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angstymilfy · 6 months ago

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Story time:

My Mom married my step-dad when I was 8 years old. He never tried to be my “dad,” he was just this cool guy hanging around. He taught me how to play poker. He took pity on 5th grade me, (that was forced to wear clothes my Mom made while trying to also fit in at a new school,) and bought me a pair of Calvin Klein jeans and a monogrammed sweater. And this was when they were the very epitome of cool, y’all. Later, he taught me how to drive, then he taught me how to drink.

He had 3 boys, all 18+ when I came into the family (ranging from 10-15 years my senior), so we never lived together. But over the years I had spent a lot of holidays, and shared a lot of backyard bbqs with them. I have favorite memories of each: the youngest, only 10 years older, I stayed with him a lot the summer I turned 18. Because he was still living like a teenager and we partied together. The middle one, he’s 12 years older and once told me, (probably 20 years after I’d been in the family), one night when he was shithouse drunk “you look like a duck and you quack like a duck…” His way of telling me I fit in/was one of them. And the oldest one got a 14 year old me drunk for the first time with a bottle of peach schnapps (that I thought tasted like nehi and drank an entire 5th of by myself), at a party our parents were having.

So imagine my surprise when I found out today, that my stepdad died two weeks ago! 😮 And nobody told me! To get such a strong, and insulting message that “you don’t belong,” is…..insult to injury, really.

But I worried they would do that when Mom left him a little over a year ago, after 41 years together, because he was losing his mind and turning increasingly violent to her. He had fully turned on her; he suddenly decided she was the enemy, and he couldn’t trust her. He was raging out all the time and banging tables and slamming his fists into shit, and then going and taking her name off accounts, and calling the cops on her for literally no reason (he told them he thought she was going to kill him in his sleep? and they hadn’t even been arguing or anything. He was just losing it THAT badly). But his boys wouldn’t help her. He had them controlling everything (because of the weird trust thing) but they wouldn’t help Mom or even stop supplying my stepdad with weapons every time Mom took one away. It’s like they WANTED him to shoot her. But it became a totally untenable situation and thankfully Mom exited after he tried to have her arrested, before it got any worse.

That’s it. All she did was be his whipping post and private nurse until she couldn’t anymore. And they basically have been at war with her ever since. Just turned on her like wild dogs. None of them were who we thought they were at all, it turns out.

Now I’m scared they may try to hurt her if they don’t approve of how the estate is settled. The divorce was still in process so Mom is still legally his wife. So I’m anxious as shit about how all that will shake out. Hurt nobody cared enough about me or anyone in my family to even let us know he died. And sad that I won’t ever get to see him again. Or any of them. Even though it turns out they’re all terrible people, these were still people who have been in my life since I was 8 years old. How can they just….turn on her like that? Then not even acknowledge I exist? They knew I had a special relationship with their Dad. Why wouldn’t they tell me he’d passed and give me the opportunity to pay my respects?

……

I’m still so shocked he’s gone.

Even though I shouldn’t be. His health had been deteriorating so it was just a matter of time. But it still felt like it came out of the blue today.

Which would make Christmas 22 the last time I saw him (she left him in feb after that). He’d been super argumentative with Mom all day and I was telling him not to be riling her up, cause he “knows how she gets” wink wink. He and I were always in some sort of rebellious cahoots against Mom’s rules and would 😉 our cahootedness to each other. But that time I was just trying to get him to think he was in on some cahoots with me, to chill and quit fighting with her.

So I guess the last thing I said to him was “be good,” and gave him a look that said “we both know you’re a handful.”

…..

Big sigh 😔

I don’t know what I’m feeling right now y’all. It’s a weird mix of a lot of different things.

I sound crazy. I just needed to vent all this SOMEWHERE.

#time marches #what are these feelings?

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exposinganorexia · 13 days ago

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It's officially 6 years since I started my anorexia recovery

I honestly don't believe how much time has passed since I started this whole recovery process. I was about to turn 15 when I got hospitalized and it's just wild to think that next month I will be 21.

I was reading my old posts, especially the one I wrote one year into recovery. I was rather shocked reading it because I in a way forgot how hard it was 6 years ago.

That being said I no longer have any anorexic behaviors. I consider myself fully recovered. My life is completely back to normal. I love my body, it's been through so much, it kept fighting for me no matter what I put it through.

I have been in regular therapy for 6 years now. I started it because of anorexia but later on I got diagnosed with anxiety, depression and a few other things. The fight wasn't easy. Just in January this year I was feeling tired because I was still so depressed after years of hard work. But I still kept on going. And for about 5 months now I have been feeling better than ever. I am happy in a way I didn't know one could be. If you told me 6 years ago that I would be leading a happy life today I wouldn't believe you.

I finished high school, I am a student and I have a job. I have a loving family. I am finally freely expressing myself no matter what people around me say. Those are all the things I thought I would never accomplish.

I wish I could hug 15 year old me. She tried so hard to fit in, to be loved and accepted. But that wasn't even me. I was not living as me but rather a version of me I taught people would accept and love. I was unhappy.I no longer pretend. My life is mine and mine to enjoy. I don't want to spend it pretending, I don't want to look back at it when I am old and gray wishing I did the things I actually wanted to do. Someone once told me that you need to love yourself first before anyone else can truly love you. I believe that's true. I wish younger me could know that all she had to do to be loved was to just be herself.

This whole ed thing started because I felt like I was loosing control of my life. Control over that perfect image I was so desperately trying to maintain.

This time of year is always bittersweet. It was a very hard time in my life but it was also the start of when my life started getting better.

I originally didn't intend on writing this post but when I logged into this account I saw a notification from about a month ago on a recovery post I made years ago. So I decided to write this in case someone who is struggling happens to find it. If this post helps one person it was worth writing.

With all that being said, happy (what I like to call) 6th anti-anaversary to me. May there be many more in the future.

#ed recovery #pro recovery #recovery

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lokislittlesigyn · 3 years ago

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// loki spoilers

This is basically a huge infodump on my thoughts about the first episode, because I doubt y’all want to sift through my trauma-ridden ramblings. I’ll make another post for the rest. This is just everything not related to the IW stuff/my reaction to that. It’s general thoughts, theories, musings.

1. When Loki gets first taken into the TVA. Is that Peggy Carter in the background? Others have suggested it might be. What would that mean??? Will we see the TVA fix the mess the Russos made with Steve/Peggy (not likely) or is it just a lookalike? Who knows..

2. A skrull at the main intake desk! Idk not super relevant just interesting!

3. I’m kind of glad they changed the... uncomfortable scene... with the robot burning his clothes off. He gets more time to react to seeing the machine itself, and he seems more shocked (”Now.. H-hang on just a minute.”) than angry (”Now hang on just a minute!”) i still feel.. horrible for him, i’m glad nobody Saw him and that the machine didn’t grab the clothes off, but still. Ehhh.. uncomfortable.

He is beautiful though, don’t get me wrong - I’d just prefer a shirtless Loki scene where he wants to be shirtless? let him do what he wants with his body?? he’s probably felt so out of control of his body, from being jotun to falling through space that any invasion of privacy like that hits extra deep...

That being said, I recognize the utility of the scene for the narrative - his lack of control, his literally being stripped of what he was before.

4. WHO IS THE MAN WITH THE CAT. What is his name. I love that he has a mug with his cat on it. But I want to know more. Who is he?

4.1 WHY DIDNT YOU LET LOKI PET THE CAT Please,,, I am begging you,,, let loki pet the cat and have something react kindly to him and purr all happily at his scratching behind their ears plea s e

5. The info sheet. Now this is just a little nitpicky tidbit, but in a previous promo they listed Loki’s height as 6′4 ft and weight as 525 lbs. This is taken directly from the comics if I’m not mistaken. However, in the actual show he’s listed as 6′2 (Tom’s height and Loki’s presumed height) but I don’t remember if his weight is the same. Is Loki 6′2? 6′4? please let me know i want to know how smol i am in comparison

6. His little aggressive shaking of the ticket at the guard makes me giggle each time.

7. The fact the turnstile hits so low on him reminds me,, I am short compared to him. Those things hit my stomach/waist. That one hit his legs. I am once again asking Loki to pick me up.

8. The cartoon with Miss Minutes introducing the TVA is wonderful, I love the art style especially. But it raises questions about Variants... I guess Variants can just, pop out of nowhere? Any action could be the wrong one? And then once you commit the wrong action you either get returned or pruned? Yikes??? And THIS ties into another thing later!

9. The trial scene. I have a hunch - a feeling, a suspicion. That one of three things may be true.

A. The Time-Keepers never actually existed. They’re fabricated, and now whoever runs the TVA is actually using the excuse of “The Time-Keepers decree it so!!!” to carry out whatever They think is right. The fact we haven’t seen the Time-Keepers makes me.. suspicious...

B. The Time-Keepers existed, but they have since passed on, however that may have happened. Now someone is doing the same as above, using the excuse of the Time-Keepers apparent dictations to run things.

C. The Time-Keepers do exist, and do run the timeline/TVA, but maybe they’re not infallible? Maybe the TVA info video is lying or incomplete in some way? Idk I just feel like, something about the TVA and how they run things has to be wrong. It has to? Something is off. Again, this will tie into another thought later...

I have no idea if any of these are actually true! But Loki’s questions of “Who’s in charge here? What do they do? What do you do?” punctuated by laughter leads me to believe he’s suspecting something too, or perhaps just trying to figure this mess out.

10. Seiðr/Magic. We see in this scene, Loki’s magic (”powers”) don’t work in the TVA. (and a quick side note, did he have to Flex like that? do you have to make me see Loki’s bare arms Flex like that? be still my heart. anyway please get that collar off of him and let him rest for five minutes) This makes me wonder.. Why isn’t Loki in his Jotun form? His pale skin and blue eyes are decided by magic, are they not? I suppose this is 2012, so perhaps Odin’s magic is keeping Loki looking like that. But if magic doesn’t work in the TVA, why would his spell reach so far? Clearly Loki’s magic isn’t what’s doing it. How is Loki not appearing as a Jotun? Is his Jotun form repressed - is pale skin his default now, rather than something hidden by magic? I need answers!

11. he sounds so scared about being “reset” please dont hurt him,,

12. cALLING LOKI A PUSSYCAT? (lokitty confirmed) I think Mobius was goading him (Mobius strikes me.. As extremely clever. He’s trying to push Loki’s buttons to see who he’s dealing with. At least, I hope so. Because if he really meant that “You were born to cause pain and suffering and death... All so that others can achieve the best versions of themselves.” and that line about killing Frigga??? No no no he is not guilty. He had no way of knowing what would happen. It wasn’t right to send Algrim up to Asgard (i think algrim wouldve found the way up anyway) but there was no intent to hurt Frigga. I really hope you’re trying to goad him, Mobius, because if you believe that I trust you much less. anyway i digress) but wow is he pushing Loki’s buttons a lot. I can’t... Blame him entirely, I understand he’s trying to make sure Loki’s on his side, maybe I’m just too soft for Loki idk. But some of that was very cruel to say. /:

12.1 AND ANOTHER THING ABOUT MOBIUS. That scene with the girl in the church?? Did that little girl kill the men? Is that young Sylvie? Or is she using an illusion to make herself look young and innocent? What’s going on!!!!

13. LOKI SNATCHING THE LITTLE TIME-TWISTER DEVICE AND STOWING IT IN HIS POCKET.... POCKET....... sorry sometimes i get so caught up about loki that i just say random words in between little noises and squeals,,, i am a silly thing

14. CASEY. CASEY??? That whole exchange is funny. Poor Loki, just trying to intimidate this guy so he can escape but - Casey doesn’t know what a fish is. to be fair.... thor doesn’t seem to know what a raccoon is... right?

15. That bit with the infinity stones is kind of funny until you realize

A. Natasha died for a paperweight

B. Tony died from paperweights

C. Loki was tortured for paperweights

D. Oh, and Gamora died for a paperweight too. And Vision. Need I go on?

Then it becomes less of exclusively “haha funny” and now it’s a mix of funny and pain and gosh, is that a good way to sum up being a Marvel/Loki fan sometimes...

16. Loki gazing at the timeline all “Is this the most powerful thing in the universe?” or something, i’m sorry i don’t remember exactly... made me think of a meme and i shall make it presently.

17. I love that Loki got to see examples of how his family loves him but the fact he’s all “I can’t go back.” really just breaks me. It’s like he can finally see they love him after all of this mess, and now he doesn’t have the chance. Please, please let him be happy. Give him some relief. This is the Loki that just came off finding out about being Jotun, falling from the Bifrost, encountering Thanos, attacking Earth, facing defeat, and now he’s being thrashed around in this wild place and has just found out he inadvertently caused Frigga’s death (he did not kill her: his actions, by mistake, lead to her murder, let me be very clear) AND Odin will die AND all the rest... And he wants to be with them.

18. Loki’s reaction to Thor suggesting the hug makes me soft. Please I want to hug this little mischief man so so so bad-

19. Skipping over the iw parts! That’s for another post because this one will be grossly long anyway.

20. “I don’t enjoy hurting people.” and “It's part of the illusion. It's the cruel, elaborate trick conjured by the weak to inspire fear. A desperate play for control.” was all so, so validating. I’ve been trying to argue on Loki’s behalf for almost a solid decade. Seeing the show recognize that Loki’s not all just violence and hurting for “fun”, that he’s not unhinged and bloodthirsty.. Is so nice. It’s just so, so comforting. and it gives me hope for future episodes that they won’t go the route of “oh haha loki bullied and mistreated and stabbed thor for years!!! :)” loki cries during basically every fight with Thor and you want me to believe he stabs Thor for fun? absolutely not.

21. Theory.. Just another hunch.. So we know a fugitive variant, aka Loki, is running amok. Refer back to 8 and 9.C. What if the Time-Keepers never actually fixed the timeline into a single timeline? What if there are other timelines, and these different Loki variants have hopped over to the current one? Or, maybe the Time-Keepers did fix the timeline into a single one, and these Lokis are remnants from that huge time-war at the beginning? Time runs differently in relative spaces, they may have Just Left that war from their perspective!

I say Lokis and not Loki because we’re pretty sure there’s Female/Lady Loki, Old Man/King Loki, and possibly Young/Kid Loki. That’s at least three. From the peeks of Asgard and NYC we’ve seen from the trailers, I think we’re also getting an Asgardian King!Loki and Midgardian King/Vote!Loki. (unless our dearest variant is hopping into timelines and situating into them, but I doubt Mobius would let that happen..?) That’s five.

