#Officer Sun(ny) will come back soon! Very soon. And maybe will have a life changing experience.

[kiruamon]

Grey World AU - What to do?

Second comic part of the Grey World AU.

[highnoteds]

*    𝐔𝐏 𝐍𝐄𝐗𝐓  ;      a  recommendation  by   aaron !

hold  your  f***  horses !    aaron  kim  has  just  been  spotted  walking  into  revolution  headquarters.  they  are  best  known  for  being  the  label’s  residential  personal  assistant  and  have  been  working  with  the  label  for  three  months.  they  share  a  lot  of  interesting  things  about  life  in  the  music  industry  on  their  social  media,  so  make  sure  you  don’t  forget  to  follow  them  at  @glacierboy​.  the  office  knows  them  for  being  irresponsible  but  i  swear  they  have  an  emotional  side  as  well.  maybe  that  explains  why  they’re  always  associated  with  pouring  out  your  emotions  in  a  song  that  will  never  be  released,   chipped  black  nail  polish,  &&.  the  scent  of  marc  jacobs  with  a  hint  of  jack  daniels  lingering  on  a  suit  jacket.  their  coworkers  even  voted  them  as  the  most  likely  to  win  a  bar  fight.  we’ll  see  how  they  live  up  to  that  reputation.

*  𝙽𝙾𝚆 𝙿𝙻𝙰𝚈𝙸𝙽𝙶 .           THE   BASICS

birthname :   aaron  kim  +  kim  youngmin  .

nickname(s) :   ron  (  close  friends  +  family  )  +  utp  .

birthdate  +  age :    september  25th  ;   twenty6  .

ethnicity :   korean .

gender  +  pronouns :   cis  male,   he  /  him  pronouns  .

orientation :    biromantic,   bisexual  .

birthplace :   los  angeles,  ca  .

current   residency :   new   york   city,   ny .

occupation :   personal  assistant  for  redacted  .

astrology :   libra   sun,   sagittarius   moon  .

language(s) :   korean,  english  .

height :   six  feet  [  6′0  ]  .

positive   traits :    flexible,  optimistic,  creative.

negative   traits :   irresponsible,  emotional,  conceited.

discography  inspo :   walk  the  moon,  dnce,  coin,  5  seconds  of  summer.

*  𝙷𝙴𝙰𝙳𝙻𝙸𝙽𝙴 .           AARON  KIM,  SON  OF  FAMOUS  PRODUCER  /  SONGWRITER  K3,  GETS  KICKED  OUT  OF  NIGHTCLUB  AFTER  INITIATING  FIGHT  WITH   . . .

when  you’re  born  as  the  hidden  love  child  to  a  famous  90′s  singer  and  a  well-established  producer  /  songwriter,  you’re  bound  to  be  some  kind  of  star.  or  at  least  that’s  what  aaron  always  considered  himself  to  be,  anyway.

due  to  being  raised  by  his  father  since  his  mother  didn’t  want  to  “abandon”  her  career,  he  was  exposed  to  the  lifestyle  of  the  rich  &&.  famous  early  on  in  life.  celebrity  family  friends  gave  him  gifts,  he  sometimes  attended  award  shows,  he  got  thrown  extravagant  parties  and  had  the  best  toys!  he  couldn’t  have  asked  for  a  better  life.

growing  up,  aaron  always  knew  he  wanted  to  be  in  the  music  industry.  watching  his  father  work  rather  it  be  at  home  or  (  on  the  rare  occasion  )  at  the  studio  inspired  him  to  take  a  chance  down  the  same  path.  but  his  father  wasn’t  having  it,  instead  wanting  him  to  have  a  more  “stable”  career  while  music  sat  on  the  backburner.

he  reluctantly  agreed  --  not  left  with  much  of  a  choice  since  the  man  was  putting  him  through  college  debt  free.  now  a  sophomore  attending  berkeley  with  an  undeclared  major,  aaron  realized  he  only  had  one  life  and  was  going  to  make  the  most  of  it  no  matter  what.  so  he  put  together  a  band  with  some  college  friends  and  decided  to  test  the  water.

their  name  was  ON  THE  FLOOR,  and  had  a  dance  pop-punk  sound  that  was  meant  to  have  people  dancing  on  the  floor  and  letting  go  of  all  their  worries.  they  began  posting  videos  on  youtube  and  was  soon  playing  very  small  gigs  which  led  them  to  being  locally  known.

yet  his  ambition  of  proving  his  father  wrong  outweighed  his  education.  late  night  "promoting”  --  which  was  really  just  him  partying  with  other  up  and  coming  musicians  --  resulted  in  barely  showing  up  to  classes,  and  the  times  he  did  show,  he  wore  sunglasses  and  complained  before  leaving.  his  grades  dropped  drastically  and  soon  he  was  kicked  off  campus  whilst  the  other  members  were  still  enrolled.

aaron  thought  this  was  a  sacrifice  willing  to  be  made  for  the  group’s  future.  so  he  spent  his  free  time  trying  to  get  a  contract  deal  behind  his  father’s  back,  all  the  while  using  his  friends  as  a  coverup  for  school.  things  were  going  fine  up  until  they  booked  a  decent  gig  at  a  well  known  club.  the  whole  night  was  filled  with  small  mishaps :  their  mics  being  faulty,  some  of  the  sound  equipment  messing  up  but  overall  things  were  going  fine!  that  was  before  some  asshole  began  provoking  them  after  their  set  which  resulted  into  a  physical  altercation  and  them  getting  arrested.  

his  father  soon  learned  everything  and  man,  he  was  not  happy.  but  he  saw  the  ambition  aaron  held  and  gave  him  a  deadline.  he  had  a  year  to  make  things  work  or  else  he  has  to  give  the  group  up.  this  seemed  easy  to  do,  but  with  the  others  now  being  juniors  and  having  to  focus  on  their  own  studies,  it  wasn’t  long  before  everyone  just  said  screw  it  and  had  split  up.  (  also  aaron  did  fight  with  another  member  and  threatened  to  sue  in  case  they  ever  used  his  songs  without  him  soo ...  )

years  went  by,  and  aaron  had  nothing  left  to  his  name  outside  of  the  track  record  of  getting  kicked  out  of  clubs  and  the  many  partners  he  slept  with.  soon  this  led  his  father  into  getting  him  a  job  as  a  personal  assistant  to  a  friend  who  needed  one  at  revolution  records.  and  that’s  where  his  new  journey  began!

