#NYC in fiction

[newyorkthegoldenage]

In “Turn, Magic Wheel” I believe firmly that I have the perfect New York story, one woman’s tragedy viewed through the chinks of a writer’s book about her, newspaper clippings, café conversations, restaurant brawls, New York night life, so that the story is tangled in the fritter of New York—it could not happen anyplace else. The front she keeps up is the front peculiar to the New York broken heart; people’s deeds and reactions are peculiarly New York. “What? Our friend committed suicide—that’s terrible. . . . That’s the kind of suit I’m going to get, there in Altman’s. . . .”

      —Dawn Powell, Diary, November 22, 1935

Book cover photo: Lisette Model, 1941

[reality-detective]

Fear Not, NYC is Safe Regardless of What You See... The MSM Says. 🤔

[humanoidhistory]

[whereserpentswalk]

There's a secret subway line below New York. Very few people have taken it, very few people even know that it exists at all. You have to be in the station when you're entirely alone to see it, and it only comes during the harshest of rainstorms, when the sky is entirely gray, and the city is quite in the storm. It's letter is a letter nobody can read, and it's color is beyond what human eyes can see.

The first stop will take you below the Hudson, to the city of the deep. It's where the deep ones, and the selkies, and the merfolk, and the ghosts of drowned men all live. And it's a vast and beautiful city, with massive towers of seastone, and where the ancient tongues of Atlantian and R'lyeh are still spoken. There are creatures that walk it's streets older than the city above, and creatures there than humans have no names for.

If you take the train one stop deeper you will find yourself deep below the earth, within the shining city of the faeries, where looming towers old glistening build shoot up from the ground like knives, and hang down from the roof of the underground like stalactites. There are creatures here even stranger and older. In some neighborhoods the kindly forest fae live in vine covered brownstones. In others the unseelie stalk alleyways below bioluminescent signs selling things that should not be sold. And the high fae still stand in the upper city, ever young among their luxury towers.

If you take it even deeper underground you will find the city of the demons, deep and winding, frightening but alluring to all mortal eyes. There are stores where you can sell your true name in exchange for powers beyond human knowledge, or your mortal souls for a wish you never knew you needed to make. And you can drink the demons' ever potent wine, or see their plays of endless depravities, or walk through their parks of black and thorny plants.

Some take the secret train line to visit places they didn't know existed. Or to find things that can't be found anywhere else. Or to meet people they didn't know they needed to meet. Or even to move to somewhere new. But never take it to the final stop, for beyond the city of demons is the city of the dead, and unlike the other three there will be no journey home from there.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Moneybags on the moon

[read-write-thrive]

I wanted to get a head start on palasaki week and now I’m building out a reverse AU. why do I keep doing this to myself I can’t keep starting new stuff without finishing the old stuff 😭

[caterpillarinacave]

I firmly believe that a bunch of the British Museum exhibits ended up back in NYC solely because Tilly decided she’s not giving up her middle Paleolithic man candy

[of-fear-and-love]

Some of the post-apocalyptic exteriors and matte shots from The World, the Flesh, and the Devil (1959)

[phoenixyfriend]

[Personal rambling about my relationship with an event of recent history. This is not meant to reflect anyone else's feelings on the subject, just my own. If you reblog, please engage in good faith.]

[TW: discussions of 9/11 and its effects]

One of the side-effects of watching a lot of videos on the topic of architecture, especially in NYC, is getting really strong, complicated feelings rising back up about 9/11.

I was living in Queens when it happened, and not yet six years old. I was young, but a few moments of the day it happened is pretty clear in my memory. I was too young and not connected directly enough to the event to really understand what was going on at the time, but it was very nearby and had very strong impacts on my life both immediately, and going forward.

(After all, I had to fly inter-continentally just to see my grandparents, and I had younger siblings. Any family from Serbia needed to apply for a visa to come over to visit us, and most of them didn't speak English. Imagine how difficult airports are, right after that, if you hadn't experienced it yourself. This doesn't apply to just New York, but it does apply to me.)

Anyway, the memories are pretty shaky but definitely there for me. I was lucky enough to not have anyone who died in the event or the aftermath, but my surroundings were pretty heavily impacted due to proximity, and I imagine there's a lot that happened that I don't remember because my parents shielded me from it.

The thing is... I was still there. I still remember it, and I feel a sense of connection to the way NYC chose to rebuild after, the ways it worked to commemorate the dead, etc. I was too young to be involved and, for a time, too distant--I lived in Colorado for six years, starting '07.

