#a poem-puzzle made out of puns.

[garden-ghoul]

Happy gushiwensday Monday! This week, Laurence has chosen us a love poem by Li Qingzhao, whose title I have translated “Lady-love.”

your lovely face is like a lotus that blooms when you laugh and the jewelled duck flying through your hair somehow makes your cheek look more kissable and the way your eyes move over me--well, anyone could guess what you're thinking! your whole bearing, your everything is deeply charming. oh, this half-letter won't hold all this sweet-bitter longing, my faraway heart, and watching the flowers' moonshadows creep across the garden makes me want to see you again.

this one’s heavily interpreted, notes and original text under the cut!

浣溪沙·闺情

绣面芙蓉一笑开，斜飞宝鸭衬香腮。眼波才动被人猜。 一面风情深有韵，半笺娇恨寄幽怀。月移花影约重来。

My primary goal for this one was to produce something I wouldn’t be ashamed to send to MY girlfriend in a fit of tender horny longing, so I went a more interpretive and less literal route with my translation. I actually didn’t know that Li Qingzhao was a woman when I translated it, so this is officially a homosexual translation I guess.

Lady-love --- this is a pun, kind of. The title could also be translated as “woman emotions,” maybe. Maybe given that the poet is also a woman it’s a TRIPLE pun??

lovely face --- originally 绣面, which reads more literally as “embroidered surface.” Lol. It confused us a lot. But 面 can also be face like someone’s face, and 绣 is frequently used as a metaphor for more general beauty, as in 绣房 (embroidered room, or a boudoir) and 锦绣 (brocade embroidery, or beautiful).

makes your cheek look more kissable --- 衬香腮, “against skin fragrant cheek.” Gushiwen suggested that the duck ornament brings out vividness in her face through contrast. My lovestruck poetsona is somewhat less coherent about it.

the way your eyes move --- this entire sentence has extremely puzzling syntax, but the driving image here is 眼波, the wave of a person’s eye---I imagine the glance as a fluid moving over someone. It’s an interesting idiom! Pleco tells us it’s specifically a flirtatious look, but 波 evokes more crashing waves or rushing water, so maybe it’s a glance that takes your breath away?

this half-letter... heart --- it’s really not clear to me what Ms Li intended the poetic function of the half-letter to be; all it says in this line is “half letter tender regret send faraway heart.” So I’ve done a lot of interpretation to fill in the gaps, including casting the lady love as the poet’s heart which has been removed.

and watching... see you again --- the stunning conciseness of 约重来, “invites starting over,” demands a better poet than me to translate it. The implication in this line is just that a moonlit night is the best time to see your girl, but it’s worded wonderfully... I think the flowers’ shadows 移 “altered” by the moon brings a little bit of the implication of the poet as the humble flower made more special by a lady’s light.

[arktaisch]

A pun/poem/prophecy made out of the digits of pi!?

"3 point 1 4 1 5 9" somehow sounds almost like "mountain top a temple a jug (of) wine"!?!!

...most random use of pi since that stupid chess board Cybermen-zapping puzzle in "The Five Doctors".

...damn it... Ji Gong really is like the Chinese equivalent of Doctor Who, complete with silly jokes, terrible cheap special effects, cheesy plots and ridiculous panto villains/monsters. These movies are like bad Doctor Who specials... stupid, but I find them entertaining.

[blindrapture]

[three paragraphs from Finnegans Wake, book 1, chapter 3. pages 61 - 64. the chapter as a whole is one of my favourite things, and I have no fucking clue how to talk about any of it. this sequence is a, uh, “narrative block” which I frequently return to.] [bold has been added to emphasize a pattern.]