*  𝙽𝙾𝚆 𝙿𝙻𝙰𝚈𝙸𝙽𝙶 .           HEADCANONS  +  FUN  FACTS

aaron  considered  himself  as  the  pillar  of  the  band.  he  supplied  the  name,  he  paid  for  the  studio  sessions,  he  made  quite  a  few  of  their  more  favorable  tracks.  he  felt  more  important  than  everyone  else  which  was  another  issue  discussed  during  the  messy  meeting  soon  turned  disbandment.

owns  three  cds  that  were  burned  that  hold  his  group’s  music.  all  are  labeled  with  black  sharpie  and  have  little  doodles  on  them  to  represent  the  theme  of  the  cd.  plays  them  on  the  anniversary  of  them  getting  together  and  occasionally  is  heard  singing  /  humming  his  old  music  absentmindedly.

kinda  envious  of  the  bands  signed  under  the  label  but  that  doesn’t  stop  him  from  peaking  into  their  sessions  and  watching  them  work.

is  definitely  almost  always  seen  with  his  legs  on  his  desk  and  hands  behind  his  head  trying  to  balance  a  pencil  on  his  upper  lip.

likes  to  keep  his  old  group  secret  so  unless  you  were  one  of  them  few  people  who  actually  knew  of  them,  there’s  no  way  you  know.

defender  of  pineapple  pizza.  he  does  not  care!!  

very  conceited  and  likes  flirting  but  really  it’s  harmless.  

*  𝙽𝙾𝚆 𝙿𝙻𝙰𝚈𝙸𝙽𝙶 .           WANTED  CONNECTIONS  +  PLOTS

other  assistant  (  or  employee  in  general  )  friends  !!!    let  them  talk  shit  about  the  people  they  work  with,  rant  to  one  another,  have  lunch  dates.

out  of  work  friends ?   maybe  they  occasionally  meet  outside  of  revolution  to  just  de-tach  from  everything.  or  they  could  have  met  outside  of  it  first  and  then  found  out  they  were  working  in  the  same  building.  either  way,  could  be  fun!

aaron  could  be  a  third  opinion  person.  in  case  your  muse  is  working  on  something  and  feels  like  everyone  is  saying  something  biased  so  they’re  like  hey!  you  don’t  know  shit  about  music,  what  do  you  think  about  this ??

give  me  the  guy  who  started  the  club  fight  that  got  him  arrested.  i  want  beef!

he  definitely  hooked  up  with  a  revolution  artist.  he’s  utterly  embarrassed  by  being  an  assistant  instead  of  an  artist  so  he  tries  to  dodge  them  like  the  plague.

maybe  someone  who  does  know  of  his  band!  and  they  could  possibly  encourage  him  to  enter  back  into  the  industry!

[backofthebookshelf]

MAGSeason 4 Depression Timeline

Since timelines are the meta I’m good at, and since Jon Sims’s crippling depression is the metaplot most amenable to a timeline right now, a summary:

121 - Oliver Banks, Jon wakes up

122 - Zombie, Jon is forsaken by all his friends and allies (word chosen advisedly)

123 - Web Development - Jon comes back to the Archives, gets attacked by Melanie and dressed down by Basira

124 - Left Hanging, Jon gets brushed off by Martin

supermarket cleaner - first victim (probable)

125 - Civilian Casualties, Jon ruminates on control, Knows about the bullet; amateur surgery hour

woman in the street - second victim (definite)

126 - Sculptor’s Tool, Jon wishes he understood Gertrude better now that he’s a monster but it just makes him sad

127 - Remains to be Seen, Beholding shit

128 - Breekon, Jon collapses after the statement

129 - Submerged, Jon tries to talk to Martin again, fails

130 - Meat, recorded by Gertrude; Jon gets the idea about an anchor

131 - Jared Hopworth, Jon has to lie down after getting his rib removed

132 - Submerged, Jon rescues Daisy from the coffin

man rejected by all who knew him - third victim (definite)

133 - Dead Horse, Jon and Daisy talk rituals & being taken over by a Power

134 - Time of Revelation, Martin’s first recording this season; Peter explains very few details of his plan

(the timeline starts getting fuzzy here - before this it’s reasonable to assume that there’s about a week between each episode, but as soon as we start getting recodings from Martin they clearly overlap sometimes)

135 - Dark Matter, Jon worries about the Dark Sun, complains that no one talks to him and he doesn’t know what he’s doing

136 - The Puppeteer, Melanie goes to therapy

137 - Nemesis, recorded by Gertrude, stolen from Elias’s office; Jon worries about the Watcher’s Crown but still has no direction

138 - The Architecture of Fear, Martin’s recording; more Beholding shit

139 - Chosen, Gertrude and Agnes and the Web bond; Jon muses on destiny versus random chance and complains about feelings, attempts to Know Peter’s plan

140 - The Movement of the Heavens, Jon looks exceptionally awful, Basira makes plans to leave for Ny-Alesund