It's still the city that's defined much of my life, either while living in it or living on LI, which isn't NYC but is in its shadow in all ways. I've lived in or near NYC for over half my life.

So when I look at New Yorkers reacting to the event or commemorations of it, I get it. New Yorkers erecting monuments and having strong feelings about 9/11 makes sense. Of course the people who live here and were directly hit by it have strong opinions! It was a major event! Of course city residents went feral with anger when a random luxury housing unity tried to build higher than One World Trade Center. You don't just... choose to be larger than a building that was designed to commemorate one of the greatest tragedies in the city's recent history, especially not when that building's height is already symbolic, being exactly 1776ft tall at the spire.

It might seem stupid, but I get it. I understand why NYC residents were furious at the idea, given how contentious the supertalls already are.

I understand why, over twenty years on, the rebuilding is still ongoing. I understand why 2, 5, and the Perelman Performing Arts Center have taken so long, and are still years away from completion. Nobody wants to get this wrong.

And the reason it gets so complicated is because there's this stark difference to my feelings on how the average American, and also some New Yorkers, it's true, might use 9/11 as a tragedy to fuel their racism and xenophobia and jingoistic warmongering.

This isn't my tragedy, for all that I was in its shadow, saw the smoke rising and felt the echoes of it across my childhood. I didn't lose anyone in the attack or the aftermath, and I wasn't part of a minority group targeted in its wake. I was only ever on the fringes... but it was still my city, you know?

When I was in high school, I lived in Colorado. We were discussing the difference between primary, secondary, and tertiary sources in class. The teacher used 9/11 as an example, saying that everyone in the room was a secondary source, because we were alive and saw the events unfolding on television, but we weren't there, just getting the information secondhand from the news.

I raised my hand, and said I lived in New York at the time, just across the river, and the teacher acknowledged that I was significantly closer as a source than most of the class.

I don't call myself a primary source on this. I wasn't even six, yet. My memories have faded with time, and I wasn't as close as many were.

But there's still a pride in NYC and in the rebuilding, in the way that the city bounced back. It's not so much about the architecture and rebuilding, for all that its symbolism is important and meaningful in its own right. It's more about the smaller businesses that were impacted by the destruction of a large section of the financial district, the local delis and bodegas, the hot dog carts at Bowling Green, and the wider economy hit by the ripples of the event, which definitely did affect everything in the metro area, not just the immediate surroundings.

So it's not my tragedy, really, but it is New York's.

And there's a specific kind of distaste and rage in me when I see it co-opted. When I see the average American call it 'our' tragedy. 'The nation's' tragedy.

It's not. It's not yours to use for your violence and hate for what you call Other.

I don't feel suspicion when New Yorkers hold on to the symbolism of the event, and snap back at corporate interests that try to disrespect the memory of it. This is New York's tragedy, and it makes sense for New Yorkers to feel strongly about it.

I sure as hell suspect everyone else that tries to claim it, though.

[no7er]

Empire State Starship Digital artwork by me, 2024

[warneckequotes]

"Cuddlebug," 2018

[newyorkthegoldenage]

Ex-Wife, published anonymously in 1929, was a succès de scandale. The very title aggressively challenged American mores and morals; divorce was almost unheard of in the middle classes at the time. And Manhattan high life in the 1920s (the novel takes place between 1923 and 1927) gave the prurient everything they could wish: not just divorce, but promiscuity, abortion, smoking, and drinking.

And I had, for an instant, that feeling that New York was an altogether beautiful place to live, no matter what happened to me living in it—a comforting feeling that had come to me sometimes, of late, when I stopped looking to people for comfort.

Narrated by Patricia, it tells of her life after her husband walked out on her. She goes from grief and despair to acceptance to indifference while becoming increasingly successful as an advertising copywriter in fashion, and bedding numerous men. Her friend Lucia, a slightly older and more experienced divorcee, supports and mentors her.

Surprisingly, the book is vehemently anti-feminist. The 1920s were a time when women could vote and were free of Victorian behavioral constraints, but systemic sexism ran deep and went largely unnoticed—at least by Patricia and Lucia.

The book was filmed in 1930 as The Divorcée, starring Norma Shearer, who won her only Oscar for it.

Norma Shearer in The Divorcee

In the forward to the 2023 edition (whose cover is shown above), Alissa Bennett writes, "It's easy to get caught in the trap of Ex-Wife's nostalgic charm; there are phonographs and jazz clubs and dresses from Vionnet; there are verboten cocktails and towering new buildings that reach toward a New York skyline so young that it still reveals its stars."