To further support this, keep in mind, I believe recently six (i think 6 regular and 6 rare...) different funko pops were announced for the series? I’m not sure if they’re in addition to the Loki and Mobius already released. If they are, there’s enough room for each Loki and maybe a TVA agent. One of the pops is supposed to have a buddy/companion I think? Maybe they’re making the cat guy into one, or maybe there’s something else (Throg, anyone?).

22. That is totally Lady Loki/Sylvie at the end by the way. Has to be. But why does she want the reset devices? Why did she snatch that TVA Hunter? Again, WHAT’S GOING ON

ANYWAY this was a very long post if you made it this far, I commend you.

#no proofread only post #long posts about loki #loki #loki series #loki spoilers #sigyn says WORDS #SPOILER HEAVY

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dwellordream · 3 years ago

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“...Seasonal patterns are typical of nomad life. The pastoralists of ancient Scythia migrated from high summer pastures to winter camps. Each spring, bands came together to bury their preserved dead in kurgan cemeteries. In spring they took purifying saunas; met with other tribes annually for trade fairs; and competed in riding and shooting contests. Warfare and raiding may have been seasonal too, with bands of mostly males away for much of a year, returning each summer to the women with small children. For the Greeks these unfamiliar patterns could have given rise to the idea that the men and women lived separately, coming together once a year to mate.

Another factor is that small, isolated, close-knit tribes can avoid incest and inbreeding by mating with outsiders. (Whether or not they had an embryonic grasp of the scientific rationale, these breeders of horses and other animals would have noticed inbreeding effects.) Exogamous sexual unions among culturally related groups may well have taken place at certain times of the year. It was common practice to forge alliances by intermarriage. In some nomad groups polyamory or “free love” practices—multiple sexual partners for males and females, and polyandry (many “husbands” or men) and polygamy (many “wives” or women)—were accepted.

Xenophon, for example, remarked on the indiscriminate, public sexual intercourse of the tattooed Mossynoeci tribe of Pontus. Herodotus reported that the Agathyrsi, the nomadic Thracian-Scythian tribe, mated freely in order to “foster sibling-like relationships and to eliminate jealousy and hatred.” According to Strabo, among the Siginni of the northwest Caucasus the most accomplished women charioteers could “cohabit with whomever they chose.” Strabo also described the sexual mores of the mountain tribes of Media (northwestern Iran): the men have up to five women and “likewise the women believe it honorable to have as many men as possible and consider less than five a calamity.” Polyandry was practiced by the women of another nomad group near the Caspian Sea, the Tapyri, who had children by several men.

The Massagetae, a Saka-Scythian tribe of Central Asia, formed companionate couples with an “open marriage” option, according to Herodotus and Strabo. The men and women were free to initiate discreet sexual relations with others. The sign for sex in progress was a quiver hung outside a woman’s wagon. (In the Caucasian Nart sagas, the signal that a woman had a sexual guest was his lance stuck in the ground outside her abode.) Ancient Chinese sources also described polyandry and polyamory among the nomad tribes of Inner Asia (chapter 25). Ancient notions of virginal Amazons seem to be at odds with reports of Amazons as sexually active; some scholars argue that Amazons were imaginary figures intended to represent Greek girls out of male control.

Yet many features of the seemingly contradictory Greek descriptions of legendary Amazons may reflect misunderstood nomad customs. Greek girls were usually married by age eighteen, when they passed from the guardianship of their male relatives into their husband’s household. Greek men controlled their wives’ and daughters’ sexual activities. In contrast, there was no set “marriageable” age for girls in Scythia. Herodotus and other writers said that Saka-Scytho-Sarmatian girls did not marry until they had fought and/or killed at least one enemy. In antiquity “virgin” and “maiden” were not always technical terms meaning “intact hymen” or “lacking sexual experience”; the words could mean a sexually active woman who was “unmarried/unattached” to one man.

As noted in chapter 1, only three Amazons were renowned for their lifelong vows of virginity. In some nomad cultures, unattached young women enjoyed liberties shocking to Greeks. In Thrace, for example, where “to live by war and plunder is most glorious,” Herodotus marveled that “they keep no watch over maidens and leave them altogether free.” Girls and boys in nomadic societies were trained alike in the arts of war. In the steppe nomad context, it would be reasonable to expect youths of both sexes to prove their worth before marrying and/or having children. A ritualized duel with a suitor, often from another tribe, could be one way of proving one’s mettle.

The natural historian Aelian described courtship and marriage among the Saka (Massagetae) as a mock battle for dominance. “If a man wants to marry a maiden, he must fight a duel with her. They fight to win but not to the death. If the girl wins, she carries him off as captive and has power and control over him, but if she is defeated then she is under his control.” Aelian may have exaggerated the actual outcome based on the Greco-Roman difficulty in imagining a relationship grounded in equality. Similarly, the notion that only one partner could be dominant led classical writers to insist that any man who loved an Amazon had to either assert his power or submit to hers (see chapter 10).

And yet Aelian’s description turns out to have a basis in reality. Among the nomads of Central Asia, serious and mock duels between heroes and heroines in epic poems often end in love. The traditional courtship customs of nomadic Kyrgyz people and others of ancient Saka lands entail arduous physical contests, such as racing and wrestling, to win a maiden’s love. The contests are sometimes said to determine which marriage partner wins (symbolic) dominance in the relationship (chapters 22–24).

As in Atalanta’s lusty relationship with Meleager, Amazons were enthusiastic lovers of men of their own choosing. Herodotus’s story of the Sarmatians (chapter 3) told how Amazons and young Scythian men had sex, fell in love, and eloped to create a new tribe. The strangers shared sexual attraction and took mutual pleasure in intercourse, repeated over time and, in this case, with the same partners. The couples bonded and decided as a group to spend their lifetimes together, promising to raise their children free of imposed gender roles. Random sex among multiple partners, agreed upon among equals, appears in Strabo’s description of the seasonal mating of Amazons with their neighbors, the Gargarians.

It is not clear whether the Gargarians of the Caucasus were believed to be an all-male tribe. (Their name comes from gargar, ancient Georgian for apricot, native to Colchis.) In Strabo’s account, the Gargarians had originally “lived with” the Amazons in Pontus and migrated with them over the Caucasus Mountains to the northern Black Sea region. At some point, the Gargarians “revolted” and a war ensued. The Gargarians and Amazons finally made peace. They agreed to “a compact that they would live independently but still have dealings with each other in the matter of children.” The clear understanding is that each tribe would benefit from this arrangement.

And so, continues Strabo, following this ancient compact, each summer the Gargarian men go up to a mountain on the border with the Amazon territory to meet Amazonian women. First the men and women offer sacrifices together, signifying the religious propriety of what was to follow. Then, for two months, the Amazons and the Gargarians enjoy casual sex after dark with whoever is handy. The men return to their land and many of the women go home pregnant. Strabo goes on to say that baby girls born of these unions are raised by the Amazons, but “they take the boys to the Gargarians, who adopt and raise them as their own sons, despite uncertain paternity.”

Strabo’s account was drawn from two ancient historians of the Amazons, Metrodorus and Hypsicrates, both of Pontus (their works are unfortunately lost). Might his description reflect a garbled ethnological history of divisions and alliances within a tribe or confederation of tribes in which women were fighters and leaders? Scythian bands continually waxed and waned, united and divided, fought and allied. Modern scholars assume that Strabo intended his story to portray Amazons mating like wild animals solely for reproduction. But his account is complex and may well contain incomplete information about genuine past practices. The treaty between Amazons and the Gargarian men who were once closely associated with the Amazons specified that they would come together each summer to worship and procreate.

Annual gatherings would have involved reunions of friends and relations from past years. Ritualized sacrifice and consensual sex with multiple partners within a sacred precinct is not implausible. Seasonal rendezvous customs fostered exogamy and provided other important social and economic opportunities for scattered nomad groups. One ancient Greek writer clearly associated Amazon sexual activity with nomadic trade fairs: “Whenever the Amazons need children they go to the marketplace on the River Halys (western Pontus) and have intercourse with men.” Strabo reported that as many as seventy tribes of Sarmatia and the Caucasus region came together each year at Dioscurias on the coast of Colchis to socialize and trade.

It is interesting that many Central Asian epics tell of heroes who travel long distances to find brides, and many non-Greek Amazon tales feature marriage to husbands from other tribes, practices that avoid incest and seal alliances. In antiquity, Amazons were assumed to be strongly heterosexual. The women warriors were, as Plutarch put it, “natural lovers of men.” Indeed, some ancient beliefs about physiognomy maintained that it would be natural for “manly” Amazons to be especially attracted to “manly” men. According to this theory, it was overly feminine women who would be attracted to loving other women. Virile women, like Amazons—who could overcome the weak, “effeminate” traits in themselves—were assumed to desire virile men.

…In Greek mythology, confronting a beautiful, passionately resisting, powerful Amazon aroused the Greek heroes to dominate, harm, rape, humiliate, and/or murder such threatening women (chapters 15–18). Yet outside the world of myth, in the Amazonian sexual encounters described by ancient historians and other authors, a consistent theme emerges of mutual sexual attraction, pleasurable consensual sex— plenty of it—and a sense of equality with male lovers. Sexual relations between equal men and women developed into long-term relationships in Herodotus’s story of the Sarmatians, who decided that gender equality was “fair and honorable.”

Herodotus also reported that among the “civilized and righteous Issedonians the women share power equally with their men”. Companionable relationships characterized by equality and a sense of interdependence, like those the Greeks reported among Scythians in antiquity, are traditional and practical ways of life in many nomadic and seminomadic cultures. The ancient Nart sagas of the Caucasus, for example, frequently allude to the shared authority, responsibility, interdependence, love, and affection of male and female “soul mates.” Mutual respect was seen as a necessary condition for a husband and wife.

Early modern European travelers in the Caucasus remarked on the “great freedom and respect accorded to women” and the “humanity and affection” and friendship of husbands and wives. Klaproth remarked, for example, that in the Caucasus “the wife is the companion, and not the menial servant, of the husband.” “Easy camaraderie” and “blurred lines between sex roles” are phrases used to describe the egalitarian lifestyle of some nomads living today in Kazakhstan and other ancient Scythian lands. Among the polytheistic Kalash tribe of northwest Pakistan the women have a remarkable degree of sexual freedom (some Kalash claim descent from Alexander’s Greeks and local women).

…Did the Greeks ever suspect what they might have been missing by suppressing women? Greeks also held a belief that sex between equals— especially gods and heroes but also mortals—could be exciting and fulfilling. That idea anticipates some modern scientific studies correlating gender equality with more frequent sex and happier coupling. Perhaps the popularity of Amazon stories among the Greeks served as a kind of “what if/if only” compensation. The Greek historian Xenophon wrote an oft-quoted dialogue in which a man instructs his young bride on the proper duties of an ideal Greek wife. Yet, like Herodotus, Xenophon also expressed admiration for other societies in which women, like men, were encouraged to engage in vigorous sports like “running and feats of strength” and outdoor activities. Xenophon remarked that “if both mothers and fathers were physically fit their children would be much stronger.”

A pair of lesser-known passages by Xenophon illustrate fascinating real-life situations suggesting that Greeks could enjoy envisioning men and women on more equal terms. In Xenophon’s Symposium (380 BC) we witness the growing excitement of Greek men at a banquet as they observe a steamy sexual encounter of two passionate, willing partners. A handsome young man and woman—noncitizen slaves of equal status—have already entertained the men with choreographed, sinuous gymnastics and a dangerous sword dance–duel. Now they act out a sex scene, taking the roles of the mythic lovers Dionysus and Ariadne. As the two kiss and caress one another, the men, says Xenophon, suddenly realize that the actors are not simply reciting a typical “burlesque” script. The two people are really in love and lust.

Watching genuine lovers of equal status on the verge of satisfying their obvious mutual desire arouses the men to a high pitch, says Xenophon. As the pair discreetly withdraw from view, the bachelors in the audience vow to get married and the married men rush home to their wives, eager to replicate what they have just seen. Xenophon includes another remarkable account of gender equality in his historical memoir of leading his army of ten thousand Greek soldiers back to Greece after a failed campaign in Babylonia (400 BC). Their long march took them north from Persia through Armenia to Pontus, the fabled Amazon homeland on the Black Sea.

Along the way, Xenophon says, the Greek soldiers took “some boys and many women captive, depending on their sexual preferences.” Like the boys, the “beautiful and tall” women and girls of local villages were at first exploited as sexual objects and made to perform daily chores for the men. But during the months of shared hardships and dangers crossing the Armenian mountains in winter, Xenophon explains that a new relationship began to develop between the individual men and the foreign women. They were gradually becoming trusted companions dependent on each other for survival.

Several times the men risked their lives to save the women. The women took up the army’s war cry at crucial moments. Camping together in the cold, hostile land, fending off deadly attacks from natives, and learning each other’s languages and personalities, the Greek soldiers and the barbarian women forged bonds that made them essentially equals. Xenophon’s Greek army had taken on some of the attributes that made Scythian bands so formidable: everyone, male and female, was a potential fighter. Xenophon illustrates this new relationship in his account of the banquet that he, as general, gave for the local Paphlagonian chiefs, because his army needed safe passage through their territory west of Pontus.

To entertain their guests, the Greek men performed their traditional pyrrhic war dances. The choreographed military moves in full armor with weapons and shields was also a not-so-subtle display of martial prowess. Then one of the foreign women at the banquet donned some Greek armor and took up a light shield to “perform a pyrrhic dance with grace.” The amazed Paphlagonian chieftains asked whether these women fought alongside the Greeks. The Greeks assured their guests, “These very women drove off the King of Persia!” In this extraordinary reply, the Greek soldiers were claiming—boasting!—that they had Amazons as their companions in love and war.”

