thought were new, were genuine - he defines ‘truth in the moment’. His vocal gymnastics are both something to be in awe of, but also to hang on to as a key element of the storytelling. From changes in intonation, to completely random tempo changes, Scott hilariously and effortlessly has the audience, and in most cases, the cast, in the palm of his hand - and, sure enough, he milks it for what it is worth, in the best way possible.

Although every cast member had their own opportunity for sending the audience into fits of laughter, it was the earthly rootedness of Varma’s character, Liz, that kept me drawn in during moments of chaos. Varma is effortlessly funny, it’s part of who she is. Every joke lands because she just simply is that funny. I won’t spoil too much, but Varma’s humanity in the piece, specifically towards the end, really steals the show, and complements Scott’s theatrical dramatics perfectly.

Present Laughter is an ideal show to watch with loved ones this festive season: from its humour and clever comedy, to its stunning portrayal of real people living. The simplistic, yet stellar, portrayal of queer characters in a play that was not originally dedicating space for them, is something that makes this piece so special. Chemistry, comedy, and chaos - the perfect evening of theatre that you will not want to pause (even though now you can).

All that entertainment, and yet Warchus’ reimagined production also goes straight into my ever-growing list of ‘plays you must see to understand the complexity of people’...'

[april-is]

April 30, 2023: Oral History of Insatiability, Jason Myers

Oral History of Insatiability Jason Myers

I woke in the wreck of history

still drowsy, a dryness in my

bed, my bones. Would you

like fingers, the Lord asked,

& gave me plenty. There was

no music, no garden in them.

I wanted to be touched the way

I had touched, delicately, but

with great passion. If you want

another kind of lover, Leonard

Cohen crooned. Not my will,

Martin Luther King intoned,

but God's. I wanted a word

for every surface, for the belly

& the underbelly, the line between

the lines. There was a secret

name inside every living thing,

a song underneath every song.

What happened then, I asked,

meaning both before & next.

The Lord said Kabul. Said

manifest destiny. Said Rembrandt

said Bordeaux said Dakota

said Chelsea Hotel said Egyptian

cotton said Homer. The Greek

poet, I asked. No. Homer Plessy.

Oh, I said. I see. But I did not.

Lulls, curtains, continuations.

You want company, the Lord asked,

& made New Orleans, oceans,

rye bread, Cointreau. There

were some companions sent

by another party. There were

days smothered in solitude,

nights when I thought, if only

I could sleep, if only...but I

could not complete the sentence.

Are you hungry, the Lord asked.

Oh my. Oh yes. Oh my yes.

--

Also by Jason Myers: Hotel Orpheus

Jason is an excellent poet and human being. His first book was just published, and it’s gorgeous: Maker of Heaven &.

Today in: 

2022: Try to Praise the Mutilated World, Adam Zagajewski 2021: In Defense of a Long Engagement, Mairead Small Staid 2020: Lines Written in the Days of Growing Darkness, Mary Oliver 2019: Starlings in Winter, Mary Oliver 2018: Born Yesterday, Philip Larkin 2017: Thus, He Spoke His Quietus, Thomas Lux 2016: Trees, W.S. Merwin 2015: Today and Two Thousand Years from Now, Philip Levine 2014: from For a Long Time I Have Wanted to Write a Happy Poem, Richard Jackson 2013: Tear It Down, Jack Gilbert 2012: from An Atlas of the Difficult World, Adrienne Rich 2011: Wandering Around an Albuquerque Airport Terminal, Naomi Shihab Nye 2010: from Pioneers! O Pioneers!, Walt Whitman 2009: from The Waste Land, T.S. Eliot 2008: from Five-Finger Exercises, T.S. Eliot 2007: Journey of the Magi, T.S. Eliot 2006: Preludes, T.S. Eliot 2005: A Song for Simeon, T.S. Eliot

-- 

I don’t know where this month went! As always, thanks for letting me spam you, and for your kind notes.

More to come in 11 short months. In the meantime, check it out, you can:

- Visit a random poem sent in the past at april-is.tumblr.com/random - Browse poems by topic - Or skim them chronologically

Until next time, mes amours.

Martha

[fuckyeahvanhalen86-95]

Alex Van Halen hopes that those coming to his new memoir, Brothers, for a tell-all will be disappointed.

“It’s not about the dirt,” Van Halen, older brother and bandmate of the late Eddie Van Halen, tells Billboard. “If I start throwing dirt, it’ll never end. I think some people would like that; that’s how projects are sold nowadays. I think it divides the audience, and we’re not here to divide. I think the tone of the book and how I want the book to be perceived is more on a spiritual and creative level. That’s why there’s very little, or any, dirt in there.”

“The majority of things that were written about Ed were third party,” he continues. “They weren’t really there. I’m not degrading any of it, but it’s not accurate. I really felt like a lot of the stuff that was out there was incorrect, and it didn’t do justice to the more sensitive side of Ed. So before I die I would like to at least partially set the record straight.”

Brothers, publishing Oct. 22 and written with New Yorker staff writer Ariel Levy, acknowledges the sex and drugs and rock n’ roll. But as the title indicates it’s primarily a chronicle of the drummer’s relationship with his guitar hero brother, who passed way during Oct. 2020 at the age of 65 after a long battle with cancer. The tome is undeniably emotional, with some passages written directly to his late brother. Van Halen acknowledges that the process “really took its toll on me.”