The author's son, Marc Parrott, agreed. "The New York described here," he wrote in an afterward to the 1989 edition, reprinted in the current edition, "and this was true, I think, for 20 years or more—was much smaller, much more intimate, much safer and much cheaper than the city from the '50s on to the present. It was also cleaner. My mother called it 'shining.'"

This is how Patricia and Lucia react to Gershwin's Rhapsody in Blue:

"The tune matches New York," Lucia said. "The New York we know. It has gaiety and colour and irrelevancy and futility and glamour as beautifully blended as the ingredients in crêpes suzette." I said, "It makes me think of skyscrapers and Harlem and liners sailing and newsboys calling extras." "It makes me think I’m twenty years old and on the way to owning the city," Lucia said. "Start it over again, will you?"

Second & fourth photos: NYC Past Third photo: eBay

[sobeautifullyobsessed]

[excerpt from an upcoming Stephen Strange x Hope Collins fic]

🎄Wrapped Up In Christmas Memories🎄

(Indulge me, if you will? Not sure if I'll be able to complete this story by Christmas, let alone the New Year ~ but the need to write this part is strong upon me, while my loves for Stephen and for Story compell me...)

genre: angst, catharsis, healing...and above all, love ❤️

characters: Stephen Strange, Hope Collins (OFC); established relationship

word count: 1.2k-ish

...Beverly Strange had been a music teacher before she ever became a farmer's wife. And for most of her life--despite how stony her husband grew over the years, grimly implacable in the face of what he found to be frivolous--she had done her best to fill their household with music. It was no fluke that Stephen developed such a great love for music that his prodigious intellect maintained a mental catalog of music trivia encompassing multiple genres.

Beverly had given private piano lessons as much for fulfillment as for the extra money the family had needed in lean years on the farm. Until the birth of Stephen's younger brother Victor, she had volunteered as Choir Director at the community's small Lutheran church. Stephen could remember spending many an afternoon in the weeks leading up to Christmas and Easter in the choir loft, coloring quietly and humming along while Beverly conducted practice. Once her youngest child, Donna, had been old enough to sit in a church pew under Stephen's supervision (for their father rarely attended weekly services) Beverly had resumed a place in the choir and was often featured as a soloist during the holidays. Stephen had been damn proud watching his mother sing her favorite carol, 'Oh, Holy Night'; how straight she had stood, free of his father's angry shadow, and of how flawlessly (to him, anyway) her notes had risen--in his child's mind he had been sure they had reached Heaven itself.

Most of all, though, he had always been proud to see when some parishioner or another was moved to tears by the purity of her rendition. Decades later, he could easily recall that feeling if he allowed himself to remember, could hear her in his mind--but the pain of Donna's death and the toll it wreaked upon his mother usually precluded him from indulging in such sentimental recall. Beverly's music had fallen mute the day his sister had drowned; she had never sung in church again, nor had Stephen ever heard her sing in their own home in the too short years that followed before her grief prematurely aged her into an early grave.

Stephen himself had adopted a stoic mien in the wake of losing Donna, internalizing the blame he felt for failing to save her, and by extension, their mother. Nearly two decades later, it still hurt too damn much to remember the first--and very rare--people who had loved him unconditionally, as both had been lost to him well before their time. And as his most vibrant memories of them included Christmastimes, he had turned his back on all but the most superficial of holiday celebrations.

He kept his painful thoughts and memories buried deep and had only confessed them to Christine (whom he realized in retrospect was the third soul to have loved him unconditionally) one sloppy, drunken night two months after his accident. She had given him what solace she could, gently urging him to not be so hard on himself, reminding him that both Donna and Beverly would wish for him to seek some healing, and staying with him until he drifted into a dreamless sleep. When she returned to check on him the next day, he had closed himself off again, rejecting her concern as unnecessary. Brushing off the incident as impertinent to his current life and goals.

But now...oh now! A wee bit at a time, Hope--who loved him as unconditionally as his past dear ones--had been chipping away at that wall. Reintroducing Christmas into his life by osmosis, without a hint of pressure for him to embrace the season. As she'd promised four weeks ago, she'd gone about her Christmasing without the sort of fuss that might bother him. With each little Yuletide advance she had made in the Sanctum, he had found himself relaxing and accepting, smiling in concession, happy to play witness to her happiness in the season.

Christmas was still a week away, and Stephen had begun contemplating what sort of gift he might manage for his own Who-girl. He hoped to find a gift that spoke his heart clearly, but each idea that came to him fell flat soon after he thought it up.