Be these meer marchant taylor’s fablings of a race referend with oddman rex? Is now all seenheard then forgotten? Can it was, one is fain in this leaden age of letters now to wit, that so diversified outrages (they have still to come!) were planned and partly carried out against so staunch a covenanter if it be true than any of those recorded ever took place for many, we trow, beyessed to and denayed of, are given to us by some who use the truth but sparingly and we, on this side ought to sorrow for their pricking pens on that account. The seventh city, Urovivla, his citadear of refuge, whither (would we believe the laimen and their counts), beyond the outraved gales of Atreeatic, changing clues with a baggermalster, the hejirite had fled, silentioussuemeant under night’s altosonority, shipalone, a raven of the wave, (be mercy, Mara! A he whence Rahoulas!) from the ostmen’s dirtby on the old vic, to forget in expiating manslaughter and, reberthing in remarriment out of dead seekness to devine previdence, (if you are looking for the bilder deep your ear on the movietone!) to league his lot, palm and patte, with a papishee. For mine qvinne I thee giftake and bind my hosenband I thee halter. The wastobe land, a lottuse land, a luctuous land, Emeraldilluim, the peasant pastured, in which by the fourth commandment with promise his days apostolic were to be long by the abundant mercy of Him Which Thundereth From On High, murmured, would rise against him with all which in them were, franchisables and inhabitands, astea as agora, helotsphilots, do him hurt, poor jink, ghostly following bodily, as were he made a curse for them, the corruptible lay quick, all saints of incorruption-of-an holy nation, the common or ereingarden castaway, in red resurrection to condemn so they might convince him, first pharoah, Humpheres Cheops Exarchas, of their proper sins. Business bred to speak with a stiff upper lip to all men and most occasions the Man we wot of took little short of fighting chances but for all that he or his or his care were subjected to the horrors of the premier terror of Errorland. (perorhaps!)

We seem to us (the real Us!) to be reading our Amenti in the sixth sealed chapter of the going forth by black. It was after the show at Wednesbury that one tall man, humping a suspicious parcel, when returning late amid a dense particular on his home way from the second house of the Boore and Burgess Christy Menestrels by the old spot, Roy’s Corner, had a barkiss revolver placed to his faced with the words: you’re shot, major: by an unknowable assailant (masked) against whom he had been jealous over, Lotta Crabtree or Pomona Evlyn. More than that Whenn the Waylayer (not a Lucalizod diocesan or even of the Glendalough see, but hailing fro’ the prow of Little Britain), mentioning in a bytheway that he, the crawsopper, had, in edition to Reade’s cutless centiblade, a loaded Hobson’s which left only twin alternatives as, viceversa, either he would surely shoot her, the aunt, by pistol, (she could be okaysure of that!) or, failing of such, bash in Patch’s blank face beyond recognition, pointedly asked with gaeilish gall wodkar blizzard’s business Thornton had with that Kane’s fender only to be answered by the aggravated assaulted that that that was the snaps for him, Midweeks, to sultry well go and find out if he was showery well able. But how transparingly nontrue, gentlewriter! His feet one is not a tall man, not at all, man. No such parson. No such fender. No such lumber. No such race. Was it supposedly in connection with a girls, Myramy Huey or Colores Archer, under Flaggy Bridge (for ann there is but one liv and hir newbridge is her old) or to explode his twelvechamber and force a shrievalty entrance that the heavybuilt Abelbody in a butcherblue blouse from One Life One Suit (a men’s wear store), with a most decisive bottle of single in his possession, seized after dark by the town guard at Haveyoucaught-emerod’s temperance gateway was there in a gate’s way.