“You have to remember we were together for 65 years; that’s a lifetime, if not more,” explains Van Halen, who was born in Amsterdam and came to the United States with his family in 1962, eventually settling in Pasadena, Calif., where the Van Halen band was formed in 1974. “(Brothers) not only forced me to look at everything Ed and I had done in our lifetime, but also — and I should thank Ed for this — it forced me to look at me. What are my motivations? Why am I really doing this? Who does anybody do this? It took me a lot of places…very heavy.”

Throughout Brothers’ 231 pages, Van Halen discloses the tight bond between him and Eddie, personally and musically — and presents the connection between those two as one and the same thing. Van Halen offers a detailed account of the entire family dynamics, too, from the influence of their father, Jan, a jazz musician, and their more strict Dutch East Indies-born mother Eugenia, and the impact of immigrating to America and being treated as outsiders. The passion for music came early and was a constant, of course, and one can read in Brothers a kind of mission on Van Halen’s part to offer a more expansive and sophisticated view of his brother’s talents.

“There was more going on than most people recognize or realize, and it’s not our job to ‘teach’ people,” explains Van Halen, who also makes use in the book of a variety of other sources, including published interviews with his brother, books by original frontman David Lee Roth and producer Ted Templeman, and philosophers such as Friedrich Nietzsche. The brothers, who first learned to play piano, actually started out on each other’s instruments before switching as teenagers. “When Ed picked (the guitar) up he could make it sing. It was amazing. That sound, that intonation was phenomenal. You couldn’t express it in words. Everybody gets blinded by the fact Ed was such a phenomenal player (that) you’re not even understanding who the human being was. Maybe people don’t care, but I care. He’s my brother.”

BROTHERS OF A BAND

Writing about Van Halen the rock band in Brothers, Van Halen says that “me, Ed and Dave were very subversive in the way we looked at music and the political system and the way we looked at people in general…The band was dysfunctional. It was completely running on three wheels, if you will. I think Ed was quoted as saying ‘but we always played well,’ and that was ultimately what kept it together until it was no longer together. It was a very sad moment when that whole thing fell apart.” Van Halen, in fact, writes in Brothers that Van Halen’s 1985 split with Roth “was the most disappointing thing I’d experienced in my life, the thing that seemed the most wasteful and unjust. Until I lost my brother.”

Despite the acknowledged rancor with Roth over the years – and blaming Roth for the failure of a planned Eddie Van Halen tribute tour — Van Halen maintains that “I’m not angry at all with Dave. He was one of the three main components of the band. At the time we didn’t recognize it because we were constantly battling things out. That’s why I mentioned (in the book) that the first person I called when Ed died was Dave because I felt like I owed him that, to the work we had done together and the fact that our families knew each other and the fact that everybody was sort of on the same level, if you will, when we first started. I don’t know where things went wrong…I have nothing but the utmost respect for Dave and his work ethic. I just think some of his choices were really strange to me, but that’s not my job to figure it out.”

Other than his brother’s death, Van Halen chose to stop the story with the Roth split, leaving out subsequent runs with Sammy Hagar and Gary Cherone and even the reunion with Roth that started in 2007. (Roth and Hagar both wrote memoirs after their respective tenures with the band.) Van Halen cites “limitations to how big the book could be” but also says it the scope of the narrative made sense to him.

“What happened after Dave left is not the same band,” Van Halen explains. “I’m not saying it was better or worse or any of that. The fact is Ed and I did our best work whenever we played. We always gave it our best shot. But the magic was in the first years, when we didn’t know what we were doing, when we were willing to try anything.” Not surprisingly, Van Halen was not responsive, either, when Hagar and bassist Michael Anthony reached out about him taking part in some way in their Best of All Worlds tour celebrating Van Halen.

“I’m not interested,” he says. “They’re not doing the band justice. They can do what they want to do. That’s not my business.”

EVERYBODY WANTS SOME

Van Halen does add, however, that his auction of drum equipment and other items in June “was misinterpreted” and simply clearing out a warehouse of gear that wasn’t being used.

“I’m not quitting. I don’t know where that came from,” Van Halen says. “I’ll die with sticks in my hand.” Spinal issues he’s been battling for decades are still present, he adds, including a recent injury during a trip to a shooting range in 2022. “But with modern technology we have now I should be OK in about five years,” he says.

Despite rumors of what the Van Halens were up to between the last tour with Roth (in 2015) and Eddie’s death, Alex maintains there was little to report. “We never really talked about it,” he says. “We prefer that things just happen by some kind of magic. The issue was Ed had been dealing with cancer for quite a number of years, and some of the stuff that he was doing out of the normal procedures, if you will, had side effects. Some of the stuff that was being said about Ed was completely wrong, and it was painful…. He was fighting cancer. It’s as simple as that.”

Fans are certainly excited about the presence of a new instrumental track, “Unfinished,” that’s part of the audio version of Brothers. It hails from a trove of ideas the brothers recorded at Eddie’s 5150 studio and stashed away, and Alex anticipates releasing more of that material “when it feels right.”

“I’m not in a hurry,” he says. “I do have a certain obligation to keep it to Ed’s standards. He was meticulous and he was a pain in the ass…and I need to have access to the right takes, ’cause not every day did we play at our best. But we always had the tape recorders running. We didn’t go in the studio like, ‘Yeah, we’re gonna make a record from beginning to end.’ We had little pieces here, little pieces there, you put ’em away until the time comes and you go, ‘Hey, I think I like that piece…’ and then go back to it and build something from there.” He told Rolling Stone that he’s approached OpenAI about using its technology to help turn some of the material into songs.

“I know people want to hear it,” Van Halen adds, before cautioning that, “the other side of the coin is this doesn’t sound like Van Halen. You’re damned if you do, damned if you don’t.” He says that for future releases he’s also “looking forward to getting some people involved…other musicians and producers. You have to have the right team, because not everybody can do everything. So we’ll see.”