Jess Tyrell - fourth victim (definite)

141 - Doomed Voyage, Floyd Matharu - fifth victim

142 - Scrutiny, Martin’s recording of Jess Tyrell’s statement

143 - Heart of Darkness, Manuela Dominguez, Jon goes home via Helen’s corridors

144 - Decrypted, Martin’s recording; Daisy checks in on Martin at Jon’s request and he orders her out

145 - Infectious Doubts, recorded by Gertrude; Jon mourns that the answers he wants don’t seem to exist, has a horrible conversation with Georgie

146 - Threshold, the girls find Martin’s tape of Jess Tyrell’s statement and confront Jon about his victims

147 - Weaver, Annabelle’s statement very pointedly not given in person; Jon admits that no one has been forcing him to take victims and that he doesn’t want to stop

148 - Extended Surveillance, Jon grumbles about autocannibalism and stale statements, says he no longer cares about followup or what happened to the statement-givers

149 - Concrete Jungle, Martin’s recording; he fights with Georgie, goes whoosh to avoid Melanie

150 - Cul-de-Sac, Jon shows some awareness of the danger of the Lonely, complains again about having no action to take; Melanie announces her work stoppage on the principle that taking action can only be evil while they serve Beholding

So Jon’s taken eight statements directly this season, three from avatars (and those seem to drain him rather than restore him) and five from unsuspecting victims; none from ordinary people that were volunteered of their own free will, like all the earlier ones were. But there’s a huge gap between three and four - six to eight weeks, maybe? Where the first two are maybe a week apart and the third another five or six weeks after that, and after the coffin. It’s pretty clear that he realized, at the latest after the second, what he was doing and tried to do less of it. 

And if the “about one episode a week in canon time” holds, then it’s been nine weeks now since Jon’s had a victim, eight since Manuela. No wonder he’s having a hard time concentrating if he’s as starving as he was before Jess Tyrell - although I do have to say he sounded worse in The Movement of the Heavens than he did in Cul-de-Sac, so possibly having the secret out has been good for him, too. I hope so. (Keeping a secret has to feed the Beholding too, after all, particularly a secret like that.)

More to the point, though, there’s only one thing that’s actually improved in Jon’s situation all season and that’s the fact that Daisy likes him now. It’s not enough; one person can’t be enough support for anyone, never mind someone who’s going through the shit Jon’s dealing with, especially when the support person is also dealing with their own shit. But that’s literally the only positive thing that’s happened. (You could count the intervention/coming clean about his victims as a neutral, I think - he seems more comfortable but I’m not sure you can say he’s actively helping.

I’ve said it before but I do think this season could have benefited from a broader content warning. There’s a big difference between “the one-off character in this episode is suicidally depressed” and “your main character and narrator is suicidally depressed basically the entire season,” and I for one wasn’t anticipating it. But going through the episodes all at once, rather than spacing them out one a week, it’s easier to see the trajectories. Jon’s starving, or going into withdrawal, and meanwhile he has nothing else to lean on - one friend, who he’s keeping secrets from and who’s suffering herself, but no work, which has been the center of his attention for (let’s be honest, probably) most of his life. Add to that the fact that he’s always been pretty hilariously bad at figuring out what any given statement is trying to tell him, plus Melanie’s point this week that anything they do seems to feed the evil thing they work for, and it’s no wonder that he hasn’t done much of use in ages, and no wonder that he can’t think clearly about it at the same time.

(I do think it’s interesting that the Watcher’s Crown seems to be falling out of his head in the same way the spider lighter does; he mentions it twice, once very early on and once about midway through the season, he’s talked about how it’s likely to happen in 2018, the 200 year anniversary of the founding of the Institute, but he hasn’t put any focused attention into it. That’s...more than a little suspicious, really.)

[keirnytee]

As soon as February 18, 2019 ended and my 29th year of life began, I was faced with the reality that 2019 was going to be my last year being 20+. I knew then I had to make the best of being Twenty Nine and that I did and that I did *winks* (more on this later). 

               New York Lounge

Last year I wanted to celebrate my birthday at The Strings Hotel Nagoya, Japan (ストリングスホテル名古屋) by having a tea party, however, that idea didn’t go according to plan for various reasons that I mentioned in my birthday blog, Seven Months to Twenty Nine. A year later, I decided to revisit the idea. I took a tour of the location once again (not that I needed to but I’m extra lol) and I was still in love with it just as much as I did the first time I laid my eyes on its beauty. As is the norm for the New York Lounge (the area where they serve afternoon tea), there was a theme for this season. The theme for this winter was Marie Antionette. You know, the “let them eat cake” lady. Anyways, I was pretty excited about this because it meant they would serve colourful pastry with some very flavourful tea.

Frame Just For Me

Now, I needed something to make my birthday afternoon tea a real standout…well more than it already would be. I’ve always wanted one of those Instagram selfie frames that you see people with in photos for different events and thought this would be perfect. I did a quick search and to my surprise, there were quite a number of places in my city that I could seek info. Lord, please let it be inexpensive. One evening, I visited the closest office to the main train station I use to commute to and from work. I was lucky enough that a staff member was able to communicate effectively with me in English. Yes, I’ve been living in Japan for too long to not know Japanese, but that’s the way life goes. After gathering the information I needed about the cost for a specialized frame, I made the choice to make the project a DIY. The end result, perfection.

Who’s Coming To Tea?