Fifthly, how parasoliloquisingly truetoned on his first time of hearing the wretch’s statement that, muttering Irish, he had had had o’gloriously a’lot too much hanguest or hoshoe fine to drink in the House of Blazes, the Parrot in Hell, the Orange Tree, the Glibt, the Sun, the Holy Lamb and, lapse not leashed, in Ramitdown’s ship hotel since the morning moment he could dixtinguish a white thread from a black till the engine of the laws declosed unto Murray and was only falling fillthefluthered up against the gatestone pier which, with the cow’s bonnet a’top o’it, he falsetook for a cattlepillar with purest peaceablest intentions. Yet how lamely hobbles the hoy of his then pseudojocax axplanation how, according to his own story, he vas a process server and was merely trying to open zozimus a bottlop stoub by mortially hammering his magnum bonum (the curter the club the sorer the savage) against the bludgey gate for the boots about the swan, Maurice Behan, who hastily into his shoes with nothing his hald barra tinnteack and came down with homp, shtemp and jumphet to the tiltyard from the wastes a’sleep in his obi ohny overclothes or choker, attracted by the norse of guns playing Delandy is cartager on the raglar rock to Dulyn, said war’ prised safe in bed as he dreamed that he’d wealthes in mormon halls when wokenp by a fourth loud snore out of his land of byelo while hickstrey’s maws was grazing in the moonlight by hearing hammering on the pandywhank scale emanating from the blind pig and anything like it (oonagh!oonagh!) in the whole history of the Mullingcan Inn he never. This battering babel allower the door and sideposts, he always said, was not in the very remotest like the belzey babble of a bottle of boose which would not rouse him out o’ slumber deep but reminded him loads more of the martiallawsey marses of foreign musikants’ instrumongs or the overthrewer to the third last days of Pompery, if anything. And that after this most nooningless knockturn the young reine came down desperate and the old liffopotamus started ploring all over the plains, as mud as she cud be, ruinating all the bouchers’ schurts and the backers’ wischandtugs so that be the chandeleure of the Rejaneyjailey they were all night wasching the walters of, the weltering walters off. Whyte.

[thoughtfullyyoungduck]

Meet me in the past part three

A/N: This is part three to: ‘meet me in the past’. This is more of a filler chapter, but I still hope you enjoy! let me know what you think! 

Summary: After Stanley Uris takes his own life, his daughter goes to find the recipients of his letters and ends up in Derry. After and incounter with IT, she ends up traveling back into the past, meeting the younger version of her dad and his friends.

warnings: cursing and mentions of suicide 

tagging; @artlovingbre​ @cocastyle​

Emily had been staying with Beverly for the past 3 days. She spend the first night, after her encounter with IT, at Eddie’s house, but his mother was driving her crazy so instead, she ended up sneaking in Bev’s apartment before her dad came home every night. The losers had questions as to why her parents were just leaving there daughter out on the street without a place to stay, but Emily had lied and said that she was supposed to spend time with her grandmother, but she enjoyed spending time with them more. It wasn’t the best excuses, but she was pretty sure that the losers thought that she might have had some troubles with her parents, and they were too kind to question her about it. So, without second thought, Beverly had suggested that she came to stay with her for a couple of days. She got along well with Bev, and she liked spending time with her, as she did with all the losers, but she liked spending time with Stan more.

It was obvious to her why, but all the other losers, including Stan himself, found it quite weird. Richie had laughed about it once, accusing her of having a crush on Stan. Emily had gagged, before she realized that that might seem insensitive. Still though it was awkward whenever Richie brought up crushes, and a few times Emily had to walk away from the group, before Richie would realize that he was taking it too far and stop. Stan himself seemed disgusted with the idea of having a crush on Emily, which she thanked the gods for, but the whole thing had caused Emily more troubles than she would have liked to admit.

After the whole debacle of seeing IT in Bill’s house Emily had panicked for another hour before Bill had finally explained what IT was. He gave the same explanation that adult Bill had given her back in the restaurant, only now Emily knew for a fact that IT was real. She found out that IT could also be called Pennywise, and that the monster came back every 27 years to kill children and feed, before going back into hibernation. Bill had wanted to go to ‘Neibolt’ right away, even going as far as grabbing his bike, but Bev and Mike had convinced him to think about things rationally, promising him that when they had a plane, they would go after IT. Bill wasn’t glad with that decision, he so desperately wanted Georgie to be alive, but after he had been restraint and he came to the conclusion that he wouldn’t be cut loose in a while, he had accepted and started making plans straight away.