For the time being Van Halen is focused on promoting Brothers, which he’d also like to turn into a movie — though he notes that, “I learned a long time ago not to put your hope in things that don’t exist yet. I know people who would be willing to participate, but it’s a very complex fabric of things that need to happen.” Meanwhile Van Halen has three book events lined up — signings at Barnes & Noble in New York on Oct. 21 and at Books & Greetings in Northvale, N.J., the following day, and a live conversation on Oct. 24 at the Frost Auditorium in Culver City, Calif.

“People can ask whatever they like — that’s their prerogative,” Van Halen says. “It’s my prerogative to answer. Or not answer.”

One thing Van Halen will make clear, however, is that his brother is still a strong presence in his life.

“He’s not gone for me,” Van Halen says, citing the “island voodoo” of their mother’s upbringing and the Spooky Action at a Distance concept of quantum physics. “He’s still there. His spirit’s here, and it’s not something you can grab or touch. There’s something between us that’s just connected on a level that is beyond explanation. Scientists will tell you that you cannot destroy energy, it just takes different shapes, and that’s kind of how it is for me with Ed.”

“I really had a tough time when Ed passed — full of rage, for a number of reasons. I heard this thing by Billy Bob Thornton; he just said basically when his brother died he didn’t know how to deal with it, and he basically said that you’re not running away from the fact that you’re not together anymore. You accept it for what it is and then the pain will slowly diminish, but it’ll never go away. That’s why i said (in the book), ‘When I see you again, I’m gonna kick yo’ ass…’”

[ifuckinglovestvincent]

St. Vincent on How Her Love of Podcasts Led to Narrating Audible’s Rock History Series — and Why She Relates to Skynyrd’s Episode as Much as Bowie’s

By Chris Willman

Annie Clark, better known to most as recording artist St. Vincent, first took a step out of rock ‘n’ roll and into “voice work,” as it were, when she wrote and recorded a compelling original audiobook, “Words + Music,” for Audible in 2020. Now she’s taking a step further into the realm of pure narration as the host of a new six-episode podcast series, “History Listen: Rock,” which premiered on the Audible service in January. She didn’t write the series, which produced by Double Elvis, creators of the lauded “Disgraceland” podcast, among others. But f you’re a fan of St. Vincent’s through material like “Daddy’s Home,” there’s a good chance you’ll take to her intonations as she speaks into life some well-crafted mini-histories of rock, from the R&B of the ’40s and ’50s through folk, psychedelia, punk, metal and (the arena where she’s picked up her three Grammys) alternative rock.

Variety spoke with her about her love for the medium and some of the genres and artists covered in the new series, which can be found here.

Was doing the autobiographical audiobook a few years ago the thing that was a gateway drug into narrating something that’s not about yourself?

No. I mean, honestly, I probably listen to more podcasts than music, so it’s just a genre and a medium that I am intimately involved with and intimately familiar with. So, you know, there’s certain things I’m aware of that, if I’m listening to a podcast, I cannot abide — like a dry mouth. I stay very hydrated. You’ve gotta have that Poland Spring, just right there at the ready.

No, really, I listen to so many podcasts, and I was also a fan of “Disgraceland” and some of the other Double Elvis things — that brand, shall we say, of podcasters. And I love narrating, and I’d love to do more of it. I was excited when they asked me to do it, and I learned things too, definitely, doing the podcast, so for sure that’s a two-thumbs-up for me.

It is a medium that I’m kind of obsessed with. I mean, I just consume an insane amount of them. But not the murder ones anymore. I’m good on on female pain as entertainment for a minute. That’s stopped feeling OK, personally.

Does developing a speaking style differ from the work any singer does to find his or her own voice?

It’s a bit more like acting. The only tool you have at your disposal is the tone of your voice, is the inflection, is the cadence. So in that way, it was a discovery, a little bit, using my voice just.as a different kind of instrument. I found it really informative. I think everybody remembers the first time they heard their own voice back, on an answering machine or something, and went, “Ooh, I sound like that?” In terms of the actual narration part, I had a couple hiccups there. I was like, “Oh, no, just go a little lower.” The podcast voice is a little lower than my, natural chit-chat. It’s interesting to discover that. I was lucky enough that I was able to record it by myself in my studio, so I got to experiment and play and not worry if I messed up on some of the tongue twisters, and to make sure that the meaning of the words was never lost in my inflection.

I didn’t know if you were the kind of person who reads a lot of music biographies or just picks things up through other means.

I’m more of a person who has the kind of stories that you swap in the studio. And of course those are stories that don’t necessarily have a journalistic rigor that these do. But I definitely liked reading the Miles Davis autobiography by Quincy Troupe — I know thst sounds funny, to say that his autobiography was by Quincy Troupe. I found that very, very fascinating, and I recently read the Sammy Davis Jr. autobiography. But for the most part I kind of like to engage with it in a more organic way than necessarily reading autobiographies.

I’m not a historian. I am obviously very knowledgeable about what I know. But this is, I think, a nice overview for people who are fans of rock music, from a very casual fan to someone even more invested. Because you get the real stories and kind of the guts and the glory of the different scenes, and also so much of the roots of rock and roll. There’s so many things that it’s sort of crazy that they were even able to distill it down to what they were able to distill it down to. I think it’s a good, fun listenand overview for people who really care or are just casual listeners and just want to have a little bit more context.

Did some of the episodes appeal to you more than others? People would think, well, of course, she has a gravitation toward punk or alternative or glam, and maybe less so, say, Southern rock…

No — I mean, hey, I learned “Sweet Home Alabama” on the guitar when I was 12! I know it well. I’m well-versed in the classic rock staples.

