#What is the message of the poem my childhood?

[readspot]

Poem 4: Childhood ( Best online Ncert Solutions)

11TH CLASS ENGLISH ALL CHAPTERS SOLUTIONS Childhood Summary Class 11 English Childhood Summary in English First of all, the poet thinks and wonders about the end of his childhood. He thinks where his childhood came to an end. He wonders if it was the day he was no longer eleven years of age. Another option could be the time when the author realized that Hell and Heaven didn’t exist and one could…

[katerinaaqu]

Finished Chapter 14 of The Song of Achilles and like you I already found one change that gets on my nerves. Why is Odysseus now the Prince of Ithaca? When he was already King by the events of the original poem? What was Madeline Miller’s purpose in demoting him from King to Prince?

This better have a payoff or else… without Odysseus being King I feel his 20 year absence from Ithaca has less serious consequences. I think without him being King of Ithaca, his wife’s suitors wouldn’t be so eager to replace him.

Well I will start with what me and other classics readers say, that Miller is extremely biased with certain characters and that shows in her writing (true she writes in a very beautiful way and has great expression but still...) so certain characters are depicted positively and others negatively (no surprise or news there) and she writes in a feministic way so certain characters in the background are bound to be disregarded or worse changed. However most people have come to know that her writing of characters is really inaccurate or that it comes straight from her imagination (see for example how in order to get her romcom aura we must see a "homophobic character" aka Thetis who acts almost as a villain, we see the stereotype of star-crossed lovers like Achilles and Patroclus (which is a trope she uses by combining elements from the original but ignoring the character development of others in order to fortify her message) etc.

That being said, Miller's style seems to me like she uses SOME elements of the original, blasts them out of proportions, altering it to be more simplified to fit a romcom setting and re-writes the rest to fit the characters. I am not 100% famliar with her books given how I haven't read them in the full but I have seen stuff around and read some passages so take this hypothesis with a grain of salt but this seems to be the case to me. So in this case it is clear that Miller doesn't see Odysseus in a very positive light (given what she goes with to her other novels as well) so yeah her trying to lesser his importance or the status in the story seems more than just a possibility to me.

So here goes my reply, sorry if this is long:

In this case she seems to take advantage of the fact that in translations there is no distinct difference in the text between the word "prince" or "king" in the homeric text (both are being stated by the term άναξ (anax->wanax, from mycenean greek as well) and is being used to speak on the ruler that has under his command the ships and the army. That is to be said some of the commanders of the greek army had living parents back home and Odysseus was included among them. It seems like Laertes was in a way retired since indeed Odysseus seemed to be a king in his own right, in fact Penelope even insinuates he had been so for a long time, given how she tells Antinous the story of his father who arrived to the palace begging Odysseus for his own life, possibly implying that Odysseus was a ruler of his own right more than 20 years prior, possibly before Antinous's birth or during Antinous's childhood or infantry. On the other hand some people seem to separate his father from Odysseus by naming Laertes "King of Cephallenians" and Odysseus "King of Ithaca" aka that technically Laertes is the king of the entirety of the kingdom (Ithaca, Cephallonia, Acarnania etc) and Odysseus's juristiction is Ithaca. Personally I do not fully support that last one given how Odysseus is the only one who seems to be in charge even if Laertes is still alive. It seems that the tradition in Ithaca was a bit more family-like in terms of ruling and the king retired from his duty because of age, letting the younger and more capable son to rule (potentially Laertes is an exception and gave the authority to Odysseus because he thought he was more capable ruler than himself. Odysseus possibly proved his worth during the internal conflicts with the Taphian pirates or in conflict in Messinia [when he received his bow in his youth as a gift])

It also seems to be backed up by how by n large they got married within the kingdom (Eurylochus is from the same kingdom, from the small island of Same and marries Odysseus's sister Ctimene, the suitors of Penelope all come from within the kingdom from different principates and regions). Laertes and Odysseus seem to be exceptions to the rule since Laertes marries Anticlea, daughter to the great thief Autolycus who lived in Parnassus and Odysseus who married Penelope from Sparta) So it seems that the kingdom is more like a "family business" than actually some kingdom with expansive or military construction (unlike Mycenae or Sparta) so it doesn't seem impossible that there is either a tradition for the old ruler to quit and pass the throne to the next generation rather than wait for his death to pass authority or that if one did it wouldn't seem impossible. It also seems that other kingdoms are not necessarily the same as modern kingdoms either. Icarius is still alive when the events of the Odyssey take place. We don't know if Tyndareus also is alive or not, from what I remember, in Homer's writing so it is not clear what kind of rules exist to that realm. Could it be also that the ruler is not only of age (able to grow a beard aka around the final 20s or early 30s) but also marriage that gets them ready to rule? Like Menelaus is a ruler of Sparta by marriage, Odysseus rules as a sovereign ruler because of his marriage? It could be although again the suitors of Helen were often called "kings" in literature, it doesn't seem to be the case given how most of her suitors are either young (Ajax, Menelaus, Antilochus was also mentioned or even Diomedes in some sources even if the two of them would be literal children at that time) or sons of existent rulers let's say Odysseus. So it is possible that marriage AND coming of age play their part in succession. It gets a bit confusing as well since Odysseus leaves order to Penelope that she has to wait till her son is of age (when his beard grows) to pass him the throne, if he hasn't returned till then. Does Odysseus imply that his son would rule if he was of age, regardless of his death or is he implying that they first have to confirm he is dead before Telemachus takes over? It is indeed an enigma but then again the case of Odysseus is complicated; he goes to a war that he doesn't know if he is gonna return from and according to some readings and traditions, he was repared to be off for a long time as well from an omen he heard so his case with Telemachus seems to be an exception rather than the rule given the extreme conditions they deal with.

Either way yeah it doesn't seem that Odysseus is not a ruler in his own right in any shape or form in the Iliad or the Odyssey despite the fact that Laertes was still alive throughout the entire process. Either because it was a consistent tradition or because Laertes made an exception, it seems that Laertes was not an active ruler by the time Odysseus left for Troy and as I said it seems that Penelope implies Odysseus was already a ruler capable of giving pardon to someone (Antinous's father) or command armies (Taphian pirate incident, Messina, Troy) so yeah it doesn't seem that Odysseus is considred "a Prince" like for instance his brother-in-law Eurylochus or the Suitors and their families but he seems to be a king in his own right; he is the one who has the duty to send away the suitors; he is the one to command the army and he is the one to call the counter-attack in the Odyssey against the retalliation of the families after the murder of the suitors and not Laertes.

So to close this already long answer yes among the many changes Miller imposes in her book to fit her narrative, it seems that she takes advantage of modern day perspectives of rule and succession (aka the sovereign ruler's death before the other takes over) plus the fact that there is no distinct word between king and prince in the ancient texts to call Odysseus "a Prince" possibly to decrease his status (similar to how ancient writers mentioned Odysseus not being legitimate son of Laertes but a bastard son by Sisyphus) so yeah it does seem like it as you said given how Miller doesn't seem to be fond of Odysseus as a character. But that would be my hypothesis. Either that or Miller simply doesn't want to consider a different rule of succession than the modern one she and her readers are familiar with aka a king becomes king only after his father's death. Which is ironic though given how many people mention Odysseus "a king" even if they know or possibly because they forget Laertes is still alive.

Hope this helps

[bluemirrorangel]

Dead poets' society ship headcanons feelings realisation + confessions 

these are mainly modern headcanons.

Anderperry:

 SO MUCH PINING

Todd kind of had a thing for Neil from the start but thought it was just admiration  until the scene where Neil promises to take care of him. 

And Neil always found Todd interesting but realised his feelings when Todd improv’d his poem in class.

I feel like they would have kissed after the play if they had the chance 

Wrote each other christmas cards over the winter break with sickeningly sweet messages in them.

Crazy amounts of pda, nothing huge but they're always touching each other; holding hands, arms thrown around the others neck, leaning on each other like they don’t have their own spines.

knarlie:

Charlie’d  had a crush on Knox ever since they met but assumed it would just go away naturally… it did not

Only realised how much he liked him when Knox met Chris

Tried so hard to be a  supportive best friend, would give Knox a pep talk and then go to his dorm and scream into his pillow 

The longing went crazy

Knox didn’t figure out he liked Charlie until after his relationship with Chris ended.