I invited two friends to join in this intimate birthday celebration. Unlike last year’s wish for getting dressed up in fancy pastel garb, I opted for a monochromatic theme. When I mentioned this to my friends they were a bit confused at first but were right on board after I explained it to them and what I was going for (I had a vision of an explosion of monochrome, knowing in the back of my mind that I’d still get just a hint of pastel. I wasn’t fully letting go of that fantasy. LOL). The only rule was that they couldn’t wear any of the colours I had in mind to wear for myself. LOL. Even if they didn’t show up in monochrome, I knew I’d be.

Did Someone Say Monochrome?

As with any birthday or event, I needed to choose the perfect outfit for me. Read that again, I needed to choose the perfect outfit for me. I had bought this coat from Zara over the Christmas holidays for about 250USD and I was just dying to wear it. The Strings Hotel Nagoya was the perfect place. The problem though was finding the right shades of the colour I chose to go with to match the theme. I spent days and weeks trying on different pieces of clothing in multiple stores, sometimes the same outfit more than once but I couldn’t find exactly what I wanted. You see, it’s still winter but it’s also almost spring so the stores are in transition between the two seasons. This meant that most of the warm stuff were being phased out. Options that weren’t going to be available when I would finally arrive at a decision. Chidi from The Good Place would be proud. Haha!

Since I wasn’t sure what the actual weather conditions would be like on the day of my party, it was much harder to make a choice. The weather forecast said it would rain but knowing my city, I didn’t know whether it would be heavy or light rain, whether it would also be windy or even what the temperature would be. See my dilemma? Should I wear a sweatshirt? Carduroy pants? Should I risk wearing white sneakers? I pondered these questions and more for several days and I made the choice of buying all that I could, put the looks together in my apartment and return (yes, return) the items I no longer needed. I’m unapologetic when returning items. I ended with a look I was really happy with. A head to toe look with everything from Zara (I won’t tell you how much this costed me. Haha!)

Talk 30 To Me: Happy F-ing Birthday

The day finally arrived. The day I’d celebrate 30 Years Around The Sun. I was beaming with the utmost gratitude for just being alive. The weather forecast said it would rain all day but I didn’t care. It’s not like we were having the event on the outside. I reached out to my guests just to reconfirm the time and place so that we were all still on the same page. I started getting ready while blasting the speakers in my apartment with Troye Sivan’s Dance To This ft. Ariana Grande. I’m really 30. Wow!

I arrived at The Strings Hotel at around 13:31 and was just taken aback by the overwhelming feeling of pure joy. It was an indication that all I was really pleased with what I chose to do. The lounge had more people than I expected and I was definitely all right with that. My first guest arrived shortly after I did and we started the drinking until my other guest showed up. Now, when I say drinking I mean orange juice. LOL. Guest number two showed up and the tea party began. We glanced at the menu to see what we’d be served as the menu was set for afternoon tea. The only choice we’d have was for the different flavoured teas, my fav was the Marco Polo.

Tea Is Served

The Menus

Our waitress brought out a pair of three-tiered trays filled with the sweetest scrumdiddlyumptious desserts, two plates of scones, biscuits with a cold savoury soup an two plates of savoury nibbles. Yum!

The Menus

Let Them Eat Cake

Just like last year, I ordered a special cake from the amazing Trisha Painuyl. I reached out to her at the beginning of the month and explain exactly what I wanted. My cake was a cookie n cream cheesecake with a caramel crust and mirror glazed fondant that was dyed pink. I had to make it match the theme. The only thing we couldn’t do was have our cake and eat it too. LMAO, this so funny cuz it’s true.

The conversation kept flowing. The energy was just right and I couldn’t have asked for anything more. I didn’t feel any different than I did at 29 nor 28 nor…well you get the picture. But I suppose I was different or I am now different. Whichever. The hours went by and it was time to leave the venue. Gutted. However, we brought the cake back to another friend’s apartment to cut it and for them to have a taste of what Trisha made. The cake was superb and met my every expectation. Thank you Trisha.

There’s so much more I could say but it wouldn’t be enough. I’m just thankful for this life. At times I thought (and maybe I still do from time to time) that things just don’t ever go right for me but so much has gone right and for that, I am thankful.

30 Years Around The Sun ain’t half bad.

–KEIRN

30 Years Around The Sun As soon as February 18, 2019 ended and my 29th year of life began, I was faced with the reality that 2019 was going to be my last year being 20+.

[grodymag]

Things We Don’t Want to Know

by Alana Mohamed

When Trevor suggested we spy on the lady across the street that summer, we unwise idiots said okay. 

In those times we lived as in a fever dream. We didn’t know anything about the world so if one of us spoke with any authority, we all followed. We didn’t know any better and we didn’t want to learn. It seemed safest to follow confidence over conscience. We understood, after all, that we were unwise idiots.

Besides, Trevor was older. He had been held back an undisclosed number of times. He had muscles we didn’t. He knew things we didn’t.

We were curious about the woman across the street, who lived alone and came from an exotic place—a friendly place, to hear our fathers talk. But we also heard our mothers talk about her scandalous taste in art, her comings and goings (it was a crime to do either), her resistance to certain gelatinous delicacies. 

We had also heard our fathers talking late at a summer block party—mischievous things we knew to laugh at, but not what they meant. Things that were difficult to picture, insinuations that she was built sideways when we had always seen her standing right-side up. 

Trevor would say, “You idiots, that’s not what they mean,” but he would never explain. We imagined it must be exhausting, fighting her natural urge to lay sideways all day in the company of us, of our parents. We didn’t know exactly where they made people so askew, or what their homes looked like. We had never been invited to her home, as our mothers liked to note.

Our mothers’ curiosity made Trevor’s suggestion a reasonable one. We ambled over the fence that separated his yard from hers, the sun heating the metal so that it stung our skin. Our feet landed on plush, rampant greens. She didn’t garden in the tradition of our parents. We liked this about her immediately—it meant we could play and roll around here without being warned of rose bushes and invisible buds. 