She heard stories about how each of them had seen IT, with the exception of Richie, and what it was they were most afraid off. Even Stan had told him how he saw IT, albeit a bit apprehensive. She learned about Mike’s parents and Bill’s brother, about Beverly and her father and the pressure Stan’s dad put on him, she found out how Eddie’s mother would treat him, and how lonely Ben felt before meeting the losers.

She noticed how both Bill and Ben looked at Bev when they thought no one was looking, and she was pretty sure that it was Ben who wrote the poem that Beverly couldn’t stop gushing about. It was safe to say that she learned a lot in the days of her being here. In a way, it made Emily feel excited.

She had a few good friends back in Atlanta, but these group of people seemed like family, and they were accepting her in the group as if they had known her all their life. She was even more excited about the fact that after 4 days of hanging out with the losers Stan seemed to have finally started trusted her. She was unsure how she felt towards the entire thing with her dad. On the one hand, she was still so hurt and mad about the fact that he would just leave her like that, without even a letter trying to explain the whole thing, but on the other hand, she had now felt the mind numbing fear of being in front of IT, and she knew that she would do everything in her power to avoid a confrontation again.

She still liked spending time with him, although she was conflicted about the whole thing. He was still growing into the man that would become her father, but it was nice to know that he too, like she was struggling to becoming a young adult, had struggled to grow up. Stan in turn, when he finally did start to like her, really enjoyed spending time with her because he could talk about his birds to her, and she would either fill the silent space with knowledge of her own, or she would listen intently to what he was saying. He had no idea that he was the one who taught her everything she knew.

She hadn’t hung out with Stan outside of the group, but that was going to change. She had asked Stan if he wanted to go ride his bike with her, and go bird seeing. They would do so early in the morning, and after they could meet up with the other losers to try and find more intel on Pennywise. Stan had agreed, and he seemed excited, even if that enthusiasm was only there for the birds. Richie had looked pretty smug, but Emily had ignored him, because she couldn’t come up with an excuse fast enough to wanting to hang out with only Stan.

They had decided to meet up really early, as they would be more likely to see more birds if everything was still mostly quiet, and the sun wasn’t up yet.

They ended up meeting at 6, at the quarry, and Emily had brought some coffee, because she was not used to getting up that early. Stan had snickered when he saw her coming, but he hadn’t commented on it, instead choosing to find a good spot to watch the birds. They found one under a willow tree, choosing to place their bikes again it’s stem. Stan refused to sit on the grass, as Emily had expected, so they had laid a plaid first, before making themselves comfortable.

It was still for a long time, Stan was looking towards the sky with his binoculars, as Emily swiped through the pages of his bird book. Emily was content, there wasn’t a tense silence, both were relaxed, doing their own thing, but still reveling in each other’s presence. Emily thought back on nights spend with her mom, watching a movie or reading a book, sometimes she would be on her phone, with her dad completing a puzzle, or making crosswords. Not one of them would do something to the other, but they still enjoyed being near each other.

Stan would sometimes speak up, pointing to a bird and giving a brief amount of information about it. Emily would give each of the birds a nickname based on the quirks mentioned in the bird book. Both of them bursted out laughing when Stan made a bird pun, and It was a fun moment, that Emily would surely treasure for the rest of her life. Whenever she got sad about her dad, at least she could remember this moment.

She was a little shocked when this thought caused her to finally think back to her mother, who was still very much upset and grieving, and no doubt worrying more than she ever had in her life. Emily had never been gone for as long as she was now, and she hadn’t called at all the last few days.

She wondered if her dad’s funeral had already happened, if she had missed her last change to say goodbye to her dad. The thought made her sad, the smile slowly melting of her face. Stan noticed, as he too stopped laughing, clearly being out of his comfort zone before placing his hand on her shoulder, squeezing softly. They hadn’t hugged after the moment in Neibolt, after IT had tried to attack her. Stanley really didn’t liked to be hugged it seemed, but god Emily wanted too, so bad.