The moment he realised he liked Charlie he decided to woo the ever loving shit out of him.

Confessed to him at a dead poets society meeting.

The fun couple™ 

Mitts: 

Never got together officially just kind of figured out that they liked each other simultaneously and decided to go with it

Childhood friends

Always together

None of the other poets know about their relationship because they’ve always been like that

Only figure out how much they need each other when they graduate and get into  separate colleges 

Always paired up in every subject in school

They work better together because each one makes up for the other’s weakness

Chameron: 

As much as I love the idea that Cameron and Charlie used to be close pre-canon,

I personally believe their relationship has always been strained.

Cameron idolises Neil, because Neil was the only one who really made an effort to include him so Cameron would try and hang out with him as much as possible, that’s how he ended up meeting Charlie

Cameron has always liked Charlie and Envied him for how free he is (In my opinion Cameron has one of the biggest cases of eldest daughter syndrome i’ve ever seen.)

Charlie and Cameron become roommates and despite how badly they treat each other and how mean Charlie gets Cameron still does his hardest to take care of Charlie (i.e he helps Charlie with trigonometry even after Charlie’s spent the better part of an hour mocking him.) because he can not STAND the idea of being disliked by anyone.

Gets frustrated easily by Charlie because he feels like he’s wasting his potential.

Cameron realises how much he cares about Charlie because of the saxophone scene, he was genuinely taken aback by how talented and sincere he was being about something. 

Charlie has no idea he likes Cameron

 He's always been a little fixated on Cameron and  what started as thinly veiled concern quickly became resentment at Cameron’s refusal to have fun.

While Charlie makes fun of Cameron to get a reaction out of him it’s also to prove to himself that Cameron is still a teenager and not just some uptight golden boy with an inability to think for himself, he gets a strange sense of satisfaction from making Cameron loosen up and act human for once.

The closest they’re dynamic has ever come to banter was the back and forth they had  when Charlie told the other poets that his parents made him take clarinet lessons when he was younger.

It isn’t  until Cameron snitches on them that Charlie figures  his shit out, why Cameron’s betrayal  hurt him more than anyone else and that’s why he punches him.

Charlie knows he’ll get expelled but he does it anyway because he can handle liking an uptight, overly cautious, teacher's pet but he draws the line at sharing a room with a traitor, draws the line at loving a coward.  

Cameron doesn’t pine he yearns, yearns for someone he barely knew

He spends the rest of his years at Welton alone, grieving the death of one of his best friends and mourning the end of something that never even started.

The only way these two could ever have a happy ending together is if they went to therapy and if  Welton had a reunion.

leave a ship or fandom suggestions and I’ll do headcanons for them if you want :)

[klausysworld]

Are request still open and if they are can you make a Klaus Mikaelson one shot the girl is Tyler Lockwood sister and she hates Klaus so she rejects him as her mate but at the end she accepts him so like fluff at the end

What are you doing to me?

Finding out your mated to the all powerful original hybrid who ruined your brothers like and forced him to become half vampire while also terrorising your childhood friends and what not isn’t exactly at the top of my bucket list.

Him being a willing participant when it came to the whole ‘soulmate’ arrangement was also not meant to be in the cards.

When I realised we were mates I was 99% sure he would immediately reject me as a mate. As strong as a soulmate makes you, it will also always be your greatest weakness. I would be able to kill him far easier than anyone else and I was certain he would want to kill me first.

So him leaving me expensive gifts was…unexpected to say the least.

Detailed drawings of wolves and the full moon in the sky with a poem hand written on the back had my heart fluttering in ways that I should not have enjoyed.

But he had destroyed my brothers and the people I consider my family’s lives.

And so, despite the utter agony I was inflicting on both him and myself, I rejected him as my mate.

It’s a rare thing for wolves to reject their one, the side affects are awful in a way to force your mind into reconsidering.

The crippling pain was emotionally tormenting and physically exhausting. After the initial rejection I was barely able to leave my bed, eat, drink, I barely spoke a word and each time I fell asleep I was haunted by a similar image of Klaus.

Damon had messaged me letting me know Klaus had been out of sight for nearly 3 weeks after.

The pain lingered, never truly gone but it had dimmed. Though a sharp pain would shoot through me when he was too close, when the bond knew I was purposely ignoring him, and i could always see him wince at the same time.

The few times I didn’t shove him away, well I felt much better. He brought peace to my wolfs inner battle between soulmate and family because in reality I knew that he was both. I was just too afraid to admit it fully.

Though I couldn’t help but occasionally step a tad bit closer to him, to feel the warm buzz that ran through my bloodstream.

He was a lot less subtle though.

Often, as soon as his wolf sensed mine approaching he was all over me. Hands would be rubbing up and down my arms, his lips on my neck in a desperate instinctual need to mark me. And what was worse was that my wolf was all the more compliant and for a few wonderful seconds I could indulge in the blissful sensations. My head back, hands firmly gripping his henley and moans leaving my lips, my wolf having the desire to present myself in a truly embarrassing fashion.

Though he would always push it a tad too far, a grope to my ass, his canines about to pierce my skin, and I would be pushing him away. My wolf panting as I nearly tripped over my own two feet to get away from him while ignoring the intense feeling of my heart being squeezed unpleasantly.

I always managed to just scrape past him.

Suffering alone in my room again at the recurring torture of rejecting a mate.

His continued flow of presents didn’t help either, only made me feel worse seeing effort put into paintings of me and my wolf. He hadn’t turned into a hybrid, not yet at least, he probably knew that would be my last straw and id maim him.

But I knew he had followed my wolf on the full moons, I always woke with brand new clothes beside me, lead on a cotton blanket with a pillow under head and the snapping of twigs in the distance as he walked away.

And even though I should have said absolutely not when he personally delivered an invitation to his family’s ball, with those stupid puppy dog eyes, I couldn’t bring myself to.

“Please love, just one dance and if you don’t like it…then I’ll leave you be and accept your decision” as soon as the words left his mouth, both our souls twisted in agony making my teeth grind.

“Fine, just one” I whispered and he nodded, pulling me into a quick hug to calm down both our pain. Which it did like water on a fire, entirely putting out the flames and leaving us calm and quiet.

And then the dress arrived at my door, with matching shoes and accessories and I realised I actually had to do this.

Walking into his house sent a chill down my spine, my body felt much warmer and my wolf was howling inside me.

A hand on my shoulder had me whimpering softly making an arm wrap around my waist and pull me aside to another room.

“Shh love, we don’t want the rest of the guests hearing such lovely sounds” klaus murmured into my ear and I pressed against him, a small moan leaving my lips.

“This is too much for you isn’t it my love?” He whispered, his hand tilting my head making me look up at him.

The entire house smelt like him, I had seen parts of it in the dreams of him when he was suffering from my rejection. Which now intensified my guilt, my emotions were running haywire. I was in his home; I was in the wolf’s den.

Without thinking my hands tugged at his blazer, pushing it down his arms before my fingers began to pull his shirt open

“Woah love, it’s alright” he muttered, his hands grabbed mine and before I could blink we were outside. The cold air cooled down my boiling skin as I panted and he stroked my hair away from my face

“There we go, it’s okay” he cooed, the back of his hand pressing against my forehead.

“I hate this stupid bond” I whispered, covering my face.

“I know love…we can have our dance another time, I’ll take you home” he uttered, his tone was sad and my heart ached again.

“Stop it” I whispered “please stop it”

“Stop what love? What’s wrong?”

“Make it stop fucking hurting! I rejected you weeks, months ago! Why does it still hurt!? What are you doing to me?” I whispered, tears filling my eyes and spilling over. I looked up at him to see him in a similar state though no tears had fallen from his eyes yet.

His hand moved to cup my face and I couldn’t help but lean into it.