We found her sprawled out in a hammock, napping. She held a book in one hand, a small rolled cigarette in the other. On the ground a drink lay sloppily, like it might fall over. One of us bent down to right it. “Shhh,” Trevor chastised, then gestured at her back door, as if we were G-Men in a show.

We tip-toed past her, through her sliding door and into her home, all very impressed with ourselves for making it this far. Our excitement evaporated when we saw the inside of her home: a kitchen with the same yellow wallpaper as ours, a slightly smaller dining room table than ours. The most curious thing about the house was a coffee table and black leather couch in the living room—the kind our father’s might have in their offices. 

Even the art on her walls was the same kind of boring as the art on our walls at home. Different, yes, with small dark faces crowded in each frame, or large splatters of ink that looked like nonsense to us. It was more confusing maybe, but at the end of the day, just color on cloth, unreal and irrelevant to our lives. 

Trevor, sensing our disappointment, was not sympathetic. “You idiots,” he whispered, “This is never where the good stuff is.” We didn’t realize until he said it that we were looking for the good stuff—more proof that he knew better than us.

He led the way up a narrow flight of stairs. We paused at each door and peered in. A small room with an easel, a record player, and knitting needles. A bathroom with yellowing tiling. A closet full of towels and cleaning supplies. Trevor pushed the last door open triumphantly. 

We looked at him quizzically. He nodded encouragingly. We unwise idiots stepped into the room and took a deep inhale of something musky and green. There was a bed and dresser and chaise, like our mothers’ rooms, but the light shone differently here. We knew we wouldn’t get yelled at for sneaking through drawers or wearing our father’s ties. We smelled her freedom in the air and bounded in, happily making our way under her bed and through her dresser drawers.

On the ceiling above her bed was a mirror. We discovered it was a fun game to jump up and down and try to catch yourself in the reflection. We giggled and shoved at each other, challenging one and then the other to go faster or higher. Trevor was the only one to abstain—he dug through her dresser with an increasing animosity as he ignored our calls to come play. He didn’t know what he was missing, we reasoned. Every jump offered a new detail of the room: the popcorn ceiling, a little cob web in the corner, the sweat on the back of Trevor’s neck.  

“Look,” one of us shouted. We all turned to look across the room at a closet door we hadn’t noticed, ajar and dark.

“Would you shut up,” Trevor snapped. He was speaking to us, but staring, brows furrowed, at pairs and pairs of lady’s undergarments in his hands. 

“But the closet!” we insisted.

“Fuck the closet,” Trevor spat. He dropped his load and held one of the pairs aloft, stretching them this way, then that, shifting his head the way our parents did when they were pretending to enjoy art on a neighbor’s wall.

We giggled. “It’s just panties, idiot,” one said, and we would have even laughed, if he hadn’t shot us a look like one of the mangy, wild dogs that haunted the train tracks. When we shut our mouths, he resumed his inspection, this time sticking his head over a pair of blue, lacy underthings he held opened over stretched hands. 

The fact of his hostility and the idiocy of his pose encouraged us to be especially intrigued by the closet door—a fortuitous series of events we would come to think of often, later in life. 

We brushed past Trevor and into the closet. It was like its own separate room; big enough to fit us all with rows of empty clothing racks. The woman only had a few things hanging—big boxy jackets like our fathers wore to work, a long fur coat. Instead, what took up the most space were rows and rows of canvases of men, or parts of men. Big bulging biceps, hairy chests, Adam’s apples, shy private parts peeking out through bushels of hair. 

We knew immediately that we had found the good stuff from the pits that opened up in our stomachs, the way our eyes could find nothing to settle on. This was nothing like the euphoria of the mirror game, which could be mimicked by many other games outside of the woman’s home. We would only find this feeling tucked away here. 

We wanted to call out to Trevor, ask him if his pecker was just as small and hairy, maybe ask him if he was the model. But just before we could open our mouths, we heard a woman’s voice:

“What the fuck is this?” 

We froze. From the closet, we could see a slice of Trevor do the same, a pile of panties at his feet. She couldn’t see us. We held our breath; in case she could hear us.

“Is that my underwear? What the fuck? What are you—a fucking pervert?” Her voice was pitched with a fear that mirrored our own internal panic.

“I…,” Trevor seemed to be searching for an explanation, before he settled for vomiting out the truth, “I just…I heard from my dad that you were built sideways. I just wanted to see. I’m not a pervert! I’ve never done this to anyone, I swear.”

“So…I’m the only one you’ve done this to?” Her voice changed—grew irate and low, in that dangerous tone our mothers’ might use if our fathers had done something particularly offensive, usually concerning garbage or specific types of cutlery. 

Trevor said nothing and in the face of his silence, she decided to continue, her footsteps approaching. “You thought you’d break into my home and what? Go through my drawers because I’m a huge fucking alien? You figured no one would care because I’m not like your mommy and daddy and their ritzy fucking friends?”  

More footsteps. At one point, we saw her hand wave in the air as she gestured. Soon she might even be close enough to turn around and see us. We lowered ourselves to the ground, as if altitude was the trick to disappearing. 

But then, the footsteps stopped. 

“Come here,” she demanded. Trevor’s eyes traveled to the closet and we widened ours. “There’s nowhere to run, so come here,” she said again, too calm.

Trevor stepped forward silently, out of view. We admired his stoicism for only a moment, until the room came alive. Thwack, something heavy made contact with Trevor and he howled, even as a second thwack came.