Is there anyone that jumps out at you from the early days of rock ‘n’ roll as someone especially interesting or a kindred spirit?

Of the stories that we covered, I’d say there is no Prince and there is no Bowie without Little Richard. I mean, he was so slick, and such an incredible performer, and to be playing with gender and sexuality and all of those things at that time was just pretty staggering. You don’t have rock ‘n’ roll without Little Richard, that’s for sure.

How about the folk era?

I’m more a fan of the politics of that man-on-the-street style of songwriting than I am necessarily aching to put on an Arlo Guthrie record. But I appreciate its point in history.

There is an episode on what is described as psych-rock, and having seen your “Daddy’s Home” tour, where it feels like you mixed in some of that along with the soul-revue aspects, it seemed like you might have some affinity for those late-’60s sounds of early Pink Floyd and such.

I think harmonically, it really started to just blow wide open in the ’60s, whether it’s the Beatles or the Beach Boys, and then add a healthy dose of acid into that, and people were like, “I want to see colors that don’t exist yet,” you know? To me that music is very visual. I mean, you go, like, “This guitar’s melting, and then those drums are dripping, and then the bass is all swirling around with it…” I’m sorry, I’m going poetic with it.

Since you mentioned the Beach Boys, you just performed one of their songs at the taping for a “Grammy Salute” special (airing later in the year). How was that?

It was really sweet. Brian Wilson looks great, he really does. “You Still Believe In Me” was the song I sang, and I’ve always loved that song so much. It’s amazing to get to sing the song for the person who wrote it, to say thank you. I mean, I’m not supposing that’s some big gift. [Laughs.] “You’re welcome, Brian Wilson!” But just to honor and get to kind of do your best in front of the people who made it is very special. I did one last year when I got to sing “Court and Spark” for Joni Mitchell [at the MusiCares person of the year dinner]. It’s very moving personally.

Going back to the episodes of the podcast: You mentioned earlier that Southern rock is in your wheelhouse, or at least was part of the wheelhouse of growing up.

Yeah, it totally is. I mean, I’m a kid from Texas. I know the Skynyrd catalog. I’m a guitar player — you know what I mean? I know “Free Bird.” So of course that was just part of the canon. And Duane Allman, I always loved his playing. So I know it, yeah. To me, the sort of current Duane Allman is Derek Trucks. Jesus Christ, what a beautiful player. You see the sort of Allman to-Trucks kind of line. I’m a guitar player who doesn’t care that much about guitar, but I’m just truly just like, what a transcendental player, Derek Trucks. Such a voice. Oh man, what a stunning player.

Glam is something that people automatically assume is part of your background and what informed you. Did anything from that episode bring up any particular love of yours?

Yeah, I mean, I think I always have just thought of Mark Bolan as cool. I didn’t realize that there was such a major kind of backlash against him where the British press really kind of went after him. It’s Mark Bolan — what’s the problem? And I know he died young anyway, but it made me quite sad for Mark Bolan. As far as the Bowie glam era, obviously that is unbelievable and iconic. For me, I’m a kind of Berlin Bowie gal, if I had a gun to my head. I’m kind of a “Low” gal… or a “Station to Station” gal, shall we say.

But I mean, just the theatricality of it… it’s the age-old question of: What are you selling? Some people are selling you authenticity, and then some people are selling you a dream, selling you magic. And I’d rather be kind of in the latter camp. We’ve talked about this with “The Nowhere Inn” [her satirical film that deals with issues of authenticity]… So, I sell the magic.

Finding authenticity in showmanship is one of rock ‘and’n’ roll’s great tricks. And certainly something you’ve been able to do is write emotionally meaningful songs, presented in a way that takes you somewhere else other than basic street reality all the time.

I mean, that’s the call, to just absolutely go for the heart and go for the jugular. But with some acid dust kind of sprinkled on top, it’s more fun, you know?

Anything about punk, metal or alternative, as explored in this podcast, you would want to speak to?

Yeah, one thing from punk that I will say… You know, again, it’s not a complete history of anything. It’s really entertaining, bitesize chunks of a trajectory. But I wish we could have talked more about bands like the Slits or Siouxie and the Banshees or the Raincoats. So if anybody sees this article, also go check out the Slits, Siouxsie and the Raincoats, et cetera, et cetera, forever and ever.

Last summer you finally wrapped up several rounds of touring behind the “Daddy’s Home” album. Any quick promises you would want to make anyone for 2023?

It’s gonna be a great year. Gonna be a great year. I’m in my studio right now.

[vocalsynthbdays]

happy birthday to kotonoha akane & aoi(voiceroid+) [apr 25] !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

kotonoha akane & aoi are japanese synths developed by AH-software in collabiration with AI Inc. akane is the pink one and aoi is the blue one btw. they were originally released for voiceroid+ in 2014, then voiceroid2 on 9 june 2017, web synthv on 22 july 2020, synthv studio on 30 july 2020, synthv studio lite on 24 sep 2020, aivoice on 22 feb 2021, voidol on 12 oct 2021, aivoice english on 10 dec 2021, and neutrino on 25 apr 2022. their vp is Yui Sakakibara. their voiceroid art was illustrated by Yoshida Yoshitsugi (im not sure about the synthv art though). they are a pair of sisters, with akane being the older one. akane is made for Kansai-ben intonation, while aoi is standard.

sorru about this post being so late btw ><

[merakiui]

I ended up hearing about twist when it was announced in like 2018 or something like that, got bored and stopped following due to no news, re discovered it and found out the released it in Japan and got obsessed reading fics and then the English release announcement came like a week or two later

Omg yes!! I remember the excitement when I first heard about it and then saw the website page back in 2019/2020? A schoolmate and I used to sit during our lunch break and we would put my phone up to our ears to listen to the voices on the website. We would make our own headcanons just from hearing the voices and we’d always giggle about it to ourselves. I remember we played Riddle’s voice and we kept saying, “Maybe he’s the prince type? Or the cruel king with a secret soft side!!!” because of how powerful the intonation was. Neither of us were expecting to hear Lilia’s deeper voice when we first saw him and then listened to his voice line.