“It will only stop hurting us when you truly reject me. Somewhere, inside you, you still haven’t truly given up on the idea. You either have to reject the bond once and for all or accept me” he explained softly

“I would’ve been able to reject you if you left me alone. You kept sending all those things and being so kind, you did this to me” I whimpered

“I wouldn’t have done that if I couldn’t feel your soul still reaching for mine” he uttered “I would never intentionally harm you”

I let out a quiet sob as my soul pleaded for his.

I leaned forward so my head could press against his chest, my eyes closing at the content feeling that rose in me. I could feel myself giving into the bond, our souls slowly binding together. His hand held the back of my head, I could hear his heart speeding up as mine mimicked it.

His other hand moved around my waist, pulling me to him. “Good girl” he whispered “you’ll feel so much better now” he reassured “I promise I’ll make it better now sweetheart”

He kissed my head softly, his hand rubbing my back “let the bond form my love” he encouraged.

I focused on the connection trying to relight the candle.

I could feel the second it happened, my knees growing too weak to stand making him chuckle quietly and wrap both arms around me. He lifted me so my face could be right infront of his, prompting me to lean forward and press our lips together.

Our souls entwined as we did so, endless amounts of passion poured into one act.

The silent appreciation that this was real and it was only just the beginning.

[illiterateaffairs]

DISTRACTIONS SCENE BETWEEN | LET’S JUST PLAY PRETEND

pairing: jamie tartt x f!reader (ted lasso)

rating: T

word count: 1,403

summary: you and jamie bond over board games. takes place between chapters four and five of distractions.

A/N: missing scene number two is here! and happy ted finale day :( everyone please feel free to message me about the show after you watch. have a feeling we’re going to need to cope together <3 distractions official next chapter will be out friday for us all to disassociate with and keep the show alive! when distractions the series becomes our distraction >>>>>

distractions masterlist

When you asked Jamie to grab a sweatshirt from your closet, there were a million things he could have fixated on. 

He could have teased you for your Grey’s Anatomy Grey Sloan Memorial tee-shirt. 

He also could have questioned why you had hoarded a few of his own pieces of clothing - you were thankful he didn’t notice those. 

If he really snooped around, he could have also found old journals full of short stories, poems, and notes you had jotted down once upon a time. 

But no, what he found the most exciting you would have never expected. 

After hearing some suspicious shifting, followed by a thump and quiet yelp, Jamie called out to you. 

“You have Monopoly?” 

You barely processed what he said as he bounded back into the living room and enthusiastically showed off the board game. 

“Oh, yeah?” you looked up from the couch with eyes pinched in confusion. 

“We have to play,” he declared, already moving things off of your coffee table to make room. 

“I thought we were going to order dinner?” you asked, though an amused smile played at your lips. 

Jamie shrugged, as he knelt down on the floor and started taking out the game components, “We could just have some snacks while we play? Whatever you have here is probably good.” After a second, he paused and looked up at you with big eyes, “Unless you don’t want to play, because we don’t have to.”

“No!” you’re quick to console, and you’re not even sure why, “No, let’s play! I can throw some sort of appetizer in the oven and grab chips. Let's do it.” 

“Cool,” Jamie smiled. You got up as he sorted the Monopoly money before dropping it suddenly, “Shit.”

From the kitchen doorway, you curiously watched him jump over your couch and jog back to your room, only to return moments later with the sweatshirt you originally asked for.

“M’lady,” he mock-bowed and presented it to you.

You snorted but thanked him appreciatively.

Forty-five minutes later, you were knee deep in a game of Monopoly, and even deeper in the bag of Pizza Rolls you’d smuggled over from America. While it wasn’t uncommon for you and Jamie to hang out fully-clothed as of late, this night felt different. It felt casual. Simple. Domestic. And none of it was doing anything to help those pesky little feelings you were starting to develop for him.

Jamie had put on music while the two of you waited for the Pizza Rolls to heat up, and you two sang horribly off-key to Alanis Morrissette. And then when you two sat down to play the game, Jamie made himself right at home on the floor. He immediately called playing as the Car piece, and you happily chose the Thimble. He also explained that in the U.K. they have a London version of the game, so he was excited to play with the American version. 

You played peacefully, intermittently exchanging little pieces of small-talk. Though, it was hard to concentrate since you found how much he enjoyed the game so adorably endearing. 

“I’ve got to say, I would have never seen you as a board game kind of guy,” you eventually mused aloud. 

You noticed a slight redness in Jamie’s cheeks, as he looked thoughtfully at the Monopoly board instead of at you. 

“Dunno,” he shrugged, “I find them comforting I guess. My mum and I used to play stuff like Monopoly and Clue all the time when I was a kid.”

You smiled at this little nugget of information about his childhood. “I feel the same way. My dads are board game fiends. We’d have family game night every Friday.”

Jamie’s brow quirked and he looked back over to you. “Dads?”

You nodded, “Mhmm. Two dads. They adopted me when I was a kid. In fact, as a welcome home gift, they actually bought me Monopoly, but it was the Disney Princess version. They upgraded me to this one when I went off to college.”

Jamie smiled, “That’s nice. What do they think of you being all the way over here? They’re in Chicago, right?”

You bit your cheek a little. Telling him you’re actually from Kansas, just like Ted, might be a little too specific to pull off as a coincidence. Instead of lying, you bypassed the question all together, and focused on his first.

“I think they’re happy I’m trying something new, and that I’m doing something for myself. They don’t know most of the story about why Mason and I broke up because I do not need them to worry, but I think they know it's better that we’re not together. I think they probably wish I lived closer, but if I’m happy they’re happy.”

“And are you?” Jamie asked softly, “Happy, I mean?”

You thought about it for a second, but it wasn’t a hard thing to answer. You had never been surrounded by more loving and kind people, and never had a job this exciting. You’re also reluctant to admit that you’ve never been around a boy who makes your stomach flip like Jamie does, but it was true.

“Yes,” you finally said, “I’m very happy here.”

Jamie nodded, his own small smile forming. 

“I think part of me feels guilty though,” you found yourself admitting, “The whole time I was in Chicago, I hardly saw them. I spent a lot of Christmases and Thanksgivings with Mason and his family, because he insisted. I’d make time for them occasionally on my own, but it was hard with my old job. I didn’t really think about being even further away after taking this job. And leave it to them to be more than understanding, and volunteer to come here next time they have the chance. I feel like I don’t deserve them.”

Jamie shook his head, “Don’t say that. Your dads clearly love you. And you definitely deserve it.” He sighed lightly before continuing, “I think it's nice they’re so supportive. My dad…he’s not…”

As you watched Jamie struggle to articulate his thoughts, you didn’t hesitate to take his hand in yours and give it a squeeze. It wasn’t the first time he’d made reference to his dad, but it was usually a sarcastic comment, nothing of depth.

“Jamie,” you interrupted softly, “You don’t have to talk about him if you don’t want to.”

“I know,” he nodded, staring at your intertwined fingers, “He’s just…not the best person. It’s a long story, but we haven’t really talked in almost a year now. And I feel guilty about that sometimes, myself, but I think it's probably for the best. At least for now. But your dads sound amazing, and they’re probably so proud of you for coming out here and trying something new. So I wouldn’t worry about letting them down. I mean, I can’t see how you’d let anyone down, so…” He trailed off quietly.

You smiled and gave his hand an extra tight squeeze. “Thank you, Jamie. And even though you never have to, you can always talk to me about anything with your dad if you ever need to,” he nods, still staring at your hands, “...and I’m sorry if talking about my dads made you feel uncomfortable, I don’t..”

“No, no.” Jamie quickly reassured, turning to face you again, “I promise you, it didn’t. I liked hearing about your dads. Like I said, they seem great.” He gave you another small smile, before continuing, “Maybe we can start doing something like Friday Game Nights? I feel like the team would love it. Beard and Ted too, and we can drag Roy along. I’d pay money to see that guy play charades.”

You giggled. You also tried not to show how touched you were at the offer. Images of Ted at family game nights growing up flash through your head, and you’re sure he’d love a piece of home here, too. 

“I think that sounds perfect.” You gave his hand one last squeeze before reluctantly pulling away, and picking up the dice, “Alright, my turn right?”