“You—all—think—you’re—so much—better—than—me! Even—your—fucking—prick—kids,” the woman cried out between hits. Trevor was sobbing now, a sound we’d never heard before and which made us want to cry with him. At one point we heard something hit the floor—an elbow, or a knee. We held our own in the confusion.

She kept on, “You’re fucking not. Go ahead, say it! ‘I’m a fucking little prick of nothing.’” 

The hits continued as Trevor parroted her words in a desperate warble: “I’m a fu-ucking little prick of n-n-nothing. I’m a fucking little prick of nothing. I’m a fucking little prick of nothing!” 

We heard something fall to the ground and the hits stopped but the tears did not. Trevor kept on repeating his new mantra. “I’m a fucking little prick of nothing” bounced off the walls, trapped us in with the muscles and hair and dingy dicks we were surrounded by. 

To our surprise—we thought she had no reason to, having just delivered a sound thrashing—the woman began to cry, too. We had never heard an adult cry before in real life. In the movies, their sobs were always very deep and husky, but she sounded the same as any child.  Her sharp breathing and extended sobs filled the air like the swell of an orchestra. It played on, the background to Trevor’s voice; his little pricks of nothing that had suddenly grown so loud as to be the only thing we could hear.

We unwise idiots stayed silent and, heads cocked on the ground, listened diligently.

Alana Mohamed is a writer and librarian from Queens, NY. She is currently working on a collection of short stories and an essay collection about being late to the proverbial party.

[lookatthedawn]

"I Describe Him, So That I Won't Forget."

(from The Little Prince, by Saint Exupery)

 I fell in love in China.   What is love? And what does it mean to fall in love?   Only in Hollywood movies does falling in love mean finding that one person who will erase your past and brighten your future forever.  On this side of the screen, falling in love happens often, with a place, a book, a song, with a person, and often this person is ourselves. For the purpose of this post, love is what happens when our souls touch another's. In this particular case it's neither romantic nor physical, and maybe that just makes it more precious. Perhaps to fall in love is just leaning our candle into the flame of another, and relighting both.  After such encounter, I'm bursting with passion for life and I hope the other is as well, or at least, that I didn't diminish his light.  Let me start from the beginning... I sleep like a baby in Nanning.  The bed is comfortable, the temperature perfect, and so is the morning light coming from the window.  I lazily stretch myself and reach for my cell phone to check the time.  I am hoping to see 7 or 8 o'clock on the screen but to my surprise, it's past ten.  I stretch a little more while calculating the time I have been asleep.  About eight hours!  That's unusual for me.  I pat myself on the back -- figuratively --, get up and into my Tai Chi uniform because I have trained the martial art for almost thirty years but never in its birthplace and won't miss it for the world.  I leave the hotel and walk toward the park near Yonghe Bridge. It's hot and I'm looking for a cool and quiet place when I spot a man and a boy of about fifteen training a staff sequence.  I immediately recognize it as the one from my training days in Brazil.  I approach them.  Standing nearby is a girl of perhaps thirteen.  She notices me right away but the boy and his teacher are completely engrossed in their training.  The student makes a few mistakes, which the teacher readily corrects and explains the movement further.  Of course, I don't understand a word he says, but his gestures are clear enough.   I ask the girl if she speaks English and she nods shyly.  "Can you ask them (teacher and student) if I can take pictures?"  On the first opportunity, she relates my question to the teacher.  He regards me for a moment and says it's okay.  I ask him -- through her -- if he trains Tai Chi, and he says no, that he only trains Shaolin.  I ask if I can join their training and he says I can.  We train the part of a sequence I know well, and had I known any Chinese I would have told him so.  He does know that I'm a fellow practitioner, but the language barrier prevents us to talk details.  That's fine, as Tai Chi -- or Shaolin -- requires little talk.  

After about an hour of class, he asks his female student to translate what he wants to tell me.  Through her, he invites me to come the next day to train with him. He wants me to know that he is there every day at that same time and that I can come and train with him every day.  I'm touched by his generosity, but I tell him that I'm just visiting and will be departing Nanning soon.  In fact, I have to get back to the hotel and check out in a few minutes.  We take a few pictures together and the teacher asks the girl to take down my name and my contact information.  We don't have pens or paper and since it's China, she doesn't have Facebook, but she does have Instagram, and she tries to memorize my name.  It's a long shot, but it's all we've got. I leave the hotel soon after noon and walk toward the train station, to look for the office holding my ticket back to Hanoi.  It's hot and my bag is heavy but the walk allows me to see much of Nanning.  It's a busy, well-developed and well organized city, famous for its many parks. I see a Walmart store on my way but have no wish to stop. After about seventy minutes I start recognizing streets and sights as I approach the train station.  That's where I should be, but I can't find the address. I ask the locals, show the address in Chinese to many people, and they point me in the direction of their best guesses, but the actual place eludes me.  If the information I'm getting is at all reliable, I'm getting closer to the office with each step, though no one can tell me exactly where it's located. Two girls of about eighteen take it upon themselves to help me find it.  They both speak a little English.  They have two umbrellas to protect them from the sun and insist I take one.  They ask me if I have eaten lunch and when I say no they become concerned.  I don't tell them that I also didn't have breakfast and, to be perfectly honest, I didn't quite remember the last time I had a full meal.  They think I should halt my quest and have something to eat immediately.  They ask me if I have money for food.  I tell them I do but I don't want to stop to eat before I have the ticket in my hands.  