I remember it was released in March 2020 during the pandemic, but I really only discussed the characters with my friend because I didn’t know where to look for fanfics. orz quotev didn’t have many at that time and that was the only fanfiction website I was on back then and knew how to easily navigate. ^^;;;

And now here I am in current times completely consumed by the twst brain rot. OTL

[keikaru]

in your hands these garden flowers bloom - FEH (Kiran, Alfonse, Lif)

Originally written in 2020. Forgot to post it after all this time!

In which Kiran embroiders flowers while Alfonse sits beside her.

--

In the garden, it was peaceful.

Garlands of green ivy adorned the garden walls while trellises of ivory flowers enclosed the area around us.

“Summoner—” Alfonse’s voice was steeped with concern— “I think you just pricked yourself.”

“Did I?”

And just like that, I felt a sharp pain on my ring finger. I glanced down at my latest embroidery piece. It was a simple laurel that cradled a few roses within the folds of the leaves. Among the crimson flowers, I noticed a fleck of copper that was unlike the others.

“It’s not like you to be so careless,” he began, “here, let me see.”

From across the table, Alfonse reached over and took the project from my hands. He scolded me for being absentminded as of late and I remained silent. It was true that something occupied my thoughts. But I didn’t think it warranted a lecture because the needle in my hand slipped. It was a mistake even seasoned craft makers would have made from time to time. When I found a pause in his words, I cut in wryly.

“This isn’t a grievous injury, Prince—" the garden chair scraped behind me as I stood up— “but if it greatly concerns you, I will go see a medic.”

I offered a tight smile. From where Alfonse sat, he coolly gazed back at me, eyes the color of Prussian blue. Something stirred within those eyes of his, like a tidal wave crashing upon a shoreline. Only if I stared long enough, perhaps I could drown in them.

I looked away. His looks as of late agitated me. But I didn’t understand why. Perhaps it was the warm air. Perhaps it was stress.

“I didn’t say it was a grievous injury. Only that, if you continue to be absentminded, think of how this would reflect on the battlefield. Then where would we be?” There was no heat behind his words, only a plain statement.

Nevertheless, an irritation welled up inside me. It coiled around my thoughts. There he goes again. I intoned silently. I know he means well but…It feels infuriating sometimes.

“Regardless,” another voice smoothly cut into our conversation, “You should take better care of your hands.”

Alfonse and I both swiveled our feet in the direction of the voice, startled. As I turned around, I felt something soft fall onto my head. It slid down my hair and a veil of white obscured my vision. Tentatively, I reached up for the object.

Behold, it was a soft handkerchief of the finest quality.

“Thank you, um, Lord Líf.” I responded, a mix between bewilderment and gratitude. He seldom made an appearance, usually withdrawing to his quarters or to a solitary corner after a mission. On some occasions, I saw him discussing with Thrasir either in the library or the grand halls. “I will—I will hasten to return this.”

Líf appeared at my side, his gaze settled on Alfonse before drifting to me. They were not cold but held an indifference to them. It seemed as if his crimson eyes could have bled over a ruinous future into my eyes if I gazed long enough. I turned my eyes downcast, unsure what to make of him.

His presence was no longer intimidating, but it was always his eyes that filled my heart with immense melancholy.

“Do whatever you please,” he replied curtly and with a nod.

I held the handkerchief to my pinpricked finger and watched as a speck of copper blemished the pristine fabric.  

Líf turned to face Alfonse. After a brief pause, he addressed the latter.

“Prince. Your presence is required. Hríd was looking for you.”

“I see. Do you know what he needed?”

They discussed about the matter. It was about provisions and assistance with rebuilding Níflheim. Of course, progress was steady, but the lack of resources and manpower quickly added onto the burden of reconstruction.

Quietly, I stared at my hands. Thin, pale scars spiraled out like constellations on my fingers. There was a jagged scar on my left hand, curling like a crescent moon. I recalled how an enemy lancer struck me before my bolt of Thoron did. How the wound took months to mend—coupled with special concoctions, ointments, skilled clerics and magic—I miraculously regained use of my left hand again.

Perhaps I would be useless without these hands. Hands that wielded the divine weapon Briedablik, hands that helped forged a future for Askr. And hands that clutched onto the dying palm of a soldier, reassurance that their sacrifice was not in vain. Thank you, Summoner. Until…we meet again…

I turned to look at my nearly finished embroidery. Then I glanced at Líf and Alfonse. Lif’s mature and stoic countenance contrasted with Alfonse’s youth and lofty idealism. Like on the surface of a lake, a ripple distorted their reflections, revealing the outcome of their worlds.

As the pair continued their conversation, I slipped away behind the ivory flowers and trellises.

You should take better care of your hands.  

It was a simple statement, but I wondered why Líf’s words had a somber quality to them.  

[sleepyowlwrites]

FTWT CCCLXXIV

a million light years ago away @artdecosupernova-writing sent me some words in an escape pod

lost (previous lives and premonitions, 2020)

Toby looked up at him with a gloomy expression. “I hate math.”