Jamie nodded and shook off any remaining anxious energy. As you took your turn, Jamie cleared his throat, “I also saw Jenga in your closet, can we play that next?”

You laughed, “If you’re okay seeing me lose my shit every time I inevitably knock everything over, then sure.”

Jamie grins, “I can’t wait.”

A/N: let me know what missing scenes you’d like to see next! and don’t hesitate to let me know how y’all are doing after watching ted!!!

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[meichenxi]

languages, travel, identity, grief

Maybe some of you have heard of Xu Zhimo's Second Farewell to Cambridge (徐志摩 再別康橋 Translation: Saying Goodbye to Cambridge Again, by Xu Zhimo | East Asia Student). It's an achingly lovely poem about a Chinese scholar who studied in the UK, and how he left so gently, taking nothing with him as he went. It brought me solace over the last year.

I thought for a very long time about how I felt about having to leave China, and what it felt like to mourn for a future that was never going to mine. I cried. How am I supposed to explain why? I'm not Chinese. I've got no family there, or a childhood to look back on. I couldn't explain it even to myself.

That pain was coupled with a type of uncertainty, a discomfort at myself for feeling so strongly. This feeling was not allowed. It meant - what? Something awful, probably. I was a racist, probably. I should hate myself, probably. Fetishization is the word that gets thrown around for white people and their time spent in East Asia at one end of the spectrum - at the other end it's just seen as embarrassing and deeply, you know, cringe. It's a self-interrogation - why do I feel so sad? Why do I feel this pull so strongly anyway, to a country that's not even mine? Why should it matter so much when I leave? I didn't feel like this grief has any sort of legitimacy. But it has taken from September - eight months after leaving - for me to pick up Chinese again.

I felt, for months, hollow and unsettled and drifting from place to place. I opened my textbook, and closed it again. The memories there were too painful. I'm not going to write about why I had to leave, but it wasn't by choice. I had loved the people in the school, even if it was for a short time. When you have no internet and are training eight hours a day, the days are coloured more sharply: bright and hurtful and wonderful all at once. We had no running water. It was in an abandoned hotel. I miss the monk at the temple door opposite the school, always on time at 6am to open it for our classes. I miss the folk at the local shop who invited me to watch films on their projector; once they killed a chicken for us. I miss the woman in the woods who gave me the chestnuts she had picked. I gave the chestnuts to the cook, and we steamed them and ate them by the lake. He wanted me to marry his son; he wanted it so strongly that he brought me pork, and desserts, and gave me paper, and promised me I could have a jade bracelet, that he would buy me a house. I miss the oldest martial arts teacher, who spoke in such strong dialect I could barely understand him. When I was sad and missing home one night, he told me that I should stay after dinner. In the silence and against the cicadas, he started to play the erhu for me. Later, my friend told me that he hadn't know what to say, how to comfort me; I was a foreigner and a young woman, after all. We had very little in common. But nobody has ever played a piece of music for me like that before.

And I miss X, my best friend there and partner in snack-smuggling crime. She is 19 years old, and a janitor's daughter, and one of the wisest people I have ever met. (She also rides an excellent motorbike, and lent me her hanfu, and we sped through the city giddy with our own daring and trying not to be caught.) We got matching haircuts; she had always wanted to cut her hair like a boy, and was too scared to do it alone. When I left, I told her to stay in touch: she shook her head. She said that some people were meant to know each other for some time, and no more. I think the death of friendship by attrition, by - as Elrond said! - the slow decay of time, is one of the saddest things of all. I deleted Wechat. I don't want to read over the old messages. By having this place - her, and the chestnuts, and the cicadas - as a memory, I can tuck it away it. I can keep it close.

I wrote a poem myself on the plane. That was the last I thought about China, the last thought I let myself have, in eight months. I kept myself away from it. It felt like a wound. And against that hollowness, there was constantly the question: Why should I have any right to miss this place? Who I am there? Why does it matter? We are all different people, wherever we go, and whoever we are with; we wear different skins, large or small. In China I was [...]. She was who I was. That name, that I introduced myself to people with - she was bright and friendly and tried to translate things just so. Everybody who goes as the only foreigner to a place - or the only foreigner that speaks the language - is a little bit self-obsessed. It happens. It's unfortunate, and something to guard against. But it also gives you its own kind of identity in a way: your identity is Foreigner. Your identity is a cultural bridge. Everyone you meet, in a country as friendly and curious as China, has questions about you. You stand with your feet in both worlds, and are not really part of either of them. That identity is easy to slip into, like cool water, like trying on new clothes. It's easier that thinking: who am I outside of that? Where am I going? I don't really know. I don't think anyone really does.

And then the second thing happens. I speak Chinese well, by this point. My accent is there, but it's slight. I am short, and have dark hair, and a generally similar build to many East Asians - so the questions I have got in the last few years have changed. Sometimes people think I have been raised here. Sometimes they think I am ethnically Russian, and nationally Chinese. Sometimes I get asked if I am half Chinese. Usually they know I am a Foreigner, 100% white - but not always. There is a peculiar rush that comes from that acceptance; from feeling the relief, just for fifteen minutes, that you belong. It's not about 'passing', or race-bending, or anything twisted - it's nothing so unnerving as that. It's just the human need to belong. Everyone gets tired of being stared at, after a while. And after a while, you start to think - I wish I understood. I wish they understood. I wish this were easy.

But then the conversation keeps going. You don't know a local word, or you misunderstand. You say something in a strange way, or you make a strange gesture, and the glass shatters, and - there you are again, naked again, exhausted again, explaining yourself again. That's the other half of it. There's solace in the Foreigner identity, because that means that's all you are. You don't have to think about your parents, or whether they worry about you so far from home; of course they do. The Foreigner is good and filial and a wonderful daughter. You can craft her into any shape you like. But it also marks you out again and again, endlessly and again, as Other.

There was a paper published a while ago that showed measures of acceptance of non-natives in native-speaking communities. It highlights a strange, but familiar experience to those who have lived abroad - the people who spoke the language to a medium level felt more accepted and less lonely than those that spoke the language to a high degree. It makes sense, and mirrors what I have found with both Chinese and German. When you speak a little Chinese, you are a wonder - a curiousity! Look at the Western girl go! People are kind, and curious, and will slow down to include you in conversations. You are thrilled with what you can access - all this knowledge, that other people don't have! Look how special you are!

And then you get better. And then you realise, cut by cut, that you will never be one of them. You don't want to be Chinese, per se; but you do want to be accepted. You are happy to be British; but you miss China like a wound, an old one, festering, even when it was never yours. How do you tell your family that you are not grieving a lost romance, a beautiful girl, but a language and a life? That there are words of majesty, of playfulness, that will never be yours? You speak well enough that people no longer bother to dumb things down, or explain them; you sit with your discomfort, smile painted on, because - you know. It's not bad. You understand most of it. And on the edge of that circle, smiling uncertainly, following the vast majority of what is being said, you are not clever enough and not witty enough to keep up with the chengyu, the cultural references, the slang, and the raucous laughter around you erupts, and you don't know what you've missed, and everybody says - she's quiet, that one. Maybe all the foreigners are? And all you are doing is sitting and feeling the distance between You and Them as heavy and as stifled in your chest as an ocean of dark.

So you go back. Back to your people. But when you sit with the other foreigners, you are apart. They laugh; what are these nutters doing? The Chinese don't make any sense. The Chinese do this - they do that. You sit there, and then there is a pressure building in your chest too, a discomfort, the desire to stand up and say - well, actually.

You are responsible for everything the Chinese teachers do, and have to explain things in a way that the students understand - Confucian thought, and Buddhist philosophy, translated in pithy bite-size adages for the West. You have no qualifications for this; everything you assert, you feel unsure. Uncertain. Someone else could explain it better, more nuanced, and you need to do more reading anyway - but here you are, and here they are, and you're the only one. And you do know. Not enough, but enough that their jokes, their pains, make you uncomfortable. You feel the need to defend both parties; to be a diplomat, every second of every day. In turn, when the students come to the teachers with problems, you have to translate their grievances in a way that the Chinese teachers will be sympathetic towards. Once I got asked: why do you never join us after class? Why are you always so quiet when you're not working? As a translator, you are always working. Every time you speak, you are working; what you choose to say, and what you choose to not say, and where you choose to intervene. You are building relationships, and disappearing, and you are becoming invisible, and you're a nothing, and you're everyone and you're nobody and nobody realises you are doing anything more than translating at all.