She didn’t, instead smiling at him to reassure him that she was alright. Stan opened his mouth, closed it, and then opened it again. ‘I’m really glad we did this’, he settled on, and it seemed like he wanted to say more, but before he could, the other losers arrived. ‘hey losers, we were looking for you’, Richie called out. Emily smiled once more at Stan, before turning around and facing the others.

‘Damnit Richie you scared away the birds’, Stan scowled. Richie remained unfazed, shrugging his shoulders, settling down next to Stan while throwing an arm around him. ‘You’ve had enough time to look at them, besides, you love me more than your birds’. While he was speaking, the other losers joined them on the ground, Ben already talking to Beverly, and Bill rolling his eyes at Richie’s speech. ‘I bet that if you could, you’d marry me’, Richie smirked, puckering his lips towards Stan, as if asking for a kiss.

‘I would rather kill myself’. Stan retorted, leaning away from Richie as far as he could while still trapped under his arm. Mike, Eddie, Bill, Bev and Richie all laughed, but Emily felt like a hand was coiled tightly around her neck. She heaved in a breath and Mike, who was sitting next to her, worriedly turned his gaze on her.

‘Emily, are you okay?’ he asked, causing the others to look at what was unfolding. Emily jumped up, she needed to get away from them for a moment, so she could collect her thoughts. ‘That isn’t funny Stan’, she ground out, practically sprinting away from the group. She could feel the gazes of the losers as they continued to stare, but she tried to ignore it the best she could.

She continued walking until she couldn’t see any of the losers anymore, and until she came across a tree big enough to be able to carry her. She climbed it, not going too high, but still high enough that she could see across the field the three was located in. She saw Beverly coming her way, and for a second she thought about hiding away. She decided against it though, and waited until Bev was close enough to speak up.

‘I’m sorry, it was stupid.’ She said, as she helped Bev up on the branch she was sitting on. ‘Don’t apologize’, Bev said, ‘I just wanted to know if you were okay. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want too, but I do want you to know that I’m here for you, and I’ll listen to you whenever you need me too’.

Emily could have easily lied, she could have made up a stupid story, or she could have even told Bev that she didn’t want to talk about it, and Beverly would have accepted it. But she was so tired, so tired of having to keep the charades up, so tired of having to lie and cheat and not saying to much that could betray her. She hadn’t had a day of rest were she could just process everything after her father’s suicide, instead she was constantly running around, meeting new people and trying hard to make sense of things. So instead of lying to Bev, she bursted out crying. Bev shuffled closer, wrapping her arms around Emily.

‘Bev, I’m about to say something crazy, but I need you to hear me out an believe me’.

Beverly held on tighter, ‘Sweetie, I’ve seen blood spewed out of my bathroom drain, and it turned out to be a clowns doing, there’s nothing you can say that will sound crazy to me.’

Despite the heaviness of what Emily was about to say, she couldn’t help but laugh.

‘you, might be surprised’. She said, hugging Beverly back as tight as Bev held her.

‘I’m not from here’, Emily started.

‘Yeah I know, you just moved here like 4 days ago’, Bev laughed, already sounding a little confused.

‘That’s not what I meant. I’m not from here, as in this time. I’m from the future.’ Emily tried again, speaking slowly as she waited for the coin to drop.

Beverly pulled back a bit, still keeping her arms encircled around Emily. ‘Wait what’? She asked, her eyebrows knitted together.

‘I’m Stan’s daughter from the future. I know that sounds crazy, I do, but it’s the truth. I met you in a restaurant, about like 27 years into the future, but something happened and all of a sudden I was here, and I don’t know how that’s even possible, but here I am, and I just .. I need you to believe me Bev. I don’t know how to fix this.’ Emily rambled, scared to look up at Bev.

Beverly paused to stare at Emily for a few seconds, taking in her disheveled state.

‘please. You must know that nothing is impossible or off limits anymore after the whole clown debacle’.

‘I believe you’, Bev said and Emily let out a shaky breath, so glad that someone was on her side, ‘but I need you to tell me everything’.