Arin had heard this sentiment at least once a day since he’d started tutoring Toby, so he nudged his side as he took a seat next to him. “What’s that? It sounds familiar, have you told me this before?”

“Shut up, you’re good at math. Don’t tease me.”

“Arin lives to tease you, Toby,” Mandy said without looking up from her phone. “It’s a lost cause, right, Penn?”

Penn smiled charmingly and shook his head. “Toby, you’ve gotten better at math since Arin started teaching you.”

“Doesn’t mean I like it any better,” Toby grumbled, leaning on Arin’s shoulder.

echo (on a hill, still, 2021)

Your voice in the air is a raindrop, a shiver, a tapping on the back of your hand. The church bell intones without notes, your own a throbbing echo like a shadow without a sun. The hour turns over and the song has still not begun. It has no singer, no self, no place to stand.

alone (space story d0)

Myr couldn't mourn their memory if they'd never had one, but maybe they did have one at one point. If Gaor knew, and he probably did, he wasn't going to tell. Myr asked him other things instead, like why Feastor was completely green or humans never made a third Earth. Gaor didn't always answer them, and if he did, it was often in riddles again, but Myr didn't mind too much. At least they had someone to talk to.

They talked to their spaceship sometimes, but it was an inanimate thing. It couldn't talk back and Myr could only go so long without talking to someone who talked back. Sometimes when they made their way back to Alpha Nine and stepped out onto the rocky terrain, they felt like the planet had gotten considerably older since their last visit. It was possible. Myr didn't keep good time when they was alone.

Which was always, since they were always alone.

solitude (you, of flight, and I, of falsehood, 2021)

yet even as the dusk offered solitude and sanctuary still- it was a knife to be feared

desperate (guild story d0)

“Why would you take a contract with house Lyreel? You think their days are numbered.”

“Because their days are numbered.” Xiyun shifted to face him, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “Lord Lyreel is desperate enough to make foolish strikes against his enemies and it won’t do him any good. I’ll make money without changing the game. That’s the best way to do it.”

Idrian didn’t turn himself in her direction, but kept staring out at the yard. The skars and masters were all at the evening meal, and the only other occupants were a couple of stable hands taking tack to the cleaners. Idrian tracked their movements while counting his breaths. Xiyun always did have such an easy time getting a rise out of him. He wanted to think that was why she tended to win their sparring matches, though it was equally likely that she was merely a better fighter than he was.

invisible (city story d0)

Jet likes to imagine that he still has fine lines running through his liminal spaces. That he has fences set up between him and the world, and thinner, more invisible fences between him and the people who have decided they're his friends. And maybe he also considers him friends, but that means reordering his priorities and he doesn't want to bother. It's bad enough that Rune has emerged triumphant at the top of the list, scowling and shrugging him off even while he makes space for her and her chains. Copper sits next to him, not even on the list, too important to order and too precious to hold onto.

What he has in his life is a set of fence-breakers, and ones that he's becoming increasingly fond of, and it’s tearing at him underneath his armor. They smile at him and tell him jokes and insist that they want to help him out of the fights he puts himself in, as if he ever asked for such a thing.

"You don't have to ask," Yarrow tells him the day after the bloody fight with Rune, when Jet is pretending he's the only person in this garage.

fear, slight, between, likely. BONUS: abound, sideways. @enchanted-lightning-aes @peresephones @odysseywritings @dontjudgemeimawriter OR ANYBODY

[velvialifestylesummit]

Definitely the Biden Administration will ensure the smooth transition of power following the presidential recalibration of Democrats being overwhelmingly thwarted by the retaliatory premeditation to ruin the fabricated campaigns for Kamala Harris. The massive failure of Kamala Harris can be attributed to the incandescent renegade of the Biden Presidency in addition to the presidential distortions of Kamala Harris including abortion freedom and the uncontrolled influx of migrants from central America. Undeniably the critical distortion of presidential election comes from the undemocratic result of the electoral college votes for the projected winner without the support of majority voters. The lack of electoral consensus of America to displace the undemocratic verdict of the electoral college votes tends to deny the authentic winner of the presidential election. The consequential impact of the revolting momentum associated with the incessant unwonted performance of Biden Presidency could trigger the next level of political implosion amid the looming massive deportation of foreign migrants from Trump Presidency. The engendered impacts on the projected woman presidency of Kamala Harris including the inimical malfeasance to resolve the unsustainable living conditions of the stormy states and the sudden change of political intonation of Biden to admit the return of Trump Presidency implicated the woman presidency of Kamala Harris was tarnished unwittingly amid the looming coup of America which could trigger the chaotic upheavals in certain states including the legalisation of undocumented migrants before the presidential inauguration of Donald Trump in January 2025. This could enlarge the ongoing furious fire zone in California. Obviously the extreme hostile gesture of China to confront the return of Trump Presidency denoting someone dislikes the comeback of Donald Trump to raise the projected tariffs war of international trade despite the ostensible diplomatic statements from BRICS. The sarcastic invitation of Biden to welcome the return of Donald Trump seems to admit the clemency of the pendulous hurdle of interregnum triggered by Trump Presidency in 2020.

[progressglobenews]

Common Dreams:

Nicole Wallace described Vance “building an intricate and beautiful fort out of toothpicks. And it was perfect. And at the end, he sneezed on it, and the whole thing fell apart." The sneeze was the vital moment Walz asked Vance point-blank if Trump lost the 2020 election, he tried to squirm away by intoning, "I'm focused on the future," and Walz pounded him with, "That is a damning non-answer" - now featured in killer Harris ads. "He lost the election. This is not a debate," Walz declared, and if anyone forgot about the gallows built by rioting yahoos on Jan. 6 he added, "That's why Mike Pence isn't on this stage."