I wanted to stay. I couldn't have stayed. I wanted to be accepted as one of them. I wanted to be accepted for who I was. That means a foreigner. I wanted to be true to myself, which means that I would always be the Foreigner, which means I would always be apart from them. It is that contrast and juxtaposition which causes the grief. And there was never an ending to it, a resolution, a chance to reconcile myself (in China) with myself (in the UK), because all at once I had to leave. The grief comes most from the second arrow - not the pain of leaving, but the bewilderment of not knowing why I was in pain at all.

It's been eight months. Slowly, as spring comes, I feel like I am on surer ground. I can look at my old books, those painstaking notes, and I could look at new ones too and I'm starting to think, because this is what I tell my students, and maybe there's some truth in it - it's okay if you're not perfect. It's okay if you didn't achieve what you wanted to, and that the language - in its wholeness, and who can ever know that? - will never, not quite, be yours. It's the struggle and the process that means that I will know and understand Chinese in a different way, in my own way, in a slanted-to-reality sort of way, that is a treasure in and of itself. There is beauty in its brokenness too.

And there is sorrow, too. The sorrow that comes with easing yourself into a different life, and it holding you gently for a while. I sat there - I spoke to them. It's not only missing a place; it's missing a person you were, a stage of your life, for a time. It's knowing that a place has reached inside your ribs and taken root there - even if you don't return, you can never fully get rid of that again. You are two people now, with feet straddling two oceans. There are parts of you that loved and suffered and hated and grew in Chinese, not English. You can't explain that. You can't even begin. Sometimes - not often - you are a stranger in your own land. The poets spoke of that. In the age of fast travel, of the weekend break, we have forgotten the ways a place can burrow itself inside you, and find its own home.

It's not the same as the grief that someone Chinese will face. But it's still grief. I have put my life into Chinese. Maybe that is all it takes to grow love.

Now, I turn back to Chinese - as a foreigner, as Melissa, as myself. It's a bittersweet thing. I know that I cannot hold all of it. It will spill out, like the sun, and there is no way I can be that without losing myself and my history and my own green woods. But I think I am ready now. I am surer, and a little steadier on my feet.

[flagellant]

Uhhh the first one because your writing is beautiful and hearing the process and history behind it would be really cool

I've been writing and reading for p much as long as I can remember to the extent that basically all my memories of childhood and early teenagedom is just doing that. I started taking writing poetry much more seriously several years ago--I'd done it casually on occasion since about middle school (I'm hitting 30 soon) but it just became sort of a therapeutic thing. Communication has, ironically, always been my biggest struggle, because I so rarely know how to understand what I'm feeling.

Poetry, to me, is essentially a form of being able to examine myself through the act of externalizing it for a theoretical audience. It's kind of like an emotional rubber ducky troubleshooter. All of my poems and the vast majority of my writing--which honestly these days I tend to see as poetry regardless, at least I write it as such--are just written in a single sitting at once and then posted immediately. I have aphantasia and so it's very rare I know exactly where I'm going with something until I find it. The same goes with endings. Sometimes I dunno when it ends until I keep writing and then realize where the ending is. I used to feel weirdly guilty about it but these days I kinda just love the journey of it and the sense that everything I write is always at least a little bit of a mystery for me as well as any reader. We're both finding the meaning and the message and the destination as we arrive at it, yknow?

Is this an efficient or traditionally correct way to write? Absolutely not oh my god. But it's what lets me write so I'm gonna defend it :3

[justforbooks]

Françoise Hardy

Icon of 60s music who sang of love as a source of ‘wretched, profound, endless questioning’

Françoise Hardy, who has died of cancer aged 80, shot to fame as part of France’s génération yé-yé, the jaunty transatlantic and cross-channel collision between French chanson and American rock’n’roll that also produced Johnny Hallyday and France Gall. But from the start, there was something that set her apart: a wistfulness, a sentimental self-reflection, a poise that belied a lifelong shyness and insecurity. A 60s icon, as big, for a while, in London as in Paris, Hardy was, in many ways, the antithesis of that restive, revolutionary decade.

Unlike her contemporaries, when she sang of love it was about “suffering and frustration, illusion and disillusion; wretched, profound, endless questioning”. Her songs, she told Le Monde, were a necessary outlet: “I wrote about my experience … A beautiful, melancholic melody is what best transcends the pain.”

Men fell, in droves, for her timid beauty. Mick Jagger described Hardy as his “ideal woman”. David Bowie, “passionately in love” for years, courted her backstage, in dressing gown and embroidered slippers. In 1964, the sleeve notes of Another Side of Bob Dylan featured a whole poem “for françoise hardy/at the seine’s edge”. (Two years later, after a concert at the Olympia music hall in Paris, Dylan invited the singer to a party in his suite at the George V, one of the capital’s grandest hotels. In his bedroom, he played her two tracks from Blonde on Blonde: Just Like a Woman and I Want You. Hardy always insisted she was so starstruck she never got the message.)

But the love of Hardy’s life, the father of her son and the agonising inspiration for many of her songs, was the French singer and actor Jacques Dutronc, whom she met in 1967 and married in 1981. The couple separated in the 90s, but never divorced, remaining on good terms. “Love is a remarkable force, even if its price is perpetual torment,” she said. “But without that torment, I would not have written a single lyric.”

Hardy was born in Nazi-occupied Paris, in the same maternity clinic at the top of the rue des Martyrs in the ninth arrondissement that had delivered Hallyday a few months earlier. Her mother was Madeleine Hardy, an accountant, and her father, Pierre Dillard, was a company director who was married to another woman. Françoise grew up in a two-room apartment nearby with her sister, Michèle, born 18 months later, and a solitary mother with whom Françoise had a “fusional, symbiotic relationship … I loved her probably too much – exclusively, unconditionally”. The girls rarely saw their father, who often neglected to pay his share of their upkeep and was regularly late with the modest fees for their Catholic education.

Weekends were spent with grandparents – notably an “egocentric, narrow-minded, frigid and emasculating” grandmother – outside Paris; many childhood holidays with friends of her mother’s in Austria, to learn German. Shy, dreamy, deeply ashamed of her unconventional family, Hardy turned to the radio, where in the late 50s, on the English service of Radio Luxembourg, she encountered a music – Presley, the Everly Brothers, Brenda Lee, Cliff Richard – that “affected me more than anything else. That ended up changing my life.”

Aged 16, she asked for a guitar for passing the first part of her baccalauréat. A year later, having passed the second part with honours, she taught herself a handful of chords “that produced most of my songs over the next 10 years”, and began writing. At the Sorbonne, studying German, she auditioned, unsuccessfully but not disastrously, for one record company, and started singing lessons.

Hardy’s contract with Vogue Records – who wanted “a female Johnny Hallyday” – was signed on 14 November 1961. She made her first TV appearance, in black and white on the state broadcaster’s only channel, six months later, and released her debut EP, featuring three songs of her own and a cover of a Bobby Lee Trammell song.

Her breakthrough came, rather incongruously, on the night of Charles de Gaulle’s October 1962 referendum asking voters whether France’s future presidents should be directly elected. In a musical interlude while the nation awaited the result, Hardy performed a track from her EP, Tous les garçons et les filles. The nation loved it. The song (sample line: “I walk down the streets, my soul in sorrow”) became a monumental hit in France, spending a total of 15 weeks at No 1 between October 1962 and April 1963 and becoming a million-seller. Within weeks Hardy was on the cover of Paris Match, plunged, still in her teens, into the whirlwind of the swinging 60s (which she detested: she disapproved of casual sex, avoided drugs, and could only ever remember being drunk twice).