We walk in search of the address.  I can't understand how a place can be so hard to find, but it is.  The girls recruit the help of other people, just like I did before, and they all point to a similar direction.  The moment of relief comes when, at my request, they call the office and are told that yes, they are open and my ticket is there, waiting for me. The girls walk with me, but I feel like we're walking in circles.  They think we should take a taxi because it's too hot and it seems far.  I have already walked for over an hour from the hotel, and this is perhaps ten minutes more, so I don't see the point of taking a taxi.   We stop at a corner, and they're confused but I have an inkling of the way, which seems to be opposite to where they think it is.  And then I see him, the tuk-tuk driver from the day before! The girls ask him directions and he says it's kinda far but he'll take me there for ten yuan.  I tell him no, thank you very much.  Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me.  That's a  shame I can prevent from happening.  I return the umbrella to the girls, thank them for their time and tell them I'll find it by myself.   I walk for about ten minutes or so until I find myself near a couple of buildings that just might be it.  True, I have had this hope before but that's the thing about hope; it springs up again and again, even in the least promising situations. At one of the buildings, I ask a porter if he can use his cell phone to contact the office.  He kindly obliges. With the guy from the office on the line, giving him step-by-step directions, we walk around a block and, after a while, find the rather obscure entrance B on the back of the building. I'm deeply grateful to my helper, without whom I could have never found it.  After thanking him, I go up to the 17th floor.   The door of room number 17 opens into a large space with a few desks.  There's only one guy hiding behind a computer screen.  As soon as he sees me he gets up and gives me the ticket.  That's it! All that worry and hours looking for this office for the ticket now in my hand.  I let out a sigh of exhaustion and relief.  "Mind if I sit down for a moment?" He doesn't.  He points to the water cooler, in case I'm thirsty.  His English is limited but I assume he understands much more than he speaks since I've been communicating with him through email for a while.  As I rest I notice a door leading to a bedroom and a bathroom.  I assume this is probably his home.  The bathroom is the kind I've seen in some places in Vietnam, with a hole in the ground and only the very basic features.  I think of the ticket in my hand and I wonder whether it's legit.  It looks exactly like the one I bought in Hanoi, which was the real thing.  So I decide to trust that this is a small, but genuine business. My train doesn't leave until 6 p.m. and I still want to do two things in Nanning; have a late lunch and buy a fridge magnet. The restaurant where I stop could as well be located in Astoria, NY.  It's a place like the many popular Chinese restaurants in the States. But here it's harder to order than in New York. The lady behind the counter can't understand me and I, of course, can't understand her.  But we do want to understand each other because I'm hungry and she wants to sell.  I'm pointing at the pictures of rice and vegetables.  However, these are two dishes, and do I want two dishes?  No, I don't.  I try telling her that I don't want meat of any kind.   "I can help," says someone behind us.  A wave of relief washes over me as I turn to look at the speaker; a young man with a red t-shirt and an open face.  "I can help," he repeats. Through him, I order noodles with vegetables.  His willingness to help is infinite but his English is not.  We struggle to understand each other as he relates to me the lady's questions.  Do I eat eggs?  No.  But there's egg in the pasta.  I relent, fine, a little egg in the pasta won't kill me.   My young friend asks to sit with me.  He has just finished eating at another table but comes to mine and tells me that he's thrilled to meet me.  I'm the first foreigner he has ever met!  His friend won't believe it. Do I mind if he takes a picture with me?  No, I don't mind.  I'm happy to make his acquaintance and I too want a selfie with him.  My food comes and I realize that the egg was not in the making of the pasta as I thought but added to the dish.  And for vegetables, there are only a few leaves of cabbage.  I have tasted better "Chinese food" in the restaurants around my house.  I especially miss The Great Mandarin in Woburn, Gung Ho in Ludlow and Wong Wok in Springfield, but hey, this is the authentic Chinese food!  