- Adrienne Mayor, “Sex and Love.” in The Amazons: Lives and Legends of Warrior Women across the Ancient World

#the amazons #history #sexuality #ancient #greek #adrienne mayor #scythian

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lordebowie · 3 years ago

Text

The Notes app

Image by T. Wenner

Hello! Thought I’d pop in. Been a cool strange couple weeks since we last spoke. I left New Zealand for the foreseeable future, mooched in LA for a bit, and then headed east. It’s always a pretty wild adjustment back into American life for me, particularly due to the zones I move in — I had true culture shock walking into my (very fancy) hotel room, and actually txted my manager in a panic, like is this too expensive? Are we sure this is ok? Another weird moment of culture shock onset shooting a thing (which I’ll maybe be able to share in next newsletter!) outdoors, everyone was sweating in jean shorts, looking like people, and I was wearing an archive Prada bolero top, hair and makeup pristine. I felt like a freak, you know? Like a fancy little goldfish in her own special bowl. I know you know this, but pop star world is ridiculous and extravagant and excessive and very looks-focused, and I’m reminded of the deep oddness when I’ve been away from it for a while. Anyway. Been going on long walks around the city, which is at its most juicy and delicious and vibrant, going to the studio when I can, starting to talk to journalists and shoot stuff and generally start to become the physical embodiment of my work. Lots of the time, I feel like a brain in a jar, or like this drawing of Ralph Waldo Emerson’s called the transparent eyeball (which I highly recommend you Google, because it’s very much a Solar Power guiding light), but around this time, I’m reminded that I do in fact live in a body that people can see, and it helps communicate and symbolise the work I’ve made. So trying to walk a lot, look at people and things and generally (I hate this phrase every time anyone uses it and I’m inviting you to hate me now) ground myself, and each day that passes sees me become a little more in it, a little less shy about everything and a little more ready to invite you in. Really, I want you to have the whole album tomorrow. But we’ll get to all that.

I was up late last night, scrolling through the Notes folder on my iPhone. Notes has become sort of this mythical zone for the modern songwriter, as with Voice Memos, and it’s true — we are all writing every fucking song using these two applications. When i think about any romantic notions I may have had as a kid of writing my songs elegantly in a notebook with pen, I laugh. The truth is, my written hand is really slow. Typing is the fastest I can get something out, and speed is key. But my Notes app also functions as a sort of interesting time capsule— I can see lists of groceries or Christmas gifts I needed to buy years ago alongside deep thoughts about where I’m at and what I’m making as they start to form. I took some screenshots last night, cause I thought it could be of vague interest to you. Starting here, late 2018. Hadn’t started writing anything for this album, but having thoughts about it. And starting to hate being online.

Thinking more about myself as a domestic person, a partner, a mother.

Driving back from Matapouri and going through one of those full roaring tunnels of cicada sound, it striking a deep chord.

Starting to conceptualise — again, this is before any music has really been written… Maybe I had one song. Check out the March 7th note that’s basically the Solar Power video… before we’d written it.

Cute tbh 🥰

See: 1:15 in SP video...

Believe this more deeply than ever!

And to finish, a weirdly prescient note, a year before this was all anyone talked about:

Kinda interesting, no?

Hope you’re good, and doing some fun summertime shit if you can. Oh, I forgot to say, I was here for 4th of July, my first ever. We rode around Amagansett on bikes at dusk, parked up at the beach and stood on the sand for a few minutes. I had eaten a gummy. The light was gold and misted. Wealthy people were sunning themselves. It was distinctly surreal and beautiful, with something simmering underneath — America. Speak soon, E x

Image by T. Wenner

#lorde #solar power

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girlactionfigure · 3 years ago

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Only when he got older he realized just how fortunate he and his family were to be alive.

“The extermination of most of his relatives and millions of other Jews by the Nazis; the intrusive, unemployed immigrants who survived and crowded his parents’ small apartment; his sickly childhood; his mother’s dark moods; his own ever-present depression” - all of this, he survived, according to Patricia Cohen of The New York Times.

He was born in Brooklyn to Polish-Jewish immigrant parents on June 10, 1928.

One of his earliest photographs (attached to this story) shows him as an infant - “a plump, round-faced, slanting-eyed, droopy-lidded, arching-browed creature” held by his mother, with his older siblings, according to writer Margalit Fox.

Growing up, Murray as he was then known “harbored ongoing fear of the perils that might lurk outside of his home and neighborhood” and remembered how he celebrated his bar mitzvah, according to writer Stephen Whitfield.

That's when his father discovered that much of his extended family had died in concentration camps. The young boy thought he had "done something very bad, that I had made him suffer more than he had to."

“The death of members of his extended family during the Holocaust . . . exposed him at a young age to the concept of mortality,” according to NPR.

“As he got older, he was constantly aware of his marginality and difference,” wrote Whitfield.

He seemed to be always sick, but when he was well, he could be naughty. He remembered his mother often called him “vilde chaya”, which in Yiddish meant "wild animal".

“His view of the outside world was often limited. . . and the little that he could see from his window,” according to PBS. “It was during this time that he began to draw and to allow his imagination to run free.”

He made a name for himself as an illustrator. When he received an opportunity to write his first book, he used the title "Where the Wild Horses Are" - unfortunately, he realized he couldn't draw horses, so he told his editor. His editor would respond, "Well, what can you draw?"

He would answer "Things."

He would become “the most important children’s book artist of the 20th century, who wrenched the picture book out of the safe, sanitized world of the nursery and plunged it into the dark, terrifying and hauntingly beautiful recesses of the human psyche,” according to the New York Times.

He remembers receiving a letter from one fan:

In an interview with NPR, he is quoted as saying, “A little boy sent me a charming card with a little drawing on it. I loved it. I answer all my children's letters – sometimes very hastily – but this one I lingered over . . . I wrote, 'Dear Jim: I loved your card.' Then I got a letter back from his mother and she said: 'Jim loved your card so much he ate it.' That to me was one of the highest compliments I've ever received . . . He saw it, he loved it, he ate it.”

~~~~~

“Maurice Sendak has been one of the most consistently inventive and challenging voices in children’s literature,” according to PBS. “His books and productions are among the best-loved imaginative works of their time. Like the Grimm brothers before him, Sendak has created a body of work both entertaining and educational, which will continue to be popular for generations.”

“Roundly praised, intermittently censored and occasionally eaten, Mr. Sendak’s books were essential ingredients of childhood for the generation born after 1960 or thereabouts, and in turn for their children,” wrote Fox. “He was known in particular for more than a dozen picture books he wrote and illustrated himself, most famously ‘Where the Wild Things Are,’ which was simultaneously genre-breaking and career-making when it was published by Harper & Row in 1963.”

He brought “to life a world of fantasy and imagination,” according to PBS. “His unique vision is loved around the globe by both young and old.”

When he died in 2012, the Washington Post wrote:

“They say that a creative adult is simply a child who has survived. Sendak survived a great deal, losing relatives in the Holocaust and struggling through a childhood that he remembered as “a very passionate, upsetting, silly, comic business.”

“And his books captured this — never talking down, yet always reassuring.

“The best writers are the ones who trust their audiences. Sendak did. And we trusted him right back.

“Sendak did not lie to children. He did not attempt to say that the world was more or less difficult than it was.”

~~~~~

In 2008 in the New York Times, Sendak revealed that he was gay and had lived with his partner, psychoanalyst Eugene Glynn (February 25, 1926 – May 15, 2007), for 50 years before Glynn's death in May 2007.

In that article, Sendak said he never told his parents: "All I wanted was to be straight so my parents could be happy," he recalled. "They never, never, never knew."

In a 2011 interview with NPR host Terry Gross, Mr. Sendak said "finding out that I was gay when I was older was a shock and a disappointment. I did not want to be gay. It meant a whole different thing to me — which is really hard to recover now because that's many years ago. I always objected to it because there is a part of me that is solid Brooklyn and solid conventional and I know that. I can't escape that. It's my genetic makeup. It's who I am."

Elisabeth Hoffman of the Baltimore Sun wrote, “Why do we pass laws that isolate, demean and shame people for something so utterly personal? It's no surprise that gay teens are bullied. No surprise that Maurice Sendak had to hide part of his identity from his parents — and from his readers.”

“In that often emotional NPR interview, Sendak also said: "I have nothing now but praise for my life. I'm not unhappy. I cry a lot because I miss people. They die and I can't stop them. They leave me and I love them more. What I dread is the isolation. There are so many beautiful things in the world which I will have to leave when I die. But I'm ready, I'm ready, I'm ready."

~~~~~

“His work . . . did not seek to forget the emotional threats that scarred his life,” wrote Whitfield. “Sendak’s recollections of dread and danger instead became the source of a painstaking creativity that [Golan Y.] Moskowitz [author of “Wild Visionary: Maurice Sendak in Queer Jewish Context”] readily calls illustrations of “genius.” Sendak believed that his fantasies must instill truths, rather than confirm the conventions of innocence, and this thinking revolutionized the way that young people were understood and addressed.”

In that last interview with NPR, “the beloved children’s writer and illustrator was 83 years old and in declining health. He was feeling the loss of people close to him who had died in recent years. Inevitably, the discussion turned to issues of mortality … By the time it was over there were teary-eyed people in cars all across North America. One listener, Brent Eades, left a message on the NPR Web site: “I happened to be listening to this extraordinary interview while on the early-morning commute from my small Ontario town to Ottawa. I was entirely absorbed in it; and the final couple of minutes left me with tears streaming down my face, which I’m sure nonplussed my fellow commuters.”

~~~~~

In “Where the Wild Things Are”, Sendak wrote:

“ . . . the wild things cried, “Oh please don’t go we’ll eat you up-we love you so!”

And Max said, “No!”

The wild things roared their terrible roars and gnashed their terrible teeth

and rolled their terrible eyes and showed their terrible claws

but Max stepped into his private boat and waved good-bye

and sailed back over a year

and in and out of weeks

and through a day

and into the night of his very own room

where he found his supper waiting for him.”

~ jsr

The Jon S. Randal Peace Page

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lordeemailarchive · 3 years ago

Text

The Notes app

(12/07/2021) (Solar Institute Bulletin No. 2) (From New York City)

Image by T. Wenner

Thinking more about myself as a domestic person, a partner, a mother.

Driving back from Matapouri and going through one of those full roaring tunnels of cicada sound, it striking a deep chord.

Cute tbh 🌞🥰

See: 1:15 in SP video...

Believe this more deeply than ever!

And to finish, a weirdly prescient note, a year before this was all anyone talked about:

Kinda interesting, no? Hope you’re good, and doing some fun summertime shit if you can. Oh, I forgot to say, I was here for 4th of July, my first ever. We rode around Amagansett on bikes at dusk, parked up at the beach and stood on the sand for a few minutes. I had eaten a gummy. The light was gold and misted. Wealthy people were sunning themselves. It was distinctly surreal and beautiful, with something simmering underneath — America. Speak soon, E x

Image by T. Wenner

(source: received this email)

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littlequeenies · 4 years ago

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Mary Asutin was Freddie Mercury’s girlfriend in the 1970s, subject of Queen’s song ‘Love of My Life’ and Freddie’s longtime friend and companion until his death.

Early Life

Mary Georgina Austin was born on March 6, 1951 in Fulham, West London. Her life had been deprived, she grew up in a struggling working-class home and her parents were poor. Her father worked as a hand-trimmer for wallpaper specialists and her mother was a domestic for a small company. Both parents were deaf and communicated through sign language and lip-reading. At 15 she left the school and began to work as a secretary.

She moved up some shortly afterwords, when she got a job at the trendy Biba store in London as a customer PR. This was a very fashionable place, and the customers included some of the biggest celebrities of the time. One night, she attended a rock concert at a nearby college. While there, she ran into a friendly acquaintance who worked nearby, Brian May. They hit it off and they began dating. The relationship was fun, but it never got serious and they broke up on friendly terms.

1970s Freddie’s girlfriend

May was a musician and was starting a band with some talented friends, and one day he introduced her to the band, when she was 19. Though she wasn't aware of it at the time, she attracted the infatuation of the group's lead singer, a co-worker of May's who called himself Freddie Mercury. Mercury soon frequented the store she worked at and they became increasingly friendly. With fellow band member Roger Taylor, both ran a stall in nearby Kensington Market, selling old clothes and Freddie’s artwork.

Six months later, he surprised her by asking her out on a date, which she accepted after some hesitation. Both were financially strapped, so they had to do things together that didn't involve spending money. He was a flamboyant person in public, which she found intimidating, being a shy and unassuming person, herself, but Mary found herself fascinated by this “wild-looking artistic musician”. However, she eventually got to see the side of himself that he didn't show others, a serious and quiet person who was mistrustful of others. She says, “He was like no one I had ever met before. He was very confident and I have never been confident. We grew together. I liked him - and it went on from there.”

When Freddie first asked her for a date on his 24th birthday, Mary pretended she was busy on that particular night. “I was trying to be cool,” she recalls with a smile, “not because there was any real reason I couldn’t go. But Freddie wasn’t put off. We went out the next day instead. He wanted to go and see Mott The Hoople at the Marquee Club in Soho. Freddie didn’t have much money then and so we just did normal things like any other young people. There were no fancy dinners - they came later when he hit the big time. It took about three years for me to really fall in love. But I had never felt that way about anyone.”

She first shared a £10-a-week bedsit with Freddie in Victoria Road, Kensington. It was at this time that Freddie Mercury proposed to Mary Austin. On Christmas Day in 1973, he gave her a big box. Inside, there was another box: "[Then] another and so it went on. It was like one of his playful games. Eventually, I found a lovely jade ring inside the last small box." Confused, she asked where she should put it on. "Ring finger, left hand," he answered. Then he elaborated "Because, will you marry me?" She accepted. After two years together they moved to a larger, self-contained flat in Holland Road, which cost them £19 a week. By then Queen had signed a record deal and had their first big hit, “Seven Seas Of Rhye”.

It was at a showcase held at Ealing College of Art, Freddie’s old art school, that Mary first recognised his star quality.

Mary remembers the first time she took Freddie, with his thick mane of long, black hair, home to meet her father in their terraced Fulham home. “I hadn`t warned my father how extraordinary looking Freddie was and so I think my father handled the situation very well. Sadly, my mother never met Freddie as she had died four years earlier. My father opened the door and just stayed very calm and treated Freddie very warmly. There were a few glances and comments from the neighbours. Afterwards I realised bringing home this musician must have been quite a shock for him.”

Although Mary and Freddie were engaged to be married, the marriage never took place. It was after they had moved to their second flat in Holland Road that Mary first started to think something was going wrong with their six-year relationship. As Queen grew ever more successful, their relationship cooled. Freddie Mercury started staying out to increasingly late hours, prompting Austin to wonder whether he was sleeping with another woman. Everything changed one day when Freddie told her he had something important to say, something that would change their whole relationship forever. Mary explains, “Being a bit naive, it had taken me a while to realise the truth. Afterwards he felt good about having finally told me he was bisexual.” Mary decided to move out, but Freddie insisted she shouldn`t move too far from him. After a six-year relationship, Freddie and Mary split up in 1980.