Settled comfortably in his study this evening, he was delving into a freshly discovered manuscript that appeared to have been penned by The Ancient One when she had been apprenticed to Merlin, during his tenure as the Londinium Sanctum Master. Though it should have been a fascinating read, Stephen found himself distracted by the question of what to give Hope--and by the carols she was playing in the living room portion of his quarters. Celtic Woman, he told himself with no effort to recall the facts; released October 2006, peak chart position number one on Billboard for US Worldwide Albums. The trilling of the all female group was pleasant enough, but not at all conducive to the study he was attempting.

Meaning to simply ask Hope to lower the volume so he could concentrate, Stephen removed his reading glasses, leaving them to rest atop the open manuscript and then headed the short way to the main room of his suite. The fragrances of cranberry and evergreen greeted him as he drew near, for she'd made a substantial investment in candles for the season, and they were clearly alight as she wrapped presents. Hope was deep in her element and happy to be so.

The music paused between tracks, and when it resumed, it stopped Stephen in his. The opening strains of 'O, Holy Night' filled the air, and in a heartbeat they landed upon him, sending him back to his youth, well before he had known loss and heartbreak. To those crisp, cold Nebraska evenings when his heart had swelled with love and pride to see his mother sing. Unprepared as he was for those powerful images and sounds to fill his senses, Stephen backed away, his eyes prickling with tears of mixed grief and recollection. Tears he'd put off for far too long in his quest to avoid the pain. And yet he knew that just several feet around the corner was the very soul who had given him the exact comfort, love, and strength he'd needed to complete the dreadful journey he had undertaken to save this Universe from Thanos--and that she'd be only too glad to learn this part of his past and help him find healing.

By some remarkable coincidence, or as if she'd heard his thoughts, Hope's answer came unbidden, her voice blending in as though it had been meant to be a message for his ears alone.

'Sweet hymns of joy, in grateful chorus raise we..., ' she sang as his heart seemed to crack open in bittersweet relief. 'Fall on your knees, O hear the angels voices...' Stephen wrapped his arms across his chest while he wept to remember the love and warmth that had been his in the little church and in every moment spent in his mother's company. How had he made himself ignore such a miraculous gift? Surely the joy of it far outweighed the sorrow. How foolish to have gone so long without allowing himself such comfort.

The carol now drew swiftly to it's close, and still his Hope sang sweetly, following the notes faithfully, unaware that she had reawakened a dormant part of his heart. 'O night,' she crooned, in happy harmony with those recorded singers, 'O night divine!' He swiped his tears away with both his palms, deciding he must tell her this part of his story. His reasons for divorcing Christmas from his life. And that he understood at last that every day of this beautiful season, she'd been patiently showing him that love was stronger than even grief...

[to be completed - once I finish the beginning as well!]

tagging: @aeterna-auroral-avenger @strangelock221b @stewardofningishzida @icytrickster17 @ben-locked @lorelei-lee @mousedetective @darsynia @bakerstreethound @hithertoundreamtof23 @rmoonstoner @mckiwi @doctorstrangeaskblog

[thesecrimsonstrings-if]

i'm so ready to play the most losergirl vampire- she tries so hard to be cool & suave but comes off more like a drenched half-feral cat

pretty privilege is real because if it was anyone else but the MC, people would’ve called the police already if they saw a stranger skulking around and muttering about inflation and blood bag prices

[willtasker]

NYCC 2024: A (Redacted) Review

I had planned out NYCC months ago, back when they announced Hayley Atwell in the spring. Everything else in 2024 had the volume turned down after that announcement. And with time, they also announced some of the cast of Starship Troopers and then Rachael Leigh Cook.

I'm happy to say that everyone was wonderful, glowing even. Some maybe a little more than others but over all, this was by far the best year I had at a convention in terms of people just being... nice.

So foremost is that I overbooked myself. Five cast members from Starship Troopers was at the same table and I'll be damned if I'm gonna let that slip by. I had to go Thursday, as Dina Meyer ((see above)) was only there for one day only. She was an absolute sweetheart, despite trying to duck out to make her plane on time. I almost walked away before they called me back because I forgot to take this photo with her. "Give me some sass" is what I heard in my ear over the deafening crowd and ... well, its not my worst photo but certainly not my favorite either. But she has these huge, chonky glasses I wish she'd kept on for the photos.

Michael Ironside was incredible. I've been a fan of his for decades and despite having a voice like a gravel quarry and that constant sneer painted over his face, he was very funny and very warm. He noticeably perked up when I mentioned his performance in "Crime & Punishment In Suburbia" and how Roger Ebert said it was the best work of his career. He nodded in approval, "I'm glad someone saw that. The director is a a good friend of mine."