[arpov-blog-blog]

..."he (Trump) does not seem to recognise the moral significance of bodies and minds in pain. And, second, he is not aware of the importance, social and moral, of pretending he does recognise another’s pain even if he doesn’t. Then there is the language itself. It suddenly swerves into the incoherent. Trump says that “everyone gets the Congressional Medal of Honor that’s soldiers”. (He could also mean: “everyone gets the Congressional Medal of Honor – that’s soldiers.”) The words verge on nonsense. Either he is saying that every soldier gets the Medal of Honor, which is absurdly untrue. Or he is saying that only soldiers get the Medal of Honor, but that every soldier gets it – which is similarly absurd – but with a twist. If Biden had spoken in such a way a year ago, he would have been pushed aside all the sooner.

Trump’s extreme rhetoric is still routinely dismissed as him “just being Trump” – the usual hyperbole and bluster. Yet it is hardly mere bluster or hyperbole for Trump to claim, as he has recently, that “you can’t walk across the street to get a loaf of bread. You get shot, you get mugged, you get raped, you get whatever it may be.” Perhaps the most alarming part of that sentence is the disturbingly disconnected “whatever it may be”. And it is not merely vulgar for Trump to republish a post claiming that Kamala Harris has achieved political success thanks to dispensing oral sex. The claim is not just appalling; it is crazy to make it in public. That post appeared with several others: a photo of Harris in an orange prison jumpsuit, a photo of Barack Obama with a caption asking Trump supporters if they wanted Obama to be tried before a military tribunal, and photos of Trump with AI-created lions. Most people do not lack inhibition to this degree. But Trump’s repetition of such lunacy has made it routine. Call it the banality of madness. Trump’s assertion, made in deadly earnest in an interview last Tuesday with Dr Phil McGraw, that God had spared him from being assassinated in order to save America, and possibly the world, barely raised an eyebrow.

Incredibly, in America, where just about everything goes – Trump, for example – there is a tacit prohibition against discussing Trump’s obvious mental incapacity in public. The taboo was imposed in February 2017, just over a year after Trump’s inauguration. That was when the New York Times published a short letter, signed by “33 psychiatrists, psychologists and social workers”. Noting Trump’s “inability to tolerate views different from his own, leading to rage reactions”, and his pattern of distorting reality to suit his own “psychological state”, the letter reasoned that “[i]n a powerful leader, these attacks are likely to increase, as his personal myth of greatness appears to be confirmed”. The signatories concluded that Trump’s “speech and actions make him incapable of serving safely as president”. Trump’s continuing refusal to accept his defeat in the 2020 election makes the letter prescient.

The response to the letter was more than passing strange. Other mental health professionals rose to denounce the letter and its signatories. One was Allen Frances, the prestigious chairman of the task force that wrote the “Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders IV”, considered psychiatry’s diagnostic bible. Frances had two problems with the letter. The first was, he said, that Trump was too successful to be mentally ill – a bizarre argument that sounded like one Trump would make himself. “Mr Trump,” Frances intoned, “causes severe distress rather than experiencing it and has been richly rewarded, rather than punished, for his grandiosity, self-absorption and lack of empathy.” Therefore Trump could not possibly be mentally ill, Frances concluded, apparently unaware of erratic politicians in world history who have achieved success in the exact terms defined by their insanity. Frances added, with an apparently unintentional touch of humour, that pronouncing Trump mentally ill was an insult to the mentally ill.

Reacting to the negative backlash, the NY Times then published an article about the controversy by Richard Friedman, a psychiatrist. Friedman referred to what is known in American psychiatry as the Goldwater rule. This was the American Psychiatric Association (APA)’s official prohibition against mental health professionals making a public diagnosis of a politician’s mental health. That edict itself was a response to mental health professionals participating, in 1964, in a public survey and judging the then Republican candidate for president, Barry Goldwater, mentally unfit to be president. Siding with the APA, Friedman finished by declaring that clinically judging Trump to be mentally ill would let him “off the moral hook”. And from that point on, liberal attacks on Trump were unfailingly moral, a tactic that soon degenerated into a grossly ineffectual torrent of moral hubris, virtue-mongering and sanctimony."

[bazeartstuff]

Ouium Chapter 1 Test (pretty ugly)

Ouium is the title of the story entailing Sasha and Ivor. I wrote like 50% of the story in the form of comic chapter synopses in 2019, so like 70 chapters worth of ideas exists for it. In an attempt to perhaps begin creating the chapters, I started from chapter 1 in 2020. However, I didn't like how it looked and never finished the chapter in comic form, but just as writing (which will be attached below the pictures). Anyway, the pages:

Yeah, you can really see my struggle with screentones, backgrounds, and just lineart digitally (this was done on CSP so the lineart was on a drawing pad, not iPad as I've been doing recently). I think the scope of this comic (that it would necessarily exist within denoted spaces and was beyond my artistic capabilities at the time) demotivated me from continuing. I'm unsure how I'd fare if I tried doing this again now. Anyway, the written continuation attached below (it's short and decent).

“Really?” Sasha contemplates for a moment, halting his scouring of the H-section. “Still, I feel like I should’ve noticed.” Sasha continues to ponder as he watches Ivor’s hands dance around the rows of vinyls as though he performed a sequence with every movement. “Is she the vintage type?”

He asked this, and Ivor continued in his shuffling before considering the question. As though satisfied in his lack of results, he responded: “As in what?”