After that, their physical relationship ended, but their connection deepened. Freddie Mercury bought her a flat nearby his apartment and employed her as his personal assistant.

1980s and beyond

Mary and Freddie keep their friendship through all his life. In a 1985 interview, Freddie Mercury said: "All my lovers asked me why they couldn't replace Mary, but it's simply impossible. The only friend I've got is Mary, and I don't want anybody else. To me, she was my common-law wife. To me, it was a marriage. We believe in each other, that's enough for me."

In 1987, he revealed to her that he had tested positive for the HIV virus. She was the first person he told, and she never repeated it to anyone through the remainder of his life. One of Mercury's top priorities was making sure that Mary was financially secure, but she was interested in making sure he take care of his health.

From that moment she was there each day to try to comfort him as he gradually became more ill. Having stayed with Mercury throughout his battle with AIDs, their relationship intensified as the focus on his diminishing life did. "During those times I did really feel such love for him," Austin remembers, "They were the moments I remembered every time I looked at his bed. I would sit every day next to the bed for six hours, whether he was awake or not. He would suddenly wake up and smile and say, 'Oh, it's you, old faithful.'" She also had to take care of her baby son Richard Frederick, born on March 1990, and whom Freddie Mercury was his godfather; and was pregnant of her second son by that time.

Realising he was starting to lose his sight and with his body becoming so weak that finally he couldn’t even get out of bed, Freddie decided to face up to dying by refusing to take his medication. Mary had been his bedrock and a particular comfort in his final years. Finally in 1991, his health deteriorated and he passed away on November of that year at the age of 45. She was devastated when he finally chose to die. "It was the loneliest and most difficult time of my life after Freddie died." In the settling of his estate, Mary was left with the majority of his vast fortune, more than she had expected. Including that was his palatial mansion, which she agreed to move in to. That turned out to be more complicated than expected, as the mansion had a large staff and the settling of Mercury's estate took several months. It took her five years before she could even feel comfortable in the house he left her.

She too expressed a feeling that a kind of marriage had occurred between the two: "I lost somebody who I thought was my eternal love. When he died I felt we'd had a marriage. We'd lived our vows. We'd done it for better for worse, for richer for poorer. In sickness and in health. You could never have let go of Freddie unless he died. Even then it was difficult." Freddie’s cremated remains were left to her. To this day, she is the sole person with the knowledge as to the location of his remains.

Mary would go on to marry twice, first to a painter named Piers Cameron and had two sons with him, Richard Frederick born on March 1990, and Jamie Alistair, born on February 1992. "[Piers] always felt overshadowed by Freddie," Austin explained. "Freddie had widened the tapestry of my life so much... There was no way I'd want to desert him ever."

Later, she married a businessman called Nicholas Holford on Long Island, without telling anyone, with just Mary’s two sons, Richard and Jamie, by their side. This relationship only lasted five years.

She also started a foundation in Mercury's memory, and also continues to support Queen's musical efforts. She continues to live quietly in the mansion, but occasionally grants interviews.

#Mary Austin #1960s #1970s #1980s #1990s #freddie mercury #Brian May #Roger Taylor #Queen #secretary #customer pr #personal assistant #shop assistant #biography

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malikmata · 3 years ago

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Notes from a Brown Boy - Kansas Diaries

*Author’s Note: Some people’s names have been changed to protect their identities

The rain was the first thing to greet me when I landed in Wichita. Overhead the gray clouds loomed, shadowing the farmland that yawned in the distance. Distance. At first glance, the city seemed like one long stretch of prairies and cracked parking lots, occasionally punctuated by billboards of grinning injury lawyers and lit up restaurant road signs.

If you spend enough time here amid the crumbling old buildings, watching the weeds sway in the vacant lots, you’ll feel the slow, inevitable creep of dread or something like it.

It’s easy to feel lonely here.

But, if you’re receptive enough, you’ll run into many friendly folks. Sometimes too friendly.

For example: During my first week, I went to Freddy’s, a local fast food chain, and ordered a crispy chicken sandwich with fries. The cashier, a young woman with glasses and short blonde hair, suddenly started confessing her fear that her 8-year old chihuahua wouldn’t live a long life.

“I still think of him as a teenager,” she said.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “He’s a chihuahua. They live long lives.”

Out here, in the most middle-of-the-road cities, you sometimes get a chance to show an act of passing kindness. While waiting in line at one of the hip, new cafes downtown, a place called Milkfloat, a tall elderly gentleman recommended which coffee and pastry to get.

“My wife says this place has the best cold brew in town.” Afterwards, grabbing his pastry and coffee, he wished me a good day. Most folks here always do and you better hope it comes true. Because here, like elsewhere, a day is filled with ordinary heartbreaks.

I will simply call her “Tita.” She works as a tailor at a department store, the only tailor working there, hemming and tapering racks full of suit pants under fluorescent lights. The nature of the job requires exact measurements and a keen eye for detail. She works hard, often skips lunch, and comes home dead tired. Her husband is recovering from 4 broken ribs after a car repair job went awry. Nothing can be done but wait until he gets better.

They live in a languid suburb on Wichita’s east side, a street with few sidewalks but plenty of lawn.

And noise. Plenty of noise. The neighborhood sits next to a car dealership. The skies overhead rumble continuously with airplanes and thunderstorms. Dogs bark at anyone who gets too close. A pickup truck blasts a corny country song as the cicadas and frogs belt out their lonely mating calls. Occasionally, a child’s laughter rises above it all.

Gossip is one of the great pastimes in towns like these. Even if you shut yourself up in your home, stories trickle in.

The neighbor across the street shot himself in the head.

The elderly couple that used to live next door got committed to a nursing home.

A fellow around the corner is on his third attempt to grow weed.

A college student starves himself morning to night so that he can save money for college.

Down the street, a kid lifts weights and punches the heavy bag hanging on his front porch.

Here, dumb luck seems, more so than in the big cities, the providence of God.

A man told me he got a job installing new carpets at a friend’s house. He was in desperate need of money, having sent most of it to his mother back home, who proceeded to gamble it away. When he ripped out the old carpet, he found a bundle of $10,000 dollars just lying there. His co-worker said, “We should split it.”

“No, no, we can’t take it.” the man said. He gave the money to his friend.

Sometime later, he went to the casino and couldn’t stop winning jackpot after jackpot. He brought home close to $16,000 in one night.

“So, if you do something good,” he told me, “God will remember that.”

Many people have come to live and die here, all of them wrapped up in the melancholic churning of faded ambitions and familial obligations.

Some people here have found something that returns them to the placidity they once felt in their youth. Sometimes that’s enough to keep them going.

For example:

I met Phil Uhlik, the namesake of the music store on E Douglas. He heard me playing an old Martin acoustic in one of the rooms. He shuffled in slightly hunched over, wearing a blue paisley shirt and brown shorts. He looked at the sunburst guitar in my hands and said, “It’s got a little beauty mark there.” He pointed to a small nick just above the sound hole. “All girls have beauty marks.” He pointed to his cheeks and smiled.

Uhlik started this music store 51 years ago and enjoys every moment of it.

“When you go to work for Boeing, that’s work,” he said. “But this, it doesn’t feel like work.” He motioned to the instruments all around him.

“How’d you get started?” I asked.

“I started off playing one of these,” he said, taking one of the accordions off a nearby shelf. As he strapped it on, all the years seemed to disappear. With a big crooked-teeth grin, he breathed life into the old accordion, his hands dancing up and down the keys. The smile never left his face as we bid farewell to each other.

I wish everyone in this world were as lucky as Phil.

I’m always seeking indie bookstores when I travel. Eighth Day Books provides much needed shelter from the summer heat. The shop was built 33 years ago and used to be located about half a mile east, in Clifton Square Village. About 17 years ago they moved to their current location, a 1920 Dutch-style colonial house on the corner of E Douglas and N Erie. Its blue trimmed windows peek through the foliage of neighboring trees.

When you walk in, you’ll see shelves of books on Christianity and Theological studies, most notably in the Eastern Orthodox tradition. I’ve never seen a bookshop with a section dedicated to Iconography.

Wichita, despite its size, feels like a small place. And with that cramped spaciousness, you’re likely to run into someone you may remember or who may remember you. Here I ran into my girlfriend’s 8th grade English teacher. A bald, bespectacled man with a gentle demeanor. After a bit of catching up, he said to us with a smile, “I hope all your dreams come true.”

The short story writer, Raymond Carver, once wrote: “Dreams… are what you wake up from.”

Wichita is a land that hypnotizes you; it makes you dream, dream of something beyond the miles of strip malls and airplane factories, beyond the shocks of wheat and windswept plains, beyond the doldrums and ennui. But it also shakes you awake, reminds you that you’re in it, that you better stop dreaming.

I’m not the religious sort anymore, having survived the regime laid down by my Catholic parents. But there is something enthralling, maybe even inspirational, when I look at the rows of beautifully painted portraits of saints and martyrs. Such solemn faces surrounded by golden halos. According to the Eastern Orthodox tradition, such paintings transcend art; they’re supposed to be windows through which you can glimpse the divine. They remind me of my grandparents with their judging eyes and moral seriousness.

My book haul for the day:

Snow Country by Yasunari Kawabata

The Diary of Anne Frank

Earthly Signs: Moscow Diaries by Marina Tsvetaeva

Near to the Wild Heart by Clarice Lispector

In that last book, I found this lovely little passage:

…”in the Revolution, as always, the weight of everyday life falls on women: previously--in sheaves, now in sacks. Everyday life is a sack with holes. And you carry it anyway.”

From Earthly Signs, P. 40

According to the 2019 United States census bureau, 15.9% of Wichita's population lives below the poverty line. That’s higher than the state average, which hovers around 11.4%. That’s not the lowest nor is it the highest in the country. As befitting its location, Kansas is right in the middle.

The minimum wage in Kansas is still $7.25 despite efforts to increase it to $15. When Covid-19 hit, city and service workers bore the brunt of the impact. You can keep all your empty slogans like “We Love Our Frontline Workers.” Congratulate me all you want for my hard work but where’s my pay?

When you see that business here has returned to normal--people freely walking around without masks, no longer socially distancing--it still feels all too strange; we spent an entire year under lockdown. There’s still a pandemic by the way.

Loved ones fell ill, died alone, hooked up to ventilators in closed off hospital rooms. I believe every interaction now carries the weight of all those deaths. My family, like so many others, didn’t escape unscathed from the pandemic. My grandpa, Amang, caught Covid. Since he was an elderly citizen (and suffering from emphysema to boot), he was among those considered most at risk. We all feared the worst. Somehow he survived. The doctors called him a “trailblazer.”

Now, with businesses back to 100% capacity, I’m afraid that, just like the 1918 Flu epidemic, the past will fade like a nightmare upon waking. But it was so much more than that; it was an avoidable tragedy.

If you want to know what this pandemic has done to people and their livelihoods, is still doing to them, take a ride through downtown.

Things were already going bad before Covid hit. Back in 2004, the writer Thomas Frank wrote,

“There were so many closed shops in Wichita… that you could drive for blocks without ever leaving their empty parking lots, running parallel to the city streets past the shut-down sporting goods stores and toy stores and farm implement stores.”

What’s the Matter with Kansas: How Conservatives Won the Heart of America, P. 75

What led to all this blight? Frank attributes the decline to:

“the conservatives’ beloved free market capitalism, a system that, at its most unrestrained, has little use for smalltown merchants or the agricultural system that supported the small towns in the first place.”

-P. 79

The same story happens in a lot of places. A megacorporation keeps eating everything around it and leaves nothing else at the table.

The people are left hurting, a pit in their stomachs, and some asshole somewhere profits off of it.

While at the DMV, I overheard this:

“You have a good day now,” the security guard said.

“I’ll try my best,” a woman said.

My girlfriend heard them too and laughed.

“You really do have to try your best in order to have a good day here.”

At some point, we hit the town with a couple friends: Monica, and her boyfriend Will. Both are musicians trying to carve out their niche in a place that, on the surface, seems apathetic to creative pursuits.

It’s impossible to not be captured by their energy. As soon as we walk into their house, Monica, with her dark blonde hair draped over her shoulders, reached in for a hug. Will, a tall and bearded fellow with a bear-like presence, also went in for the hug.

“Ready to experience some Wichita nightlife?” Monica asked.

What is the nightlife here like? A group of high school punks wanted to fight us over a couple movie theater seats. Bored kids play rounds of “Chinese Fire Drill” at stop lights. I heard a nazi biker gang rolled into town at some point during my stay. Regular things like that.

At a low-key bar downtown called Luckys, I met a guy named Cory. He told me how he met a 15 year old kid loitering here, looking lost and forlorn.

“I don’t know what kind of advice I can give you but I’ll do the best I can,” Cory said.

This is the spirit I’ve often come across during my stay: A sort of slightly intrusive compassion. For a cynical Californian like me, the behavior seems a little strange, maybe even a little annoying. But I’ve come to appreciate the candor of it.

“Guaranteed we’ll know half the people here,” Will said.

Right away, he shook hands with the bartender—a high school friend of his—and asked him how his band was doing. Afterwards, we sat down and talked. Talking, after a year of pandemic lockdown, has become a lost art to me. But a little alcohol loosened the lips and suddenly I talked as though I’d known these people my whole life.

Will sipped his whisky on the rocks and told me:

“If everything in this world is meant to break down eventually, then any act of creation becomes an act of defiance.”

It may sound naive but to me, it’s true. I think about the words of the writer, John Berger:

Compassion defies the laws of necessity. To forget yourself and identify with a stranger has a power that defies the supposed natural order of things.

--The Shape of a Pocket, P. 179

Making art has to be, in some way, a compassion act, because it involves letting the environment and the people you meet speak for themselves, allowing a collaboration.

“When a painting is lifeless it is the result of the painter not having the nerve to get close enough for a collaboration to start… Every authentic painting demonstrates a collaboration.”

--The Shape of a Pocket, P. 16

You need to open yourself up, feel what someone is saying behind their words, and hopefully, feel what they feel.

Art, like Compassion, is defiant.