Her first boyfriend, the photographer Jean-Marie Périer, ensured her picture – miniskirt, white boots, long hair, signature fringe – went around the world. Courrèges, Yves Saint Laurent and Paco Rabanne competed to dress her, for seasons at the Olympia in Paris, the Savoy in London, and shows in Germany, Italy, the Netherlands, Denmark, Spain, Canada and South Africa. In New York, William Klein photographed her for Vogue. Roger Vadim, Jean-Luc Godard and John Frankenheimer cast her in films.

The hits flowed, recorded – some in London, produced by Charles Blackwell – in French, English, German, Italian, some written by Hardy, others not.

But at the end of the 60s, barely five years after she began, Hardy abruptly gave up performing live, and the cinema. “I hated what it all involved,” she explained. “Being separated from the man I loved, the waiting, the solitude, depending on the phone. And I’ve never been able to act. I can’t simulate, or lie. Songwriting, on the other hand … dives deep.” Life in the fast lane, she declared, was “a gilded prison”.

But she continued recording, releasing a dozen bestselling albums in France, of which she always cited La Question (1971), a sophisticated collaboration with the Brazilian musician Tuca, as her favourite. She duetted with French artists��Henri Salvador, Alain Souchon and Benjamin Biolay, and later with Damon Albarn and Iggy Pop.

Hardy was never very interested in politics (she decamped to Corsica with Dutronc for the duration of les événements of May 1968, whose student leaders she distrusted), although she had strong opinions about questions such as abortion. Hardy was, however, fascinated by astrology, writing two books on the subject.

She continued to work in later life, despite claiming that her 1988 album, Décalages, would be her last. A string of new recordings in the 1990s and 2000s, a 2008 autobiography, Le Désespoir des Singes (the title apparently derived from a monkey puzzle tree in the Bagatelle gardens near her Paris flat, because its sharp, spiky leaves reminded her of “men who have caused me despair”), and her last album, Personne d’autre, released in 2018, appeared despite family and personal tragedies: Hardy was at her mother’s side when, suffering from Charcot–Marie–Tooth disease, she died by euthanasia in 1994.

Hardy herself was diagnosed in 2004 with lymphoma, eventually recovering after an experimental form of chemotherapy – but only after she had been hospitalised, in an induced coma, in 2015. Three years later, another tumour was detected, this time in her ear. In 2021, she told the magazine Femme Actuelle (by email; she said she could no longer talk) that she would like to be able to choose to end her life, as her mother had done, and in 2023, in an interview with Paris Match, called on Emmanuel Macron, the French president, to legalise assisted dying.

Shortly before that second diagnosis, in 2018, Hardy reflected on a career that had brought pretty much every award French music can offer (plus a medal from the Académie Française), telling the Observer she had always been surprised that people – “even very good musicians” – had been moved by her voice.

“I know its limitations, I always have,” she said. “But I have chosen carefully. What a person sings is an expression of what they are. Luckily for me, the most beautiful songs are not happy songs. The songs we remember are the sad, romantic songs.”

She is survived by Dutronc, and by their son, Thomas.

🔔 Françoise Madeleine Hardy, singer, born 17 January 1944; died 11 June 2024

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

[wufflesvetinari]

'wyllstarion long engagement' for the ask game?

ewjrlkjewr GUYS........😂 now i really wish there was more in this document than a rough outline, damn. some of this was just plopped in-doc directly from my ramblings in the wyllstarion discord, so.

for @ushauz, @jellyfishline, @silverwhittlingknife, @acephalouscreature

wyllstarion long engagement is a nebulously-planned wyll POV fic in which spawnstarion completely fucks off after running from the sun at the docks. like, Does Not Even Leave A Note. at first.

it's yenna who passes wyll a half-understood message + a Meaningful Present from astarion (i have a yenna gen agenda, say it five times fast) implying that astarion is fine, he's okay, he just needs to be very far away from baldur's gate for an undetermined period of time. wyll pieces together that he's grieving the sun and also trying to figure out who he is without cazador's yoke. he seems to be putting deliberate space between himself and his companions as well

and wyll is a bit hurt because they had been Kind Of A Thing, in a nebulous and unspoken way without specific plans, but surely astarion understood wyll wanted to stay with him...? but then, within a couple of days, astarion sends word back via another gift. and he keeps on sending little things: little treasures from his travels, increasingly far off, referencing inside jokes they'd shared and things he's learned from wyll's stories about his childhood.

eventually even the method of receiving the gifts becomes exotic: once astarion is beyond the reach of sword coast courier services he's sending shit via like. messenger hawk. a tiny portal that shows up between two books on wyll's shelf, just big enough for a poem evidently torn from a rare volume by wyll's favorite poet--then crisply and fastidiously folded--to pass through. (what the fuck kind of circumstances required him to tear a page from a rare book? did he try to steal it and fail?? what??? these are the things wyll has to consider daily.)

eventually this expands to letter-writing. it feels like a continuation of their fragile courtship, but with some of the dynamic reversed, and it makes wyll miss him very badly while also feeling Known. BUT ALSO, IN WYLL-REPRESSION-LAND, wyll has his own shit going on and a part of him really wishes astarion had just stayed with him (wyll is grand duke here) or at least explained himself first. and he manages to suppress that bit until astarion gets home. Whereupon he suddenly finds that--even though he was genuinely loving those gifts and missing astarion very much and enjoying the sweetness of Courtship Part 2--he is suddenly mad at astarion. and they have to Talk, Finally

[likeadevils]

what songs from TTPD and TA are now yours? Which ones have spoken to you the most?

songs that are genuinely MINE

chloe or sam or sophia or marcus: i cried myself to sleep listening to this song on repeat on release night and for the life of me i cant tell you why. i think it’s a great example of her being older really deepening her writing— just that old scarred over longing of a possible life, a possible love, too far away to reach but close enough to brush past. also, the double edged sword of “if you want to break my cold, cold heart, just say’ i loved you the way that you were’”— you loved me before i’d twisted myself into the shape i am now in order to keep my current partner, but also, you loved me the way i was, not the way i am now

i look in peoples windows: i wrote a poem with the line “im afflicted by the not knowing” in it!! inspired by the outside!! and by spending so much of my childhood reading by moonlight and spying on my neighbors through their windows!!! it was called where midnight lives!!! what the fuck!!!

robin: another song i sobbed hysterically to. i was a strange little violent child obsessed with dinosaurs it feels like a lullaby someone made specifically about 3 year old me.

songs that i’m obsessed with:

but daddy i love him: the bridge is just so fun to scream along to. everytime ive been in a car since the album came out ive played this at least two times just cause

fresh out the slammer: it’s just. the first verse??? the way the song stutters apart for the last verse??? this song takes the blurry muse conceit of the album and uses it to its fullest. also just the diminishing returns from “but its gonna be alright, i did my time”

i can do it with a broken heart: my first listen favorite

the smallest man who ever lived: the bridge????? the bridge???? the bridge???? a few of the negative reviews specifically mentioned this song as boring and for a millisecond i was so angry i could’ve exploded

the black dog: this is like, the platonic ideal of a taylor swift song to me. just that old quiet tragedy she can build out of little moments of hoping your ex will remember you when they hear your favorite song or not having known your last kiss was your last kiss or your ex still sharing their location with you. like, it’s just her at her best, but with the maturity to sing “and you jump up, but she’s too young to know this song”

i hate it here: people have talked about seeing reputation in the anthology but i think you can also see so much debut and it makes me feel so tender. also i genuinely don’t understand why people don’t like “if chose the 1830s but without all the racists” like?? it’s supposed to be a bit clunky?? the songs about the limits of escapism?? the line enhances both of those themes?? also “i’m there most of the year” is such a funny devastating relatable lyric to say about a daydream

thank you aimee: it’s not every day a song inspires you to send this message about something a child did to you (fuck you madeline!!! fuck you jessie!!!)

the bolter: avoidant attachment representation!!! i love that it takes the stuff she hated about herself in the archer and just accepts and loves them and appreciates what they’ve given her. i especially love it because bolt can mean like, crossbow bolts, so it’s a flip on the archer. also “bolt” is one of my favorite words i love all the different meanings

“the only thing that’s left is the manuscript, one less souvenir from my trip to your shores, now and then i re-read the manuscript, but the story isnt mine anymore” also just had me sobbing. there’s just. wtf!!!!!!