However, in no restaurant in the States would I have found my new friend Juan.  (That's not his actual name but it's my best pronunciation of a rather long and difficult Chinese name for someone who doesn't speak the language. But since Duolingo has just added Chinese, things might change.)  As I eat, I learn a few things about Juan.  He's not from Nanning and in fact, knows few people in town.  He has one friend, to whom he has just sent our picture.  He is here for the summer to work.  Soon he will have to go back to his home to continue his studies.  He asks me a bunch of questions, where I'm from and what do I do in my country.  I show him pictures of my three grown children.  He is twenty years old, the same age as my youngest son and his birthday is Christmas Eve.   I tell him that I'm looking for fridge magnets.  He doesn't know what I'm talking about, but since the restaurant has wi-fi I can look online for pictures to show him what I mean.  However, I'm stuck with Bing since this is China, and Google is not allowed here.  (Please let's all take a moment for a collective eye-roll.  C'mon, China!)  Bing gives me pitiful images of magnets, but it's enough for Juan to know what I'm looking for.  He has never seen them, though.  I tell him they're most likely sold in places where you find things like maps and souvenirs.  He shakes his head, he has never seen them or any stores selling souvenirs in Nanning, for that matter.  He apologizes for not being able to help but then thinks of his friend, who just might know.  He texts him and his friend tells him that Nanning, not being a touristic destination, doesn't have this kind of store.  I decide I'll try my luck anyway. As soon as I push my plate away he asks, "are you ready?"  I'm surprised to see him get to his feet and pick up his backpack but it soon becomes clear that he intends to help me look for magnets.   It's incredibly hot and humid as we walk around the city, checking every little shop for magnets.  In Phnom Penh, I found magnets in the back of a little shop near the Wat Phnom, and in Bangkok, I found them on the table of a street vendor, both places that could easily have gone unnoticed.  My point is, fridge magnets are sold anywhere, and if you don't look well, you miss them completely. My friend, however, is more direct in his search.  He's looking for a souvenir store.  I stop to look at this and that store but he shakes his head, no, you won't find it in there.  Even though he is shy, I urge him to ask salespeople if they have magnets, which he does.   We talk as we walk.  He's an only child, of course, since he was born during the Chinese one-child policy.  He likes to study but resents the fact that school takes all his time and he cannot play any sports.  He'd love to play baseball but that's an impossible dream. He has to study.     His friend texts him about a department store in the city's center where we might find magnets.  Walking there I see some of the almost 7 million residents of Nanning.  The place is big and busy. There are hundreds of little shops, most of them selling clothes.  We quickly scan them, and, not finding magnets, we move on.  He points ahead, to where the department store is located.  It's a tall building amidst small shops, as though an organic growth from the agglomeration of shops surrounding it.  The streets are packed with shoppers, entering and leaving stores.  Toys, clothes, flashlights, and baseball hats are being sold everywhere, but we can't find one magnet.   We have been walking for a while now, sometimes in silence, partners on a quest, sometimes exchanging basic information about ourselves. As we approach the department store I check the time.  It's three minutes to five o'clock. "I think I should get back to the train station," I tell Juan. "What time does your train leave?" "Six o'clock." "We have to take a taxi." I think it unnecessary but Juan says we're too far and there's no way we can make it on foot.  I acquiesce and he quickly hails a cab.  As we ride to the train station I can appreciate just how far we have walked.  Traffic is heavy,  the streets are wide and as organized as any big American city at rush hour.  Unlike Hanoians, the Chinese obey traffic regulations and motorcycles do not drive on sidewalks.   Juan apologizes for not finding the magnet.  I tell him it's okay.  He texts his friend and chats with the taxi driver.  "Do you have ten minutes?" He asks me.  I'm not sure I do since I can't calculate how far I'm from the station. Juan tells me that the driver knows a place where they sell souvenirs.  Would I like to go there?  "Sure." He tells the driver, who quickly veers the car into a street then immediately stops at a traffic light.  I think I have just made a big mistake.  I'm wondering how I'll tell this story months from now, about the time I went to China and missed my train because I was trying to find a fridge magnet.  I decide it'll give the magnet a special meaning, but I don't know how I'll manage from today to one month from now.  I'm reminded of the time my son Marcelo went to Liverpool.  He was visiting the house where John Lennon used to live, aware of the limited time he had there when he saw a sign announcing that McCartney's house was close by.  He considered the time he had before his train left the station and made a bold decision; he chose to risk missing the train to see Paul's house.  After visiting it, he had to run all the way to the train station.  But he did get there in time and was happy to have made the right call.  That could happen to me today.  Or... I could be making a big mistake.   The cab stops. The driver points to a place and explains something to Juan, who tells me that from there we can take a shortcut on foot to the station.  I don't see the station and I'm afraid my situation is hopeless.  Juan quickly pays the driver ten Yuan and we ran to a market that sells crafts, but most of the booths are already closed.  Only two are still open but there's nobody to wait on us or answer questions.  We take a look around but there's nothing remotely resembling a fridge magnet.   So we leave the market and head to the station.  I expect Juan will just point me in the right direction but he's by my side, running with me, in the hot and muggy Nanning weather.  I realize that this guy has spent his only day off trying to help me.  I know where the station is, I can see it far ahead, but still, he is sweating beside me as we run.  We no longer talk, we barely look at each other, but the red blur of his shirt is a constant comfort beside me.  I want to tell him that he has done enough.  I want to pay him back for the taxi because he's in Nanning to work and save for his studies.  I want to tell him just how much I appreciate his company and that, even though we didn't find the magnet, I'm happy to have made his acquaintance.  But I can't afford to stop since every passing second increases the likelihood that I'll miss my train.   Finally, we're at the station.  It is big enough that from the gates you don't see the trains coming and going.  I have no idea of the time and I'm afraid to stop to look.  I just want to go in and try my luck.   At the gate, the guard asks for my ticket, and I quickly pull it from my bag.  He takes a look at it and lets me pass.  As soon as I step on the other side, I realize that Juan cannot pass, since he doesn't have a ticket.  I look back and see him watching me from the other side, his face red and sweaty, his breathing hard, looking utterly bereft.  I immediately turn around, cross the gate without asking permission and throw my arms around Juan's neck.  "Thank you so much for your help!" I say.  He's startled at first but holds me for a moment, before I pull away and dash through the gate again.  I look back one more time to wave goodbye, and of course, he's still there.   As I run to the right platform I see the time; 5:47.  A little way ahead is the train, which passengers are boarding now.  At the door, I give my ticket to the guard and find my compartment.  That's when I realize that I did not take Juan's contact or gave him mine.  I could've given him the Chinese yuan I have in my pocket, which I no longer need.  It would pay for the taxi and, if I left him my address, I'm sure he wouldn't mind finding a magnet and sending it to me in the States.  As it is, I have no way of ever contacting him again.  For reasons I don't quite understand, this makes me deeply sad.  I love to exchange virtual contact, and we did talk about Facebook, which he doesn't have, but we could have exchanged email addresses.  I lie down on my berth, feeling as bereft as Juan looked at the moment I waved goodbye.  

Soon three people in their twenties enter the compartment -- two Chinese guys and one girl, and all of them speak a little English.  As the train rolls out of the station they tell me about their planned adventure; they're going to Vietnam for the first time.  Once they arrive in Hanoi they'll rent motorcycles and ride the Vietnamese coast, from the north to Ho Chi Minh City, in the South.  They're giddy with excitement and I'm jealous. That would be the kind of adventure I'd like to go with my daughter. Between stops at the borders and bouts of sleep, we share personal information and exchange contacts.  Jeremy (anglicized name) promises to send me pictures and videos of their journey.   When the morning comes, we arrive in Hanoi.  I'm happy to be in my temporary home.  I'm happier still to have visited China.