And so she did, she explained the whole thing. She explained how she had met the adult losers in the restaurant, how the fortune cookies had turned into monsters, and she even reluctantly told Bev about her father’s suicide. It was quite for a while after that revelation, neither Bev nor Emily knew what to say.

‘You can’t tell him’, was the first thing out of Emily’s mouth. ‘I don’t know how to explain it, and I don’t want to have to tell him about his own suicide.’

Bev nodded solemnly. ‘I promise I won’t say anything, and hey Ems, we’ll figure something out alright? We got your back, even if none of the others know what’s really going here’.

It felt good to have finally confided in somebody, and Emily was glad she took the risk. At the very least she now had somebody to that she could vent too, and she was fully prepared to take that offer as soon as possible. Before she could though, the losers club appeared at the edge of the field. Bev and Emily both jumped down from their places in the three, walking up to meet them halfway.

‘We were worried about you guys’, Ben said, but Emily knew he was mostly worried about Bev. It didn’t faze her, Ben’s crush was adorable, and it was sweet to see how much he cared about her.

‘My bad, I kept boring Bev with my stories’, Emily lied, the lie slipping off her tongue like it was nothing. ‘Are we still on for grabbing a milkshake’?

Everybody nodded, Richie pumping his fist into the air, ‘Finally’, he said. Emily chuckled, and the losers soon started on their way towards the dinner.

She hung out near the back of the group, playing with the hem of her sweatshirt, and she hadn’t even noticed Stan slowing his pace to match hers until he was walking right beside her.

‘I’m sorry. That joke was insensitive’, he apologized. It was clear that Stan would never intentionally hurt anybody, and he was quick to admit whenever he was wrong. Emily walked closer to him, bumping into him with her shoulder. ‘It’s fine, it’s not like you could have known anyway’.

Stan abruptly stopped, causing Emily to falter in her step as well. She turned her body towards him, and in an instant, he was hugging her. Before she could even comprehend what was happening, Stan had already let go and started walking again. Emily smiled timidly, catching up with the rest of the group as fast as Stan did. She caught Bev’s glance towards the two of them, but she didn’t say anything as she went back to talking to Bill. Still though, Emily could see the hint of her smile before she could hide it.

If nothing else, Emily was glad that her dad  had such good friends while growing up.

[jokaito-aa]