Among the 4 or so Asian markets here, you can find all the ingredients you need to cook up something good. During my first week, I stopped at a place called Grace Market. Like a lot of small Asian markets, it’s family run. A father from Taiwan. A mother from Korea. The son usually helps out when he can. Today (June 23), On this warm Wednesday morning, the son is manning the cash register.

“You’re from California? I’m from there too,” he said.

“Where at?” I asked.

“Sacramento. How about you? So Cal?”

“Nah, Bay Area.”

“Funny. That’s where my parents met.”

“Small world.”

On a different day, we met the father, a jovial man who never fails to say hi when you walk in. He came here over a couple decades ago from California, doing work for the US Army in Garden City. Once his service was over, he decided to stay in Kansas.

“I think you know why,” he said.

More and more young folks these days are leaving California. The high cost of living is presumably what’s driving this exodus. I told him I was also thinking of leaving the Golden State, as much as I love the place.

“Well, a town like this has a lot of potential if you want to save money,” he said. “If I tried to start this business in California, I don’t think I could’ve done it.”

The summer heat can, with the suddenness of a lightning flash, give way to thunderous storms. Speaking as someone from California, whose home has gone through excruciating periods of drought and wildfire, these nightly downpours are a startling yet relaxing sight.

The distant boom of thunder in the distance reminds you of how much of our lives depend on the weather, how small we are in comparison, how we are never separate from the goings-on of nature. The rain doesn’t come down lightly here. At night, it smacks and drums against the window pane with all the force of an animal trying to get inside.

But I don’t find myself frightened by it so much as awed by the combined power of wind and rain colliding against our rickety old house.

Kansas lies in the Great Plains, where layers of cool and warm air often combine into a low-level jet stream. Unimpeded by any natural obstacles on the wide flat plains, the wind roars across the expanse. Thunder growls over the prairie. And lightning flashes on the horizon in a fearsome red tinge.

The storm rages throughout the night, the only source of light in an ocean-sized plain.

“In general, the gods of the Wichita are spoken of as "dreams," and they are divided into four groups: Dreams-that-are-Above (Itskasanakatadiwaha), or, as the Skidi would say, the heavenly gods; and (2) Dreams-down-Here (Howwitsnetskasade), which, according to the Skidi terminology, are the earthly gods. The latter "dreams" in turn are divided into two groups: Dreams-living-in-Water (Itska-sanidwaha), and the Dreams-closest-to-Man (Tedetskasade)”

From The Mythology of the Wichita, P. 33

If you go downtown, you’ll see a sculpture called “The Keeper of the Plains.”

It’s almost 9 o’ clock when I get there, so large crowds have gathered to watch the ring of fire lit around its perimeter.

The statue was designed by indigenous artist and craftsman, Blackbear Bosin. Born in Cyril, Oklahoma, but living much of his adult life in Wichita, Kansas, Bosin was of Comanche and Kiowa descent and almost entirely self-taught as an artist.

When you come upon the Keeper of the Plains, standing tall on the fork of the Arkansas and Little Arkansas Rivers, you can’t help but feel a mix of admiration and sadness. It’s a striking statue, especially when set against the beautiful orange and lavender hues of the setting sun. But monuments like these end up reminding you of the Wichita peoples who were killed, displaced, driven from their land, and left to die in reservations, forgotten. The tribes that once lived here along the southern plains still show traces of their culture but now, you’ll see it mostly as a memory in a museum or as art hanging on the walls of a library.

I learned from a video by the Wichita Eagle that the last speaker of the Wichita language, Doris Jean Lamar, died back in 2016. It must be indescribably lonely to be the last speaker of a language. There is no one to have a conversation with, no one to whom you can confess your hopes or your regrets. But in the video, Lamar, even knowing that she is the last speaker, expresses hope that future generations will know what the language sounded like.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5ScPkN_xGRI

Is forgiveness even possible when injustices are still committed today against native peoples everywhere?

Not enough can be said about the skies here, which seem at times so brilliantly marbled with peach and lavender colors that you begin to walk with your head perpetually craned upwards.

It’s this aspect, the overwhelming sense of the sublime, that will probably stay with me long after I’ve left Kansas.

I think again about the nature of dreams. It isn’t such a sin to dream about things, about things that haven’t happened yet, and about things that have happened. To quit dreaming seems too cynical, like admitting from the outset that everything is screwed, that you should stop trying.

During my stay here, I’ve met many people who aren’t so irony poisoned yet, people who are achingly sincere and kind. They haven’t stopped trying. There isn’t much room for cynicism here. I appreciate that a lot.

Farewell to you, Kansas, you and your clumps of cumulus and vast fields of cows and grass. I’ll see you again.

Check out Will’s music! It’s gloomy, melancholy, and LOUD!: https://teamtremolo.bandcamp.com/album/intruder

#diary #photoblog #photo diary #midwest #kansas #travel diaries

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piracytheorist · 4 years ago

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A Kiss for Good Luck (5/15)

Summary: So this is the story of one born lucky, and one born unlucky. Fate will keep making them cross paths, but is it to bring them together, or to test them? Captain Swan AU.

A/N: Total chapter count went up cause I decided to split the last chapter into two parts. From now on updates will come every Tuesday and Friday.

Rating: T (make sure you’re okay with the warnings on AO3)

Word count for this chapter: 2.1k (48k in total) AO3

Read from the beginning: Tumblr | AO3

Chapter 5: Emma Swan, October 31st 2000 – October 19th 2011

Emma pulls back at the sound of a whistle next to her.

"Nice catch, Captain," a girl dressed like Cruella de Vil says to the boy, but he just shakes his head, annoyed at her.

"Ignore her," he tells Emma. "She's just pissed that there's too many adults around," he says as he gives the girl a pointed glare.

The girl just shrugs and walks away.

Emma keeps her arms around the boy's neck and they keep rocking to the rhythm of the next song. Just as she's about to ask him for his name, she sees Sarah and the owner of the two villas run to the front door.

"Excuse me," she tells the boy and lets go. "I'll be right back."

She follows the two women outside and gasps when she sees the bright, wild flames burning inside their rented villa. She tries to step forward towards Sarah, but she trips and falls, scraping her arm on a sharp rock on the ground.

She's not bleeding much; she keeps her arm hidden, feeling lucky she has her zombie makeup, as she stands awkwardly by while the villa's owner is venting out her anger over her destroyed property at Sarah. Emma is too tired and too shocked to understand whose fault it is and who will have to pay for the damages.

Everything they'd brought with them was burned in the fire, including Emma's passport. Sarah says they were lucky enough that her own wallet and papers were in her purse. Early the next morning, one Emma dressed as a way too messy zombie princess and one Sarah dressed as a very tired witch with a broken hat check into a hotel, waiting for the embassy to open so they can arrange for Emma's new travel documents.

They're flying back two days later, and after a long, seemingly endless to Emma trip, she looks at the queue at passport control as if it's the final obstacle to a good night's sleep.

Sarah lets her go first, and though the security guard takes a little more time checking her passport than Emma feels comfortable with, he eventually allows her to pass. Emma picks up her rucksack, still slightly mourning the clothes and the other stuff she lost in the fire, crosses over and turns to look at Sarah.

Sarah walks to the checkpoint. After checking her passport, the security guard picks up a walkie-talkie and says something to it while staring at Sarah.

Sarah turns to look at her, worried, and Emma feels a shiver run down her spine.

Two other guards appear and walk up to Sarah, while another one walks to Emma.

Emma freezes; she watches as the two guards lead Sarah away, while she's turning her head back to look at Emma before they urge her through a door. She seems to be calling Emma's name.

“What's happening?” Emma says, still staring at the closed door. They didn't even let her cross. “Where are you taking her?”

“Just follow me. It's a matter of security.”

“You have to tell me! What happened?!”

The guard stays silent and simply walks forward. He leads Emma into an office, offering her water and a sandwich. Emma takes a few gulps of water – her mouth feels dry as sand already – but her stomach is too tight for her to manage even one bite.

Many long, tiring hours later, a woman dressed in a suit approaches Emma. The badge on her chest has that damn seal that Emma had hoped she'd never see again.

They tell her that Sarah's real name is Ingrid, that she'd migrated illegally from Norway eighteen years ago, that she never had the right to adopt Emma, that all her belongings are now part of the state...

Emma is taken away by the social worker before she has any chance to talk to Sarah – or Ingrid, whatever her real name is.

Still processing the unbelievable secrets revealed to her, she's in such a shock when she picks up a few essentials from the place she called home that she doesn't even think to call a friend. She doesn't need her phone book to remember Lily's phone number, but for the few days she stays in a foster home on the other side of Boston, she trembles at the thought of calling her after the news of her adoptive mother being a criminal have hit the neighborhood.

And Lily had sounded so excited to hear all about Emma's first crush. She wouldn't be ready to deal with such heavy news. She wouldn't be able to understand.

It's not long before Emma runs away. Sar-Ingrid has been deported, there's no good at searching for her, and no-one will take care of Emma like she did, despite the secrets she'd kept.

Part of Emma wants to believe Ingrid had a good reason. But it still lead to this, to Emma running away, breaking into and stealing a yellow Bug to sleep in and probably escape with to... somewhere. Anywhere.

Only Emma had never imagined she'd get a partner in all of this, sneakily sleeping in the backseats, all courtesy of stealing an already stolen car.

Neal is okay. Only two years older than her, he's quickly interested in her, but when she tells him no he keeps their relationship strictly platonic – and professional. It's always easier to pickpocket and shoplift when one of them plays the role of distraction.

At first, Emma keeps remembering that boy, dressed as a pirate, who looked at her in a way she hadn't been looked at before. But when the way Neal looks at her slowly starts resembling that, she thinks that maybe there was something about the romance novels Ingrid liked so much. Maybe there's no love at first sight, but there may be love at first shoplift, first trespassing, first sharing of stolen goods...

And when he promises her a home in Tallahassee, she realizes that just a look means nothing. When his lips stay on hers, and kiss them again and again. When she pulls him to the backseat of the car and what does she know, that scene in Titanic was actually realistic. When he nuzzles closer to her after he's fallen asleep.

Tallahassee is a bit of a long way, but she dares to have hope. Maybe Ingrid wouldn't be too mad. She'd committed a crime, too, anyway.

Neal convinces her to pick up some watches he'd stolen and stored in a locker. Fencing them would give them big money. Neal wants to make fake IDs for them and run off, but after seeing Ingrid's drama, Emma simply wants to give up stealing and make their life in Tallahassee. He puts one of the watches on her wrist as a promise.

As Emma waits for Neal to come back from meeting the fence, her imagination goes wild. They'll have a home for themselves. They won't have to hide, to run, to fear anything anymore. Not that she gives one damn about the law – she's just tired of running. She spins her wrist, touching the watch and thinking of Neal's promise.

But again, it's not the first promise made to her that's broken. Though admittedly, getting sent to jail for Neal's crime was way worse than any other.

He left her the car. She holds the swan keychain with its keys in her hand, then looks at the bars outside her cell's window and wishes with all her might that she could find Neal and run him over with the car he was oh so generous to give her.

Even though she's just seventeen years old, she's already heard that prison makes one tougher. Maybe Emma's exterior does get that way after eleven months in there, but she knows that inside she's still a mess. It's not just that the Bug is the only place she's got to sleep. It's not just that she sometimes still resorts to shoplifting to eat. It's also that now the pirate boy's look becomes nothing. Ingrid's promises and comforting words become dust.

People look at her and through their harsh looks she sees anger, hate, disapproval.

So be it. It's better that way. It will discourage her from trusting anyone again.

Finding a messy, exhausting job as a janitor is the luckiest she's been since Neal gave her away to the police, putting the blame for his crime on her. It's tough, and she hates it, but it pays just enough to rent an old studio that's at least got a bathroom and a kitchen.

Tallahassee is a lost dream by now. Not that she dares to dream much anymore.

Sometimes, from far away, she spots old friends and acquaintances and she makes sure to avoid them and pretend she doesn't see them. They never call her, and she's glad. What is she going to say anyway? Those people still have their homes, their families, their sparkly clean criminal records. She's not the Emma they knew, and surely not the Emma they're ready to accept.

The years go by and she feels emptier. Her jobs get a little bit better, her studio apartments a little bit warmer, but her heart never feels lighter.

She's satisfying some needs. One-night-stands are as far as she goes, though. Sometimes she allows herself to spend the whole night with her partners, but there are times that she remembers that pirate boy and she nearly feels disgusted by her life. She's stopped wanting more, she's stopped wanting something deeper. She's stopped simply wanting.

She hates herself for still thinking about Tallahassee from time to time. Even if she decided to visit, only to prove to herself that there's nothing there for her, she can never spare enough money for a simple trip there. Something always comes up; her apartment flooding, her car breaking down and needing fixing; she gives up when in the span of one year burglars break into her apartment twice and empty it from the few items of value she has.

Even ten years after Neal's fake promise, the damn thought about Tallahassee won't go away.

She wonders if it's because it's the last promise she was given. She spent the first years of her life used to nothing being permanent and secure; then Ingrid pretty much spoiled her, gave her unrealistic expectations about the world. But Emma can't find it in herself to blame her. For all her faults – and crimes – Ingrid had given Emma her love. And it's something she'd go to jail ten times for.

Boston is a big city, but it's choke-full of negative memories for Emma, and just for once she wishes she can spend her birthday somewhere and just do something.

Her boss can only give her two days off the week before her birthday. Just her luck.

Still she's got just enough savings to visit New York City. Truly, she just wants some time away from Boston – she hasn't left since she was released ten years ago. She just wants a place where she doesn't have to avoid old acquaintances, she wants something loud, and drinks, and dance. Lots, lots of dance.

The club in New York isn't half bad. Someone's cigarette burns half a lock of her hair, she spills her drink on her dress, and her shoes are killing her – she learned long ago to not trust heels with her luck, and still her flats are uncomfortable – but she manages to have a decent time.

Or maybe it's the drink that's muddling her thoughts. Maybe she's too drunk to stay on one thought for long, if the realization that her bladder has given her its sixth warning is anything to go by.

Of course there's a queue outside the of course only bathroom. She sits down next to a guy who looks as plastered as her. And she swears it's not the drink that makes all but one person disappear from the queue. And then it will be the guy's turn, and then hers... sweet, finally.

However, when the last person comes out, the guy next to her gestures with his hand.

"Go ahead," he says slowly. His eyes are drooping closed.

"No, it's okay," she says, also slowly. "I can wait."

"Go, please. I'm not one to leave a lady waiting."