[drivinmeinsane]

In case you're not tired of them yet- I've got some character asks :]

For Holland; 8, 16 and 27

For Julian; 15, 17 and 28 (Driver)

For K; 2, 17 and 47

Thank you for the message! I appreciated the opportunity to talk about these guys some more!!! <3

Holland

8. Unpopular opinion about them.

Holland loved his wife dearly, but Jackson Healy is the unexpected love of his life.

16. Deepest darkest secret they won’t even admit to themselves.

Holland is worried that Holly hates him. He thinks he genuinely might be a bad father. He couldn’t fault his daughter if she blames him for the death of her mom, he certainly does.

27. Their guilty pleasure.

It would be easy to say alcohol, smoking, or self-flagellation, but really? Holland likes all those cheesy family activities (this includes Jackson of course). He didn’t get to spend enough time with Holly and her mom together, so he tries to put in the extra effort these days for family game nights, dinners, movie trips, anything they can do together. He also gets the bonus satisfaction of seeing Healy’s face flush every time he’s included as part of the March family.

Julian

15. Worst thing they’ve ever done.

Julian has done plenty of terrible things in his life. He is a product of his upbringing. As gently as I can put this with the understanding that he was victimized, the worst thing he did was not love himself enough to save himself by cutting ties with his mother and his brother. Without them in the picture, he very likely would not have been engaging in the destructive (both to himself and to other people) behaviors to the extent that he was. Crystal truly was an epicenter of bad.

17. Quotes, songs, poems, etc. that I associate with them.

Off the top of my head, here are some of the songs that remind of Julian » I Bet on Losing Dogs - Mitski » God's Gonna Cut You Down - Johnny Cash » Afraid - The Neighborhood » Knives Out - Radiohead » Grip - Seeb x Bastille

28. How they feel about Driver.

I feel like Julian would find common ground with Driver. Neither of them had a stable childhood, however Driver was able to come out of his experiences being able to connect with others, to love, despite everything. Julian might be able to let him in. Perhaps he could heal.

K

2. A canon or headcanon hill I will die on.

I firmly believe that Deckard would have left that upgrade center with two kids, Ana and K, if he had truly known what was going on from the start. By all rights, they were siblings. K had found his family. He just would not -could not- consider himself human enough to deserve it. By the time Deckard realized, likely when Ana explained the circumstances of K visiting, it would have been too late for him to claim K in life. In a happier story, he would have pried K off those steps before he succumbed to his wounds and the thought that he wanted to die. Maybe he could have been saved. Deckard had loved a replicant as a partner, he could have easily loved a replicant as a son.

17. Quotes, songs, poems, etc. that I associate with them.

Here's just some of the songs I associate with K. We'll go ahead ignore that I'm pulling some of these off my Six/K playlist... » Like Real People Do - Hozier » Star Hopping Lover - Chance Peña » Take me to Church - Hozier » Achilles Come Down - Gang of Youths » Way Down We Go - KALEO

47. Their dream job.

I think that in another life, K would have really liked to do something involving agriculture. As we see in both the script and in the movie, he has a genuine interest in Sapper’s occupation. He wants to know what he farms. He wants to know what’s bubbling on the stove. He’s intrigued by the cowslip he finds on the ground. Anything involving the creation of life and the tactile use of his hands seems right up his alley. Personally, I specifically see him as keeping bees if he were not… leashed by the LAPD (if he were to survive defection or were allowed to openly have his own interests). They captivated him from the moment on landed on his hand. As he is, they’re part of a system working for the betterment of a colony. I also think that in keeping bees, he would feel closer to Deckard given that he has his own. It might feel almost as if it were a family business, and we all know how desperately K wants to belong to a family. I’ve included some of my notes on the script and some shots of K finding the hives. I have too many feelings. :(

[the-angriest-author]

Writeblr intro

Hallooo..

not sure if I'm doing this right... tbh, idek what to put on here. Anyhow, I've been writing for about two years now (YAY!!). I mostly write poetry although as I write this most of my posts are short stories of the fantasy variety. I like reading swoon-worthy romances so if you write anything that makes me blush and kick my feet like the teenage girl I am, I will follow you and maybe stalk all your posts. If you are the grammar police I must warn you that you will be forced to arrest me after reading my posts (I'M WORKING ON IT, not really tho).

I've been on Tumblr for idk how long but I keep ghosting the app (Life and whatnot) I'm craving community, especially with fellow authors, maybe ones with more writing experience (I am a newbiiieee). Guys... I swear I won't ghost again 🤭.

And here are all my labels for all my lovely people:

She/Her

WOC

Queer (bi or pan idek man this sexuality shit aint for the weak of heart)

Retired Stoner (Moved to a place where I can't smoke)

Raging bitch (Moved to a place where I can't smoke)

Capricorn Sun, Sagittarius Moon, Capricorn Rising (Raging Bitch)

Not actually a raging bitch, just think it's funny (Please like me)

ADHD (Prone to run on sentences and overusing parentheses)

Chronically misunderstood (Capricorn)

Very Annoying (Sagittarius Moon)

Certifiably Woo-Woo (Hence the astrology references)

Not Funny (I think I'm hilarious and spent 5 minutes straight laughing at this little section)

Current WIPS

To The Stranger Who Stumbles ~ A collection of poetry written during a time of my life when I was experiencing some intense change and coming to terms with certain childhood events that were... not so fun.

Genre: Poetry

Word Count: 5953

Stage: Beta Reading (message me if ur interested)

The Mad ~ Mildred the Mad and her crew of dangerous and mythical women are charged with kidnapping and delivering the Seelie Prince to the Unseelie kingdom. But with every plan comes complications, some in the form of brooding king's guards.

Genre: Fantasy, Romance, Action

Tropes: Enemies to Lovers, Found Family

Current Word Count: 4434

Stage: ROUGH DRAFT and planning

P.S. My messages are open! Let's connect!

Published Works

The Hidden (w)Hole of a Heart ~ Literally my whole heart shat out onto paper. But seriously tho it's available on Amazon now and I would appreciate any support. In actuality, it's a story about a young woman (Yours Truly) coming to terms with her deeply feeling nature and Depression. The poems describe the heaviness of emptiness and the overwhelmingness of intense emotions.

Excerpts:

Haunted House

Feelings stick to my walls like ghosts,

How is an exorcism performed on a memory?

How do I let them pass through me?

An Apology to The Crone

Pressing my tiny fleshy palms to my ears,

I refused to hear the wisdom of the crone.

Her voice was scratchy with use,

As she warned me of my journey.

I’d close my eyes with every disaster.

The niggling feeling would whisper a wrong,

And I’d pray to God my feet were swift,

So, they could carry me away.

I’d refuse to harden,

Reasoning that beauty is only found in the soft.

I waited to be taken by my knight.

I never cared that the gleam in her armor was an illusion.

I stand unprepared for the cruel world.

Preserved in my maidenhood.

Having grown tired of disobedience, 

The crone has abandoned me.

Only now do I see the clarity of your wisdom,

I will forever be sorry.

A Terrible High

on occasion

there are quiet moments

where minds begin to fill blanks

when small things grow

rock to boulder

smashing me against the ground

flat

nothing 

2D

I’m nonexistent.

If I were nonexistent

the boulder would simply blow through

and I’d be nothing.

And I’d be okay.

[wecandoit]

what i read | aug-sep

notes: (1) '*' indicates a content warning for references to death, abuse, violence, obvious triggers for mental illnesses (2) bolded links show sources that i found super interesting or introduced me to a new/profound concept

Books

The Island of Missing Trees by Elif Shafak

Articles/Essays

Revisiting the Languages of Love: An Empirical Test of the Validity Assumptions Underlying Chapman’s (2015) Five Love Languages Typology

Topical treatments for acne

The True Story of the Koh-i-Noor Diamond—and Why the British Won’t Give It Back

Repatriation of the Kohinoor Diamond: Expanding the Legal Paradigm for Cultural Heritage

Challenging the colonisation of birth: Koori women's birthing knowledge and practice

A cognitive developmental approach to understanding how children cope with disasters

Nature-Based Early Childhood Education and Children's Social, Emotional and Cognitive Development: A Mixed-Methods Systematic Review.