Sasha, somewhat gleaming, explained “I mean, she wanted a vinyl, so she must be into vintage type shit, right?”

Ivor’s eyes started in an erratic yet calm jumping, as though comprehending Sasha’s logic and coming to terms with it. Once satisfied, his eyes returned to their typical pallid stillness completely enclosed on the vinyls. “Maybe... In the end, she just wanted a Hall and Oates vinyl.” He broke this inherent relationship with the vinyls to turn to Sasha stiffly, and asked “Are you the vintage type?”

Sasha’s answer was immediate, as though it was premeditated; in reality, his avidness was a consequence of Ivor’s, a person who Sasha remembered effaced himself from others. Explicitly, Sasha recalled discussions of Ivor among classmates, wondering why his disinterest was just so great -- so, assuredly, Sasha was quietly excited to be engaging with this strange character. He responded, “I wouldn’t say that, but this is caused by different circumstances.”

As he spoke, Sasha’s eye befell a vinyl with slyly printed ‘The Very Best of Daryl Hall and John Oates’. Triumphantly pulling it out and holding it like a trophy, he beamed “Here’s one, by the way.’The Very Best of Hall and Oates.’” Thinking briefly, he added “Oh, did she have a specific album she wanted?”

Ivor, too, thought briefly as he cautiously took the vinyl from Sasha’s hands. “No, she just said Hall and Oates when I asked.”

Sasha raised his highly-arched brows. “Fuck, she gave ya a lot of freedom there. You coulda got her anything…” Sasha focused on Ivor. “You didn’t even ask for specifics or shit?”

Ivor shook his head nimbly. “Didn’t think it was necessary.” 

A small humored exhale leaped from Sasha’s nostrils and a veiled sneer rose. “That’s baller shit, y’know?”

Ivor, unknowledgable of Sasha’s familiar language, furrowed his brow, but didn’t seem to pursue the question. 

This amused Sasha further, and the sneer proudly adorned itself on his face. “Are you good to go?” Sasha asked, regarding Ivor’s sincere hold on the vinyl. 

Ivor nodded, and the two proceeded to walk to the bored cashier, occupied with his own music. Sasha watched as Ivor, with all the same stiffness ever prevalent in all his actions, paid for his vinyl and nearly cherished the item as he delicately placed it in the plastic bag. The two walked outside into the simmering cold of a recently birthed spring, and Ivor inspected Sasha’s vinyl and asked, with a sudden obsequiousness. 

“What did you get?” His intonation was simple. 

Sasha replied instinctively, “Ah, it’s nothing interesting.”

Ivor stopped for a moment, then began, oddly emphatic. “If it’s nothing interesting, then why did you get it?”

Sasha was surprised Ivor pressed on and gave in without much protest. “It’s Hiroshi Sato’s Awakening. Good shit, if you ask me.”

Ivor continued to ogle at him, and spoke mechanically as though in hindered wonder, “So, in the end, it wasn’t ‘nothing interesting’”. 

Sasha rolled his eyes, letting himself be imbued by an inexplicable amusement. “Haha, master of interrogation, aren’t you?”

Ivor tilted his head, his eyes involved with Sasha’s shorter figure. “Maybe I am. You were pretty quick to tell me.”

Sasha waved his hand sporadically at Ivor as he proclaimed “That isn’t because you interrogated me, it’s just because I really like this album and didn’t mind telling you about it.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me it in the first place?”

Sasha goes quiet. 

Sasha shook his head. “I don’t know, Ivor. There’s gotta be some build-up, y’know? Like I can’t just fucking tell you unwarranted. That would be annoying.” As he expounded, his free hand illustrated in the air his emotions, though, to Ivor, it may as well have been a foreign language. 

“In what world is that annoying?”

“ In this world, fucker,” Sasha leaned forward to Ivor, his eyes swaying around his socket as he constructed his words. “Like, how would you feel if I just suddenly told you the vinyl I got without you asking. You’d think “When the fuck did I ask?” 

“Ah, but that is where you got it wrong,” Ivor raised his lean finger condemningly, “because I did ask, and you didn’t want to tell me. So, what is your explanation for that?” Ivor inclined to Sasha upon this question. 

“Um…” Sasha was in distant thought for some time. “Shut the fuck up.” 

Ivor, apparently humored, exhaled from his nose as the edges of his thinly constructed lips rose timidly. Upon seeing this, Sasha found himself in awe at just how many inconsequential mannerisms Ivor did were completely new to him, as though an entirely new person emerged from his shell. That was an observation he preserved unto his mind. 

A short time passes in which the two stand in silence, neither thinking to initate any sort of conversation. Strangely, Sasha doesn’t feel any sort of uncomfortability in this. 

Nonetheless, Ivor eventually shifts from this hushed conservation, and turns amiably to Sasha. “It’s time I go,” He turned away momentarily, presumably to the direction he was to walk. As though the thought suddenly came upon him once again, he remarked cheekily “I hope you enjoy your “nothing interesting” vinyl.”

Sasha’s lips rose in an innate smirk. “Ha ha. Fucking comedian, you are,” Sasha’s countenance was exagerrated. “I hope your sister secretly wanted a specific Hall and Oates album but didn’t tell you because you didn’t ask.”

Ivor deliberated the prospect with a relaxed quickness, and responded, “Well, if that’s the case, thank God civilised people allow for refunds.” He began walking, stopped, and turned to childishly wave and bid an affable “see you.”

Sasha, whose mouth remained in that innately risen smirk, exhaled from his nose and felt his chest decompress. He hadn’t noted it before, but he felt an alien sense of tranquility permeate his mind. He disregarded it, and reciprocated the wave and said “see you.”