"Oh, how a gentleman... what gentleman..." Shit, she's very drunk. Shit? Is that what he... is that why he wants her to go first?

He is a gentleman. And with an accent, to boot.

"Can I kiss you?" she says.

The man just shrugs.

As he sits against the wall, she touches his cheek and kisses him deeply.

#Captain Swan #captain swan ff #cs ff #ouat ff #akfgl #captain swan movie marathon #piracytheorist writes

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dented-nado · 4 years ago

Note

So a little bird told me you were taking Sebwill prompts. I thought I should take advantage of that! May I request something along the lines of SebWill superheroes/villains? Maybe they are mortal enemies by day, and lovers by night?

This is such a perfect combination of my interests, I am so damn here for it. I hope you enjoy it!

This ended up a little long, oops! Lol! I also absolutely kind of made a soup of DC hero/villain origins and mixed them together for this lol. Bonus points to anyone who can spot every one that I made a reference to! :D

==================================

Years ago, William had hid in his room after a horrible day. He was only about 15, wishing he could just fly away and leave.

Then… suddenly he found himself lying on his ceiling. It had taken him several long moments of panicking to realize he wasn’t dreaming, longer to realize he could move around as he wished.

And so… he opened his bedroom window, and left home, never to look back.

Anyone who knew him now would be shocked to find that at one point, William T. Spears who stood so straightly and kept every bit of him tidy and proper… had once been a scruffy, scrawny little teenage meta-human wandering the streets of London, getting into trouble and being chased by the authorities trying to take him into and orphanage or foster care… or worse, back home.

William had learned to live off the streets. At a certain point he had even gotten a little cocky, he was so fast that no one would even see him as he stole whatever he needed or wanted. He’d lead cops on a wild goose chase into alleyways that he knew like the back of his hand, only to float away to the rooftops out of sight.

He didn’t really make friends either. He mostly just had a small pack of birds that he split some of the spoils from his day out with when they came to the cracked window of the abandoned flat he had hid in.

He had always heard of heroes… saving the earth from threats both domestic and extra-terrestrial. Hell, he had seen one of them blast through London. On one hand he was curious, if maybe he and that super-being came from similar origins. But on another hand… he couldn’t help but resent the whole idea of heroes.

They certainly never protected kids like him.

That was the first time William had a sort of haunting thought. He had escaped because… he just happened to have these abilities that he still didn’t know the origin of… how many kids out there weren’t so lucky that weren’t being saved??

Well… maybe he could save them but, well when he looked around himself this was a fine nest for himself, but more than one person? Potentially kids even younger than him? How would he even look after them? He was 17 now… maybe he could pass as 18 if he cleaned up a bit, then maybe if he had enough money by then he could buy a better place and own it himself. How much did houses cost? It couldn’t be that much if lots of adults had them right?

He’d start stealing things to sell, he decided. He could get away with it, surely.

Well, his plan had fallen short, when he had been caught, stealing the tires off a rather fancy car since he was sure he could sell them for quite a bit.

The presumed owner of said car seemed oddly amused and calm at a scraggly un-kempt seventeen-year old stealing the tires of her car.

It was then another person came around the corner rambling on her phone, she seemed almost the same age as William, though maybe a little younger. She stared at William and who William now supposed was this young lady’s mother.

William decided now was the time to up up and away out of there, only suddenly, in a red blur, the young girl had jumped up and pulled him back down, she was fast… almost as fast as him.

“Excuse you! You can’t just steal our tires and go!” She scolded.

William had tried to escape, he’d found it easy to lift incredibly heavy objects including cars above his head, but now he couldn’t seem to pull her arms off him.

“Let me go!” He demanded.

“Now young man…” The girl’s mother said patiently. “How about you land yourself right back down on the ground and we can see about helping you out so you aren’t out here on the streets stealing tires.”

William glowered distrustfully, still thrashing in frustration as the young redheaded girl pulled him back down to the ground.

“If you haven’t noticed… we’re like you. We can help you… if you replace the tires and calm down.”

William had bit his lip. He didn’t trust this strange red-headed mother and daughter pair but then again… maybe… it would be nice to meet other people like him.

Begrudgingly he had put the tires back on quickly, and hesitantly sat in the back seat of the vehicle beside said girl who had been grinning at him since she had pulled him down to the ground.

“I’m Grell, what’s your name boy?”

William stared at her like she had grown horns for a moment before finally answering, realizing he hadn’t said his own name in a while.

“William.”

“William… you’d be rather handsome if you cleaned up a bit.” She teased with a small giggle.

It was that decision that led him to where he was now. It turned out he had been picked up and adopted by a very, very wealthy family that practically owned half the city. He learned he was a meta-human, and certain supernatural genetics had caused his abilities to develop. While he had flight and a decent amount of strength down, he eventually found his most key ability was telekinesis, allowing him to move around almost anything with solid mass with his mind.

Grell seemed to have both flight and strength as he did, but she also was far faster than him and caused fire to ignite out of thin air. It suited her red hair and personality perfectly in his mind.

Grell and him also saw rather eye to eye on using their meta-human abilities to give more attention to the people trapped in bad homes that needed saving and she became a pseudo-sister to him. He found out her mother had taken Grell when she was only 9 years old and run away with her in the middle of the night. Running far away from the father who had treated them both poorly. Then, Grell’s mother had been lucky enough to find love, not even knowing she was going to be marrying into a vast amount of money, but that had certainly been a nice bonus.

Outwardly of course, they were both celebrities of sorts, especially when they turned 18, they became public figures. Grell flourished happily in the spotlight. William on the other hand… could handle being polite and interacting with others at important events, but he really did hate all the attention – he was relieved when… at night, him and Grell would dawn garments to hide their well known identities, and would do the vigilante style work of trying to find and save kids from bad situations, feed those who needed it, and punch a few robbers and other criminals on the way if it served them.

William did sort of understand the superhero dilemma more now. It seemed as if something was always happening that would distract from the “smaller” work. He had been more than frustrated when a man… no…a demon it seemed that controlled and moved through the shadows decided to make William his arch nemesis. There was no clue to who this man causing chaos could be. His entire face was covered, not only making it seem as if he had no facial features, but it also made William wonder if there was a man under there how he saw or breathed with that thing on. It was also clear when this villain spoke he had some sort of voice filter on that scrambled the tone of his voice, causing it to sound garbled and off-putting.

His only solace between the stress of his daytime persona, and his ‘night job’ – was the boyfriend he had managed to be with despite at all. Sebastian Michaelis. They had met at a gala, and despite himself, after one dance, William could already feel himself being swept off his feet by the raven-haired man with a mischievous glint in his eyes. And so… after that, he had made a point to see him. Grell had teased him that he was absolutely head over heels for the gothic man that stuck out like a sore thumb against the light colors most of the people at gatherings tend to wear. Sebastian was dashing in his own right… and well, William had been called “Goth lite” by Grell as well as their mutual friend Ronald Knox. So they had something in common.

It wasn’t long before William had to admit he was head over heels for Sebastian, and they had begun their romantic outings. Of course their relationship eventually got media attention, they couldn’t go on dates for long without someone recognizing them. Somehow though, while it seemed Sebastian was also someone who reveled in the spotlight much more than William, the way Sebastian would hold him or rub his back soothingly made him feel more confident in handling such attention.

After about a year and a half of dates and nights spent together, William officially asked Sebastian to stay with him in his apartment. It was more of a condo than an apartment, but William didn’t like that word much. It was one of the properties that had been gifted to him that hadn’t been turned into a high-quality rescue shelter for children.

William… hadn’t told him about his night life yet, and Sebastian always seemed to take his word for it. It wasn’t he didn’t trust Sebastian, in fact he was beginning to feel as if he’d do just about everything for this man. Yet… well, vigilante-ing was dangerous business, even if you could fly and move things with your mind. He swore he’d tell Sebastian about his night life well before they got married.

But for now… he enjoyed moments like this, laying on top of him while they slept, ear pressed against his chest, listening to his heartbeat for comfort. Sebastian would often run his hand through William’s hair, effectively petting him until the stern man slept. He didn’t want these quiet, comforting moments to ever end….

…and he’d be damned if he let any sort of super-villain or threat come between them.

#sebawill #sebwill #au #hero au #villain au #hero x villain au #prompt fill #writing prompt fill #sebastian x william #black butler #kuroshitsuji #sebastian michaelis #william t spears #tw #tw for past abuse mention #no detailed descriptions or flashbacks though.

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cosleia · 3 years ago

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Jeeyon Answer Meme

I did a meme on Twitter, made by a user named Jeeyon, where you answer really weird questions...except I answered each question as a different Star Wars character. See if you can guess who is who.

1. What is your favorite thing to smell that's neither perfume nor your body's natural scent?

The second-best thing I ever smelled were wildflowers, lush and purple, beautiful as they bobbed on long stems in the gentle breeze. The best, though…well. It doesn’t matter. I’ll never smell either of them again.

2. Horses: y/n? Defend your answer.

Look, when you’re on a planet with animals that are ridden, you ride those animals. You do what the locals do. That’s how you make contacts and gain trust. Would I say I particularly LIKE animals? No. I don’t care about children, either. No—no, put that down! *heavy sigh*

3. If you could be perpetually youthful in mind and body but it meant outliving everyone you love, would you do it?

I want to say yes. I should say yes. There’s so much work left, and if I could maintain my health longer, I could do more…but.

But.

I’ve just lost so much, so many, already.

Don’t tell anyone. I have to be strong.

4. What was a superstition you made up and slowly, over time, ended up believing?

All I do is bring pain to the people I love. The galaxy can’t afford my mistakes anymore. I have to take myself out of the equation.

That’s what I told myself, and I even believed it…but deep down, I knew I was afraid. It took a true hero to make me face that.

5. What sounds do you hear often in passing that cheer you up?

The Falcon makes good noises. The hyperdrive especially, but even the proximity alarm…it all reminds me of those early days with Han. Nothing’s perfect, but after literal enslavement on a mudball planet, that time was idyllic.

And Han was the best friend I’ve ever had.

6. A minor god grants you a boon: either the gift of being able to grow gills to breathe and swim great depths underwater, or to grow wings and fly to great heights. You can go about as fast as you would at a full sprint. What good deed did you receive the boon for, and do you take gills or wings?

Oh gosh, a boon? Just for being a decent human being?? I don’t know, could I even accept? …pretend I have to? Ugh, okay…well…being able to fly would be amazing, but I mean, I don’t want to discount BREATHING UNDERWATER, like, can you imagine?? And oh I’m supposed to say what I did to get the boon too, I don’t even know, in the stories you can get a boon for setting an animal free from a trap or returning something that was lost, so maybe something like that. But I don’t know, it should be something really special, right? Something…

…like what a hero would do. Something…

Oh, I am NOT, shut up!

…yes, I did do that…

Fine…

Okay, I’m going to pick flying. You’re more likely to need me to save your ass again in the air than in the ocean. *laughs*

7. Every wild animal you see within an eight block radius of your home now has a taste for human flesh. How screwed are you?

How convenient for me. I have plenty of humans around. This way, my snacks will come right to me.

8. You meet and fall in love with someone who falls in love with you in turn, but the cost is you never have a clean break when you take a shit ever again. Is it worth it?

To love—and to be loved back? Totally worth it. I’ll cram some TP up there, I don’t care. Sure it’ll make being in the cockpit uncomfortable sometimes, but what kind of pilot can’t fly under pressure?

9. If you could be any of your houseplants, which would you be? If you don't have houseplants, choose a bivalve instead.

What a pointless question! I don’t have time for this. Back to your stations immediately.

10. In Bo Burnham's comedy special Inside, the opening song includes the line, "I'm sorry I've been gone, but look I made you some content/Daddy made you your favorite, open wide." What are you opening wide for? You are opening your mouth only. You are not opening your mouth for a body part. [Note: That disclaimer SLAYED ME]

*squeals unintelligibly, gesturing toward Frog Lady’s eggs*

11. You wake up with a worn leather pouch under your pillow. When you unwind the frayed cord cinched around its neck, you see that it is full of teeth. Somehow you know you are meant to plant them in fertile soil. What kind of teeth are they, and what crop do you harvest?

The teeth are from a comb, and when I plant them they grow a rooster, and when he crows you feel it in your teeth. Well, that’s what it seems like would happen, anyway. Just a feeling.

12. There's a spider in your home that brings you a crisp, newly minted $5 every day at 5:40PM, but also every day at an undetermined time between 1 and 2AM, on two randomly selected days of the week, screams directly in your ear with the volume and lung capacity of an opera singer. Do you let the spider keep living inside, or do you take it outside to a nice garden somewhere?

I do not comply with natural law. I make my own law. This spider will bow before me. My new apprentice.

13. While you're trying out a new recipe, you fuck up and summon a demon instead. What were you trying to cook? Which demon do you summon with your errors?

Well, hello there. I suppose my lunch shall have to wait. Would you be interested in helping me commit war crimes?

14. If you could transform all of your hair to a different, hairlike-but-not-hair substance, what would it be?

Uhhh, gonna have to stick with my hair, I think. No offense to anyone. I just already know how to deal with hair. (Plus…my hair’s pretty great)

15. You're checking the ingredients of a new affordable skincare product that's really working wonders for you, and the first one listed is "ACTIVE INGREDIENT 3.6% HUMAN BLOOD." Do you keep using it?

ABSOLUTELY NOT. I would bring this outrage to the Senate immediately. No one should suffer for others’ gain.

16. You travel to see a beloved friend of many years, but the more time you spend with them, the more they seem a little off, like you're looking at a picture of your friend through a window pane. When you ask them about it they reply cheerfully, "Oh yeah I'm a homunculus constructed in the image of your friend. I have all their memories and bodily conditions. For all intents and purposes, I'm a later edition of your friend, but the person you knew as your friend isn't here anymore. Where do you want to eat dinner tonight?" What restaurant do you choose?

I know you’re not Fives. I held Fives as he died. We may all look alike, but we’re not all the same.

17. If you could shrink or grow to ride any non-horse animal like a horse, which animal would you choose?

Oh, that would be useful, especially the shrinking part, to get into tighter spaces. But then I’d want to be normal again later. Or bigger, so people would be less likely to cheat me. Oh, yes, I suppose I do have the lightsaber now, don’t I?

18. During an evening stroll you find an adorable, bright blue beetle the size of a pencil eraser. When you go over to investigate, it calls you the rudest thing you've ever been called in your entire life. What do you do?