Bronfenbrenner’s bio-ecological model: a theoretical framework to explore the forest school approach?

How AI Generates Images from Text

Discrimination Has Trapped People of Color in Unhealthy Urban 'Heat Islands'

A Newly Discovered Brain Signal Marks Recovery from Depression

Poems

Message to My Beloved Sibling

Movies/Videos

The Kingmaker by Lauren Greenfield

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles: Mutant Mayhem by Jeff Rowe

[girlactionfigure]

I live in a small town in Samaria and generally mind my own business. I like to take late night walks with a nice audiobook and some fruit sticking into the street over house fences. I meet cats, I meet hyraxes, I meet fennecs. I rarely meet people. I see a lot of flags, some printed patriotic posters and the occasional message in support of our troops drawn by kids on large sheets. They rarely survive the rain. This is my small world.

This week, I've been walking a lot in Tel Aviv, a real city with hundreds of thousands of diverse people. Everywhere you look, there are posters of hostages; some official, some created by friends. There are personal messages to the dead and the missing written on walls, on streetlights, on utility poles; all in different styles and colors. There are flowers in the squares, teddy bears on benches, quotes from the slain, poems written on peeling walls. This isn't some official project. This is just a million people expressing themselves. 

It's overwhelming. It's like swimming through a stormy sea after swimming in a small pool your whole life. It took me a few days to digest the meaning of what I saw. Like making sense of all the art in a vast gallery.

It is the sight of murdered innocence, the look of a child who learned that the world is far more horrible than they ever imagined. And their reaction is to make the city one giant art installation.

You see, I'm a settler. I'm a "dangerous right-wing extremist." I live and breathe war. My eyes are always seeking the stone, the knife, the rocket, the ambush. Anger, I understand. The excitement of war, the joy of seeing your enemies destroyed. Oh yes! 

When Dani and I toured the south on our crazy little supply runs, everywhere I met an atmosphere of jovial madness, of crackling energy about to explode. This is my universe, always has been, except now it expanded to include most of the nation. My madness has become the new sanity.

But in Tel Aviv, I was overwhelmed with the hurt of people who imagined a different way was possible. Lost innocence. Kindness met with barbarism. Optimism met with calamity. Childhood's brutal end.

Uri Kurlianchik

@VerminusM

[walkawaytall]

bring back the turkey, you cowards

Weird thing none of you know about me: from about 2015(?) until about 2019 or so, I had a very specific and weird obsession: Lisa Frank's social media presence (and, to a lesser degree, Lisa Frank's collaboration deals clearly made in an attempt at making a comeback).

Now, I will go ahead and correct a commonly held misconception amongst the people who followed me on Facebook at the time: I was not obsessed with Lisa Frank the person (as mysterious as she attempts to be, I think I have her mostly figured out), Lisa Frank the manufacturer of my favorite childhood school supplies, or even Lisa Frank the company as it stands today (though this Jezebel article, Inside the Rainbow Gulag: The Technicolor Rise and Fall of Lisa Frank, is wild and I think everyone should read it; it may not hold true today since they've had so much change and turnover, but it's still fascinating). My obsession was primarily focused on Lisa Frank's social media presence. And that's because Lisa Frank's social media presence was batshit insane.

Keep in mind, when I first started following them on social media, they were not banking on Millennial nostalgia. They were still primarily selling school supplies. The adult coloring book (not adult like smutty; adult like...those therapy coloring books that were so popular ten years ago?) sold by way of an exclusivity agreement with Dollar General hadn't been announced yet, nor had workout gear or the SpongeBob collab (sold only at HotTopic). As far as anyone knew, Lisa Frank was still that rainbow school supply company whose target audience is nine-year-old girls.

Which is why all of the housemade "memes" were absolutely bonkers.

This is peak Middle-Aged Mom Humor, so why is it being presented to me by the company making pencils and folders for elementary schoolers?

Glad to know we are encouraging fourth graders to day drink.

This one isn't actually aimed at any particular age group; I just find it funny that captains of pirate ships are inherently pirates, so I don't know what this is supposed to mean.

He won't. He will not fly. He is a flightless bird. This is a terrible lesson and you are a homicidal mother penguin. (Also using slightly altered lines from poems without attribution is theft, but whatever.)

And the image that started my obsession:

This...isn't a joke??? What is this???

I don't know who was behind these posts, but considering how small the company was at that point, I always suspected that Lisa herself was recycling old artwork with the help of an intern or something and creating the social media posts...because it just sort of seemed like that's what was happening? I have no proof of this; it was just a vibe I got.

But, during that period of time, even though the posts were inscrutable and sometime just straight-up Minion Humor, they were at least interesting.

Well, I mean, sometimes they were interesting because they were like acid to the eyes.

Okay, and sometimes they were interesting but also sported questionable messaging about one's relationship with food and exercise.

Anyway, I digress. In 2019, Lisa's son Forrest Green (yes, her sons are named Hunter and Forrest Green) took over the social media presence and it became...very palatable for the masses, I suppose. It was a lot of photo edits of old boy band pictures with Lisa Frank designs superimposed on tshirts -- it was very nostalgia-driven and very much directed at Millennials and thus I lost interest, because if there's anything I hate, it's being the target demographic for a sales pitch.

Anyway, my point is that for several years in a row, Lisa Frank would post the same holiday-themed images, so I got used to seeing a certain Thanksgiving design that is, and I cannot prepare you enough, one of the most chaotic and hideous things you'll ever lay your eyes on. But it was tradition. They posted it like three years in a row, and then as soon as Forrest took over, this design was never posted again. And all I have to say on this Thanksgiving week of 2023 is: bring back the turkey, you cowards.

[cherryblossom-heart]

Red Chrysanthemums (S.R. Series) (ModernAU)

Steve Rogers x Reader 

Masterlist

Content Warning: ANGST, heartbreak, mature themes, +18 SMUT, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT (each chapter will have it's own warnings), childhood bestfriends to enemies (one sided) to ?, fluff, mentions of ptsd and mental health, grief.

A/N: So this is my new series I've been working on. I'm already half way through the first chapter and planing on the second one. So far I'm thinking on posting one chapter a week but that will depend on how busy I get with college, I might even post two chapters a week, who knows.

Summary: |n the Victorian era, it was common custom to use flowers as a means to convey messages that couldn’t be spoken out loud. A silent dialogue that could only be told through a variation of colors and arrangements.

Some people would call it poetic; others would call it art. You would call it love.

Many years ago, when your smile was bright and your dreams were big, a scrawny boy from Brooklyn would get a red chrysanthemum from his mother’s flower shop every week. And every week the flowers would find their way to your locker. 

That scrawny boy from Brooklyn was your best friend. Together, you would spend countless hours helping his mother. Learning how to take care of the flowers and what each one meant. Smiling, laughing, and playing. The scrawny boy from Brooklyn would draw the flowers, making a guide for you to always remember their meaning. You, on the other hand, would compose poems for him, each one of them always ending with some heliotrope in the left corner.

Years went by, and you stayed the same. You still took care of the flowers, you still wrote poems with them, and you still enjoyed looking at the drawings in your handmade guidebook.

Except the now not-so-scrawny boy from Brooklyn didn’t make you laugh anymore. Nor did he keep you company. Years had gone by without a word from him, and some days you could pretend he was never part of your life. Sometimes it was easy to pretend you didn’t know how his lips felt against yours or how his hands felt on your body.

Sometimes it was easier to pretend because red chrysanthemums didn’t find their way to you anymore.

Series Masterlist

Snowdrop (03/17)

Lilac (03/24)

Marigold (TBA)

Hyacinth (TBA)

Red Chrysanthemum (TBA)

If you like the story please interact: reblogs, likes and comments go a long way. Feedback is always appreciated! Feel free to message me about it.

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