Casper Van Dien was ... actually exactly what I suspected. He was standing in front of his table, talking to everyone, pitching the new SST Extermination game. He's high energy, happy to see you, quick with a joke.

Unfortunately, I didn't get a lot of time with either Seth Gilliam or Denise Richards. Seth was on his way out but seemed to be overly kind with everyone there? Does that make sense? Denise was rushing to get out because she had some sort of socialite appointment elsewhere in NYC but she was trying so hard to be accommodating and patient with people. I think she was aware of what her legacy is with men of a certain age. I purposely didn't take too long at her table - it was 7 pm and everyone was tired - and I think she appreciated the fact I didn't make a bad pass at her or stop the line for 5 minutes to show her art I had done in the hopes she'd follow my Instagram (witnessed both of these things happen in real time).

Now on to the main event:

I didn't know what to expect from Hayley. I'd never met anyone who had interacted with her, so I was a little pensive at first. I had brought two photos for her to sign - the one above I had blown up to an egregious size - but it was the other one that rang her bell.

The person running the cashbox passed my photos down and said "Hayley we have some very nice photos from this gentle..."

"This is from Howard's End!" Her eyes popped, a mix of genuine surprise and appreciation behind them.

We talked a little bit about her Margaret Schlegel versus the 1992 movie. She asked me a couple of small questions before we really hit it off on something I wouldn't expect: I told her how I found a lot of American television too "active" and how much comfort I found in rewatching not only Howard's End but just UK television in general. She sized me up quietly before agreeing, telling me she watches the same handful of shows over and over to unwind, as a comfort.

She signed the Howard's End photo first (not pictured here, I've determined it is a little too personal), then the above photo before going back to the first photo with "May I add a quote to this?"

I was left with words in my mouth for a second. I managed to say "Please!" once my brain rebooted and she said "I loved this character so much. And this quote." After we said our goodbyes - she's so effusive, high energy - I quietly found a corner of the convention hall to see she'd written "Only Connect" under her name and I sighed like an old dog sleeping on a cold kitchen floor.

I later had a photo op with her. I look pretty stiff and not my best but I've taken worse photos. She was extremely gentle with everyone in line, I think getting a sense that most everyone was having the same "Holy shit, thats Hayley Atwell" realization.

Finally, and certainly not the least of all...

Rachael Leigh Cook came out an hour late, wearing a cream colored sweater and necklace. Laugh as you must, gentle reader, but I'm absolutely going to my therapist this week to ask why a stranger like herself is so completely nice to everyone (but especially: why is she nice to me). She's the type who touches people on the hand or arm as they talk - she hugged the couple in front of me when they mentioned their engagement - and she has this natural ... I honestly don't know what to call it - grace? vibe? spirit? ... that makes the cold hearth of my soul blaze like a Christmas fireplace. I don't mean to suggest theres any sort of connection, simply that she gives off a vibe of generosity and familiarity that I've only ever felt with old girlfriends.

I thanked her for her performance in Stateside, which made her eyebrows go up like a Tex Avery cartoon, and complimented her on getting her character's diagnosis so wonderfully right. She listened to me, stopped writing, listened some more, would write some more. I'd hate to think I somehow overwhelmed her - I am often told I don't "play my cards" despite my being afraid I'm overplaying them - but she was sincere and gentle, her voice this almost ASMR tone. We took a selfie (THAT photo looks awful, I need to learn to not only pose in photos but not to cock my head away from the other person) and later a photo op (Which looks better! But like the one with Hayley, I look rigid compared to her practiced grace) where she invited me into her hooked arm with a "Hey you, wow, sharp dresser!" and straightened the front of my shirt with a pinch.

And finally! Mystery solved?

This is an update for @justrachaelleighcook - this photo was taken at Cannes! She'd not seen Anna in some time and the press (or whoever was behind the camera) asked for a photo together! "I've never seen this photo but I remember taking it because Bookies was running out of competition". So that dates this photo as 2002? (She'd also not heard Anna had been unwell of late and regarded what little I said with a bit of a furrowed brow.)

Needless to say I wish I had more time to talk to her but I'm forever aware theres a line of people behind me hoping for some time as well.

It was an exhausting two days at NYCC. I probably spent 15 hours there and of that, more than 13 hours was standing in lines. Overall, it was one of the - if not THE - smoothest and more effortless visits to a convention I've ever had. If any of them come back around, I'd love to meet them again. <3

[johnny69150]

Gorgeous Emmanuelle Chriqui