What?? That’s just—what??? I think I’d be too shocked to respond at first. But everyone has their reasons for doing things I guess. Maybe if we talked about it we could come to an understanding. If not, I’d just go on my way.

#star wars #my writing #not tagging the characters because that would be telling!#some of these are better than others haha

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harringtown · 5 years ago

Text

are we destined to burn, or will we last the night

requested by anonymous

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Reader

Summary: Steve and the reader grow up together, grow apart, and find their way back to each other (aka childhood best friends with some angst)

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: none

AGE 10

Steve’s favorite game to play is pretend. While the other children tumble up and down plastic slides or jump off swings during recess, Steve always drags you into the dirt, feigning sticks as swords and the dirt yard as a battleground. Sometimes you’re knights rescuing princesses, and sometimes you’re slaying dragons, and sometimes you’re wild animals prowling through a jungle.

For as long as you can remember, Steve has been beside you - playing pretend or facing reality. But as time passes, you grow out of make-believe, the games less satisfying as the world expands around you. Steve, however, never lets go of playing pretend. When everyone else sheds their false identities, Steve grabs on tight and holds.

Most children stop playing pretend. Steve Harrington never learned how.

AGE 15

Steve gets dragged into Tommy H’s perfect pretend world of popularity soon after high school starts. You’re sat halfway back in the bus, Steve on the aisle side, you against the window, when Tommy ambles through the bus door with Carol and another boy on his heels. He catches Steve’s eye, his thick brows arching and a sly smile tugging on his lips.

“The hell you doing up here, Harrington?” Tommy asks, as if they’ve been friends for years rather than just classmates who never spoke. “Come sit in the back with us.”

Even as a middle schooler, Tommy was cruel and arrogant, avoided by all but his tight group of friends. It appears he’s in the market for more, and that Steve is his latest conquest.

You don’t expect Steve to even engage with him - he and Tommy have never been friends, always icy to one another - but to your surprise, Steve meets your gaze and asks, “You mind?”

It’s so much of a shock that you can do nothing but nod, blank-stared. Steve’s gaze darts to Tommy and his little group, and something indecipherable - like yearning, or wistfulness perhaps - flickers in his eyes. When he meets your gaze again, something is different; something you aren’t even fully aware of yet.

“I’ll see you at lunch?” He asks with that dopey smile and hopeful eyes, like he genuinely believes he’ll join you later; for the moment, you believe it, too.

“Yep,” you say. “Have a good first day, yeah?”

He grins and reaches out to flick a finger against your backpack strap, and says, “You too. I want to hear all about it.”

“Lunch,” you say.

“Lunch,” he agrees, and stands from the seat you share, following Tommy and Carol to the back of the bus, where they plop into the last row. Within seconds Steve is laughing at something Tommy said, and he’s handing Carol the apple from his lunch sack, like he’s spent a hundred bus rides with them, like they’ve always been friends.

You don’t see him at lunch, instead resorting to a table with a few people you recognize from classes, and on the bus ride home, Steve follows Tommy and Carol to the back of the bus, passing by your seat with an apologetic smile and a flick to your backpack strap.

And just like that, fifteen years of friendship fizzles out like a sparkler. Bright burning, but non-lasting.

AGE 16

Steve’s grandfather passes away three months into sophomore year, but you don’t hear the news from him; you haven’t so much as spoken more than ten words to one another in months. He climbed his pedestal and settled into his new crowd, and you fell into your own, and the story of you and Steve Harrington’s friendship was tucked away and hidden. As if it had never been a story at all, but a fever dream.

While he may not be your best friend anymore - or even your friend at all - it’s impossible to chuck so much time caring about him into the trash, just like that. When your parents tell you about the passing, you find yourself almost in tears for him; for the boy who seems to have forgotten you exist, or simply no longer cares. For the boy whose parents are cruel and cold, for the grandfather Steve found a family in.

You find him by his locker in the hall between classes, not sure what to say, but feeling like you should say something. Tommy, Carol, and a redhead whose name starts with an M are huddled around him, all laughing about a joke you miss. They go quiet when you approach, and Carol’s face twists into a look of disdain.

“Hey, Steve,” you say. He meets your gaze, something like shame showing in his eyes for a split second before a wall slams down. “I just…I wanted to say I’m sorry. For…” You glance at his friends, then back at him. “For your loss.”

His lip curls, a viciousness you’ve never seen before flashing in his eyes.

“Excuse me?” He asks. He looks to his friends, and for a second, only a second, fear flashes in his eyes; like you’re holding a curtain and threatening to rip it open.

“Your…” you stop, realizing they don’t know. He didn’t tell them someone died, likely didn’t mention anything at all. It’s an odd actualization: he always told you everything. But it seems that these people know as little about him now as you do, and they’ve spent the last three months by his side. “Never mind.”

“Are they having a stroke, or something?” Carol asks, folding her arms, lips quirking up in a sneer. Her words bite, and you press your lips together; you shouldn’t have come over. You shouldn’t have tried; you should have just respected the line Steve drew in the sand, kept away like he clearly wanted. You were a reminder of an old life, of another Steve, one he didn’t want to look at.

Somewhere between August and October, the Steve you knew disappeared. The boy you’d spent years tackling in the lake, the boy who used to bake you horrible cookies when you were sad, the boy who made you fifteen different Valentine cards when a cruel boy in class had joked about you never receiving any, was gone. The boy you’d grown up with was gone, shoved into a cell and locked away.

When Steve Harrington as you’d known him burned away, it was the King of Hawkins High who rose from the ashes.

AGE 17

“He’s so hot,” your best friend Emma raves at lunch, chin in her hands, gazing longingly across the cafeteria at Steve and his friends. You follow her line of sight, wincing when you land on him.

“God, seriously? He’s a dick.”

“A beautiful, handsome dick, with amazing hair,” she says, a dreamy look in her eye.

“Never gonna happen,” you say, doing your best to keep your voice level. Your friendship - ex friendship - with Steve Harrington isn’t something you go around sharing, and even your best friend doesn’t know the extent. She knows you grew up across the street from one another, and nothing more, the way you want it. The details would just draw attention you don’t want and force questions you don’t have answers to.

What happened between you? You still don’t know. Why? No fucking clue.

“Besides,” you say. “He’s been following Nancy Wheeler around like a lost puppy for weeks. That ship might have sailed.”

“She’s so not his type.”

You snort, throwing a French fry at your friend, who ducks to catch it in her mouth, lips curled up in a wide grin as she chews.

“And you are?” You ask.

“You don’t know! Maybe he’s, like, super sensitive on the inside. Or a big dork. Or collects, like, quarters, or something.”

Once upon a time, perhaps. But the soft, silly Steve you knew hasn’t shown his face in over a year.

“Or, he could just be a pretentious popular asshole,” you counter.

Emma shakes her head, confident in her observations of Steve, unaware that you’ve got more background information than anyone else in this school; you hope to keep it that way.

“Nah, I’m calling it. It’s an act,” she says. And though it feels a little naive, you want to believe her; you want to believe that he isn’t lost, isn’t all gone. But the thing about playing a part for so long is that sometimes, you forget it’s a part at all. You wonder if Steve has forgotten, too.

AGE 18

Nancy Wheeler rips his heart to pieces in front of a houseful of teenagers, and though it’s immature and selfish and downright shitty, you can’t help the little voice in the back of your head that says serves him right.

It’s been a long time since you’ve spoken to Steve - longer since you were friends - but you’re surprised to find sadness - sadness for him, for his hurting - beneath your selfish anger at him. As much as you’d like to just not care, you’d be kidding yourself if you said you didn’t. Of course, you do. You can’t grow up beside someone like that and kick them off; your roots grew together, woven and overlapping. It’s like, each time you think you’ve picked the last weed, more turn up. Like the Hydra, growing back two heads for each one lost.

Part of you wants to call him, or to simply cross the street and knock on his door, make sure he’s okay. It’s not like his parents will be there for him, or his so-called friends.

But that isn’t your right, anymore. It hasn’t been since the day Steve traded a seat with you on the bus for a kingdom; a high school, but still a kingdom. And as much as you might want to talk to him, there’s nothing left to say. There hasn’t been for a long time; it just took you a while to figure it out. The boy you love - loved - doesn’t exist anymore, and no amount of wanting will bring him back.

AGE 18

A soft knock on your window rips you out of sleep sometime after midnight and you roll out of bed, squinting through the dark curtains to decipher the figure standing outside. You carefully tug them aside, lips turning down in a frown when you identify the battered boy standing on your lawn. Steve Harrington, a hoodie shadowing his face. You shove up the window pane and lean out, willing your hammering heart to slow.

“King Steve? At my house? To what do I owe the honor?” The words drip sarcasm, and when he flinches at the old nickname, you feel a trace of regret. The regret turns to shame when he removes his hood, revealing a swollen and bloody face.

“What the hell happened to you?” You ask.

Instead of answering that questions, he answers another, “I had nowhere else to go.”

And maybe its because its late and you’re tired and not making good choices, or maybe its because he looks so miserable standing there, or maybe its because you’ve missed him more than you’ve admitted to yourself, but you step back from the window and gesture for him to climb in. He does, careful not to knock anything over as he pulls himself through the window; last time he did so, he was a foot shorter and years younger.

You flick on the lamp and head for the bathroom, turning on the light and ducking to remove the first aid kit from beneath the sink. Steve follows you in, and you gesture for him to sit on the closed toilet seat, dropping onto the edge of the bathtub beside it.

“What happened?” You ask again, opening the first aid kit and pulling out alcohol and gauze. You douse one of the pads and lift it to a cut on his cheek; he hisses and tries to pull away, but you grab his shoulder and pin him in place.

“Billy Hargrove,” he says curtly.

“Is this one of those, you should see the other guy, situations?”

He frowns, and says, “Unfortunately not.” You shrug and nod.

“Sounds about right.”

He flinches at the cruelty in your words, and you kick yourself internally. You clean the rest of his face in silence, keeping your focus on the monotony of the gauze pads and alcohol, but don’t miss the glances Steve sends your way. Only once his face looks less like the bottom of a meat grinder and more like an actual face do you address him again.

“Why are you here, Steve?”

He drops his gaze to his lap, picking at the hem of his shirt.

“I…I think I got lost.”

You frown, brows furrowing.

“I don’t understand.”

His lips part, and he lifts his gaze to yours, the wall that’s been up since freshman year nowhere in sight. He looks like the Steve you remember, the one you grew up and fell in love with, the one that walked away. You hadn’t realized how much you missed him until now; how angry at him you are.

“I thought-I thought I knew what…what mattered, you know? I thought I could only find it if I was…that person. I thought I knew what I wanted. And now…none of it makes sense. All the shit I thought was important, just, isn’t anymore. And I don’t know what to do.”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” you say. He closes his eyes for a long moment, and when he opens them, the transparency in them smacks you like lightning, pinning you in place.

“I fucked everything up,” he says. “I was an asshole. And I know I’ve got no right showing up here, asking for your help, but I…” his jaw clenches, “I miss you.”

“Steve,” you whisper, for lack of anything else to say.

“I got lost, and I left you behind. But I don’t-I don’t want to be lost anymore. I don’t want to keep screwing things up.”

“It’s been a long time,” you say, voice shaking. You’ve spent too long mourning him to trust that he’s found a way back; that he wants to find a way back.

“I know,” he says. “And I’m sorry. But I’m tired of pretending.”

“Pretending what?”

“Pretending that I don’t know what I want,” he says, holding your gaze in a vice grip.

“And what is it you want?” You ask.

“What I’ve always wanted,” he says. “You. It just…took me a while to figure it out.”

Hope blooms in your chest, warm and welcoming; it’s a sensation you’ve not felt for a long time. It’s a scary feeling, so big and full of dangers, full of a million possibilities.

You let a hand settle against his cheek, gentle against his bruised skin, and he leans into you, eyes falling shut for a beat. Your stomach turns over, heart beating like a kick drum, so loud you’re shocked Steve can’t hear.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “for being such an asshole. For walking away.”

��I’m sorry for letting you,” you say. His lips part, like he’s going to say something, but instead of speaking, he throws his arms around you, the hug surprising but welcome. You wind your arms around him, holding tight, vowing never to let go, again.

“I missed you,” he murmurs, voice muffled by your hair. You smile and pull back to look at him, bruised and broken face cupped in your hands.

“I missed you, too,” you say.

And when you kiss him, you can taste the future on his lips; in it, you’re together. You don’t know what comes next, what obstacles will be shoved into your path, but you know one thing: Steve will be by your side. And somehow, that’s enough.

#brooke writes fic #steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x oc #stranger things #steve harrington x fem!reader

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aion-rsa · 4 years ago

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Why Amazon Prime’s Invincible Had to Be Animated

https://ift.tt/2NIsLnL

Invincible comic writer Robert Kirkman has a gentlemanly agreement with Steven Yeun, who appeared in The Walking Dead for six seasons and now stars as the adapted Invincible’s titular hero.

“Steven and I have a rule that there’s no more popping his eyeballs out. I can live with that – once is enough,” Kirkman tells Den of Geek and other outlets during the series’ press day.

Kirkman’s imagination is as violent as it is vast. Yeun’s character Glenn Rhee on AMC’s The Walking Dead (based on the Kirkman comic of the same name) was a notable unfortunate recipient of that bloodlust when he was beaten to death with a barbed wire baseball bat in the show’s seventh season.

Now Yeun is providing his voice to Mark Grayson a.k.a. Invincible – the super-powered high schooler at the center of Amazon Prime’s adaptation of Kirkman’s comic. Steven (and Mark’s) eyeballs are safe for now…but very few other body parts are in this sprawling superhero tale.

Invincible first premiered in a preview as part of Image Comics’ Savage Dragon #102, more than a full year before Kirkman’s black and white zombie blockbuster The Walking Dead debuted. The character graduated to his own regular series in 2003, first illustrated by Cory Walker, and then by the prolific Ryan Ottley. The story of Mark Grayson ran, uninterrupted and with very few side arcs, for 15 years before concluding with issue #144 in 2018.

The appeal of Invincible can be hard to describe. At first glance, it’s a very conventional comic book story. Mark is the son of Nolan Grayson a.k.a. Omni-Man, an alien from the planet Viltrum and now Earth’s most powerful superhero (of which there are many). The series begins with Mark eagerly anticipating the arrival of his own superpowers and then embarking on an adventure of super self discovery, alongside a host of heroic allies and terrifying villains.

What sets Invincible apart, however, is its dedication to realistic storytelling. Mark is a very likeable, yet believably flawed young man.Kirkman’s sprawling 144-issue narrative meticulously follows Mark’s maturation and the ethical questions raised by a universe fit-to-bursting with invulnerable ubermensches.

There’s also the violence…oh the sweet, sweet violence. Ryan Ottley’s art in Invincible has a deep, abiding respect for the physics of super powers. Though the images may be colorful, the action depicted within them are shocking in their brutality. Nary does a bone go uncrunched or an intestine un-ripped out in Kirkman and Ottley’s hyper visceral world.

Naturally, Invincible was always a hot target for adaptation, particularly after AMC hit Kirkman zombie paydirt with The Walking Dead. But how exactly could any TV series fully capture the deliriously gory detail of Ottley’s art? The answer as it turns out is to just go ahead and adapt the art too.

Amazon Prime’s Invincible, the first season of which will be eight episodes, features animation from Wind Sun Sky Entertainment and Kirkman’s own Skybound. Kirkman himself is on board as a producer, alongside David Alpert, Catherine Winder, and Simon Racioppa (who serves as showrunner). The end result is an animation style that hews closely to the comic’s original art and often seems like Ottley’s illustrations in motion.

“The action is a little bit more brutal when things are moving. I think it’s going to serve to heighten things in the series,” Kirkman says.

While heightening the violent rhythms of Invincible seems like a wild proposition, the show’s star agrees that the animation does just that.

“You can go to places that live-action probably isn’t able to go to, even now,” Yeun tells Den of Geek and other outlets. “(Animation) creates a nice separation so that you can examine what the show might be saying without one-to-one comparison. Like that’s an actual arm being ripped off, but it’s a cartoon arm being ripped off. There’s just something different about that.”

Both Yeun and J.K. Simmons, who plays Nolan, note that the show’s kinetic sequences provide interesting voice acting challenges.

“What’s really fun is going back over in ADR and tracing back over these action sequences and these emotional moments. A lot of this show lives in those emotional moments that aren’t necessarily mixed in with dialogue, where a breath or a subtle way of gurgling blood in your mouth and trying to breath is its own kind of emotionality,” Yeun says.

“ADR is usually just ‘make this grunt.’ But because of the intensity of the violence and the stakes and the repercussions, it did feel much more emotionally connected doing the fight sequences,” Simmons adds.

The show’s animation style isn’t all about merely capturing the grunts and gurglings of blood, however. While Mark Grayson’s story begins relatively small, it eventually blossoms into an enormous superhero universe containing countless people, monsters, and worlds. Even in our era of technical sophistication where just about anything seems possible on television, Invincible is a hard sell as live-action.

According to Kirkman, animation was the only way to properly tell this story.

“The main benefit is that we’re going to be able to provide the audience with a scope and scale, more akin to a $200 million blockbuster movie than what you usually get from your average superhero television show,” Kirkman says. “Drawing an army of a thousand people is a little bit easier than hiring a thousand people and putting costumes on them and things like that. If we want to have three different alien invasions in the same episode, we can.”

Invincible Review (Spoiler-Free)

By Bernard Boo

Kirkman knows the limits of live-action television as well as anyone. Though The Walking Dead remains an enormous success for AMC, it has experienced quite a bit of casting turnover throughout the years with only Norman Reedus’s Daryl Dixon and Melissa McBride’s Carol Peletier remaining of the season 1 main cast in the show’s 11 seasons. Requesting that actors endure grueling television shooting schedules in the humid Atlanta summers for an undetermined number of years is a big ask as it turns out.

If depicted in live-action, the commitments of actors’ times and bodies would be even more brutal for the Invincible cast. And the cast of Invincible is set to be huge. The first season alone will star: Yeun as Mark Grayson, Simmons as Nolan Grayson, Sandra Oh as Debbie Grayson, Seth Rogen as Allen the Alien, Gillian Jacobs as Atom Eve, Andrew Rannells as William Clockwell, Zazie Beetz as Amber Bennett, Walton Goggins as Cecil Stedman, Jason Mantzoukas as Rex Splode, Zachary Quinto as Robot, and many, many more. (Check out the full list over here).

And that’s before the story begins to expand with more heroes and villains in later issues/seasons. The relatively smaller time commitments of voiceover acting in animation allows Kirkman and the series writers to keep the cast as large as needed, though Simmons notes that he, Yeun, and Oh all still get to act together in-studio.

Kirkman says the show is able to delve deeper into certain characters than the comics did, with figures like G-man Cecil Stedman and the Rorschach-esque Damian Darkblood getting more screen time.

“These are characters that I should know intimately, but getting to work with these actors and getting to hear these voices and how these performances come together, it’s like I’m meeting these characters again for the first time and the absolute best way,” Kirkman says. “I’m seeing new aspects to them that didn’t really exist before. It’s really making me more excited about moving forward with this show for many seasons with this cast.”

Yes, Kirkman and the rest of the Invincible cast already have “many seasons” in mind for the show. Whether those seasons will come to pass are up to Amazon and its subscribers. But it seems clear that animation was the right choice for the story’s scope was television was the right choice for its length.

cnx.cmd.push(function() { cnx({ playerId: "106e33c0-3911-473c-b599-b1426db57530", }).render("0270c398a82f44f49c23c16122516796"); });

The first three episodes of Invincible will premiere Friday, March 26 on Amazon Prime.

The post Why Amazon Prime’s Invincible Had to Be Animated appeared first on Den of Geek.

from Den of Geek https://ift.tt/3lItwd9

#aion-rsa #Den of Geek

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leisurelypanda · 5 years ago

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Fantasy AU where Steve's a virginal omega who's chosen to be sacrificed to a fearsome dragon, in the hopes that his kingdom will be spared from its wrath. Even as his blood runs cold at the sight of the beast, a nightmarish thing of red and black descending upon the rock he's chained to, he keeps his head held high, choosing to face this unfair death with courage. But everyone is shocked when the dragon instead breaks the chains and carries Steve off to the distant northern mountains (1/2)

(2/2) Once they reach the beast's lair, Steve finds himself gently laid down in a pile of furs, watching in shock and confusion as the dragon slowly transforms into a naked human alpha named Thor. His movements slow and gentle, Thor kneels before Steve and pledges to be his mate, body and soul. As the weeks pass, Steve gets used to his new living situation and slowly starts to fall in love with this strange alpha, feeling warmer and more protected and loved then he can ever remember.

Okay, I love this concept, I'm weak for turning this "dragon capturing a maiden" trope on its head like this. Also, this sounds like my kind of monster fucking fic and I kinda want to write it. I kinda hate and love you for putting this idea in my head because I love it so much!

Once upon a time, Steve was wandering in the mountains. A dangerous pastime for a young boy, but his mother was the town's apothecary, and that meant Steve had to learn where to find medicinal herbs, roots, and berries. It's not exactly the most glamorous job in the world, but he enjoys it.

One day, he was looking for herbs to stock up for the winter. Every year was the same, of course. People got sick in the winter and his mother would make them medicines. There were rumors that she was a witch, but that didn't keep people from coming to her when they were sick.

On that particular day, Steve went further up the mountain than usual. He was older, nearly 12 years old. His mother said he could handle it, but to be careful. Strange things sometimes lived in the mountains and the forest that covered them. Steve heeded her words, even if he wasn't sure what exactly she was talking about. He had a bow and a quiver of arrows to protect himself and to hunt for food, should the opportunity arise. He was small and weak, but if he had the chance to shoot rabbits or fowl, he could take it.

He heard rustling in a bush and took out his bow. His pack was full, but if he could bring food home, that might be worth just as much as the herbs. When he emerged from the bush, though, what he found wasn't a rabbit or a bird, but a small, strange lizard fighting a fox. The lizard was striking; red and black swirling over its body. Steve had never seen one like it before.

Between them was the carcass of a pheasant that the lizard seemed to defending rather desperately. Without thinking, Steve drew his bow and shot an arrow into the fox's chest. The lizard squawked in shock, and growled at it caught Steve's gaze. Steve held up his hands as he approached to collect the body and his arrow. A fox wasn't good for meat, but the pelt could be used to make something warm or sold to the tanner in town so he could make use of it.

The lizard scented his hand and Steve tried his best to stay calm. It was said that an omega's scent could calm even wild animals. How much of that was true or old wives' tales, Steve had no idea, but it was worth a shot. The lizard calmed, picked up the pheasant in its jaws, and ran off faster than Steve could blink. Regardless, he bent down to pull the arrow out of the fox and put the carcass in an empty sack.

The fox made a warm hat that lasted many years. Steve never saw the lizard again, though. Two years after he found it, he went into his first heat. It was the talk of the town for more than a year afterwards. Many families made offers, especially the rich ones who thought that having a male omega would be a novel idea. Steve turned them all down. The last thing he needed was for some noble prick to take him from his work.

In time, rumors began circulating that he, too, was a witch. It didn't matter if Steve had never actually done anything more than heal the sick and turn down offers of marriage from wealthy families. It didn't even matter that his mother had, in fact, taught him actual magic in addition to his healing arts. He kept it secret and didn't practice anything where others might intrude.

Then, ten years after he met the strange lizard, his mother died. It wasn't unexpected. Her health had been failing her for years before it finally claimed her. Steve wept bitterly at the funeral. Many people turned out, but few offered comfort to Steve. His friends in the town were few, indeed, and none of them could fill the gaping hole her death left in his life.

Only months later, the dragon appeared.

The kingdom was in an uproar. Every effort to drive the beast away had been met with disaster. An army had been ravaged, fields burned, and towns pillaged. The entire town was in a state over the news. There was talk of preparing a sacrifice in the event that the dragon appeared in their region.

Steve scoffed at such talk. What kind of dragon would be placated with an omega virgin? Many of the men who made such suggestions were becoming eager to marry off their omega offspring in the hopes that someone else's child would be chosen to be offered. Steve didn't think it would really happen.

Until it did.

The powerful families of the town were increasingly anxious. Many of them were still offended that Steve had refused all offers of marriage. As the dragon entered their region, the rumors of his being a witch became louder. People stopped coming to his shop for remedies, they slammed doors in his face, some refused to do business with him. A few days after Steve consumed the last of his food, soldiers approached his door. The city council had agreed to offer him up to the dragon. Weak with hunger, Steve went willingly.

The next day he was taken out to the battlements. He was chained to the ground as the dragon approached. Steve gasped, his blood went cold at the sight. The dragon was huge! It was nearly as big as the fortress itself. The scales gleamed crimson red with black swirls, like a sunset with teeth that could set the entire town ablaze.

The head of the council shook violently as he read their declaration of offering Steve to the dragon. Steve took a deep breath and shook as the dragon sniffed him. Then, the dragon extended a huge, clawed paw and snapped the chains like they were nothing more than twigs. The dragon took Steve in its hand and flew away. Steve didn't even have the sense to scream as he watchd his town fade into the distance.

The dragon flew for what seemed like hours until it arrived in a part of the mountains Steve had never seen or heard of before. The mountains were tall and huge and covered with snow. Then, the dragon began to descend and walked into the mouth of an enormous cavern. It was decorated with lavish furs, torches, and rich furnishings. The dragon set Steve down on a pile of furs when it began to shine. A moment later, a large, very naked man stood before Steve. What's more, the man smelled very strongly of alpha. Steve had never scented one more potent. His blond hair went past his shoulders and his chest, arms, and legs were all covered in tattoos of the same red and black swirls as the dragon. Steve swallowed and backed away as the man approached.

"Well met, little one," the man---dragon--- said.

"Do I... know you?" Steve asked.

"Of course," the dragon said with a smile. "You saved me from the fox when I was a starving babe."

Steve's eyes went so wide he was surprised they didn't fall out. "That was you?!? How?"

"Dragons grow quickly when magic and food is plentiful," the dragon replied. He knelt in front of Steve. "I have been searching for you."

Steve blinked. "Why?"

"Your scent has remained with me night and day these past 15 years," the dragon said. "I have bided my time until I could return to you."

"But why me? And why did you cause so much destruction?" Steve asked.

"I did nothing that was not in self-defense," the dragon replied. "I attempted to reason with them, but they refused to listen. Knights preferred the prospect of becoming famous heroes than to help a dragon find the man he loves."

Steve blinked again. "The man you love?"

"Yes, little one," the dragon said. "I am Thor, the king of dragons, and I have searched these many months to find you. I will pledge my eternal love, service, and devotion to you, my sweet, if you will have me."

Steve reeled. He couldn't deny the attraction he felt for the still very large man, but no one had ever declared their love for him, at least, not in a way that he found convincing. Thor, though, seemed sincere.

"I didn't know the dragons had a king," Steve said. Thor smiled.

"We do, and I am he," Thor said. "I would have you be my queen, if you consent."

"And if I don't?" Steve asked.

"Then, with sorrow, I will return you to your home, or you may reside here to find another you deem worthy, or you may name the place and I will take you there and never return," Thor said. "You are free to do as you wish."

Steve considered this for a moment. His home had willingly turned him over, expecting him to be eaten. A dragon, and a king at that, had emerged as a suitor for his hand, who also happened to be the strange creature Steve had saved as a boy. It was a strange turn of events, to be sure.

He looked around the cavern. It was a surprisingly warm place for a home so high up in the mountains. The air smelled of jasmine and ginger, too, not like a den for a wild animal. Human kings and lords lived in less splendid conditions. Still, that wasn't a reason to accept such an offer.

"May I have time to consider?" Steve asked.

"Indeed you may," Thor said. "Take as much time as you require. I only have one thing to ask."

"Yes?" Steve asked.

"May I court you, in the way humans court a mate? I suspect that you would find the way dragons court a mate to be less appealing," Thor said. Steve smiled.

"I think I would like that," he said. Thor smiled, his teeth gleaming and sharp. The look made him appear wild, but also charming, in a way. He also looked excited, in a way that made Steve shiver with anticipation.

"Thank you, little one," Thor said. He bent to kiss Steve's hand, and despite the chaste gesture, Steve blushed furiously. Thor made a sound that was similar to purring, but deeper. The sound made Steve shiver again. "I promise you will enjoy your stay among us."

#ask #cinderellasfella #thundershield #dragons!#dragon!Thor #a/b/o dynamics #alpha!Thor #omega!steve #fanfic #lemon...ish?#I wanna write this so bad

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