TAGGED: by @eihathief​ TAGGING: @maskedcharxsma​ @kurainburdened​ @favdream​

▌𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐋 𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄 :  Ren Amamiya, Rentaro Amamiya ( if twin/cousin verse. ) ▌𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐋𝐄 𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐍 : single. ( verse dependent. ) ▌𝐀𝐁𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝐎𝐑 𝐏𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐒 : Wildcard ability. Can wield/use many personas regardless of which arcana they are. Can add shadows to his collection too if negotiated with them. Third eye ability. Can see what no one else sees ( think of finding something in a vase ), check for traps, see how difficult an enemy is by color coordination and check out which person has a certain tarot associated to them.  ▌𝐄𝐘𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐑 : silvery gray with hints of blue in the normal world becomes red upon gaining a contract with satanael in the metaverse. in his shadow form he has 6 eyes, each pair having either red, green or yellow eyes. he gains the last one as well for a moment when aiding a persona to his team. ▌𝐇𝐀𝐈𝐑 𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐑 : black. ▌𝐅𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐘 𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑𝐒 : mother and father ( alive ), cousin renmaru ( @arcanadyne, alive ),  yukiko amagi/rest of the amagi family ( maternal side of family, alive ), sojiro sakura ( parental figure, alive ) and futaba sakura ( younger sister figure, alive ). ▌𝐏𝐄𝐓𝐒 : morgana ( even if he insists otherwise ). ▌𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐃𝐎𝐍'𝐓 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 : control freaks, rude clients or workers, drunkards, injustice, wasting (time or food), (sickening) sweet food, needles, tobacco smoke, messy rooms, strong perfumes, dishonesty, corrupt authority, bad hygiene, incorrect grammar and spelling, fake friends, getting unnecessarily pressured. ▌𝐇𝐎𝐁𝐁𝐈𝐄𝐒 / 𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐒 : theater (kabuki, noh, western-styled theater), hot spring bathing, cooking, surfing, (traditional) dancing, museum visiting, studying folkore/mythology, studying gnosticism, horror/thriller movies and books, parkouring, puzzles, flowers, magic tricks, coffee making, origami, going into old yet beautiful buildings long abandoned, guitar playing, card games, studying foreign languages, adventures and puns. ▌𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐔𝐑𝐓 𝐀𝐍𝐘𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐄 : yes. ▌𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐊𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐃 𝐀𝐍𝐘𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐄 : no. ( he doesn’t want the phantom thieves to get into shit because of him and maybe he too likes people suffering instead of seeking the easy way out. ) ▌𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐌𝐀𝐋 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐑𝐄𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌 : panthers and cats. ▌𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐇𝐀𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐒 : has a lack of empathy at times. he won’t show it quick; rather he’ll feign to be nice or neutral to you while he secretly hates your guts. may act cold or indifferent at the first meeting because he puts a guard upon himself after years of people befriending him for goods. he’s really vain and thinks of himself really pretty. while he hates control freaks he’s one himself; he tends to butt in too much with other problems and try to solve them himself. he doesn’t talk much about his emotions of sadness that eventually leads to something really bad/an awful outburst one day. he analyzes people so, while he won’t admit it out loud, use it for 10% to strike you with your weaknesses verbally when angered. he’s too sassy for his own good and loves to frighten some people. he can be possessive and will let you notice in a passive-aggressive way without his love knowing. loves to use paranoia against others. has too a tendency to be obnoxious when he’s having his need for a dramatic moment. ▌𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐒 : his father, cousin yukiko, toranosuke yoshida and sojiro sakura. ▌𝐒𝐄𝐗𝐔𝐀𝐋 𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 : bisexual, open and proud to those who wouldn’t judge him for it. ▌𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 𝐎𝐍 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐀𝐆𝐄 / 𝐊𝐈𝐃𝐒 :  he’d love to have a family of his own to give them the love he can’t share with many. ▌𝐒𝐓𝐘𝐋𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐅𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐒 :  casual chic, preppy or clothes that make him look like something out of a unholy, victorian painting ( think of a poem shirt with black pants combo ). ▌𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 : his family. ▌𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐀𝐂𝐇 𝐓𝐎 𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐏𝐒 : unless you approach him or he approaches you for something he won’t really make friends quick at all. he’s always been an entertainer at heart, but years of moving about made him forego hurting himself with things he’ll lose. ▌𝐅𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐃𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐊 :  coffee. ▌𝐅𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄 𝐀𝐓 : the church he visits ingame. he’s not that religious, but the people are kind there and always answer his questions with nice comments. ▌𝐒𝐖𝐈𝐌 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐎𝐂𝐄𝐀𝐍 :  ocean. so much space for him so he can do stupid tricks. ▌𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐑 𝐓𝐘𝐏𝐄 :  passionate people who aren’t afraid to laugh and be free. they must be able to keep up with his conversations and weird habits. the weirder they are, the better for him.  ▌𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐑 𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐎𝐎𝐑𝐒 :  indoors. as much as he adores adventures he hates having to do so much to only go to bed.

[crazyfreckledginger]

Q&A

Thank you to those who have asked questions, y’all are awesome!! It also means the world to me that we got this far! 80k you guys oh my god! You guys brighten my day I love and appreciate every single one of you!

If you could go anywhere in the world, where would it be?

Everywhere! I want to visit every 

Which Robin is your personal favorite?

Oh no you didn’t! 😂 I can’t really choose, but I know my least favourite is Tim! (Sorry timmy!) But Dick, Jay and Dami are my boys!

Do you like to read? And if so, do you have a favorite book or series? / favorite book?

I like to read fanfiction, does that count? 😂 But as books, I love ‘Finding Audrey’ by Sophie Kinsella and ‘Everything, Everything’ by Nicola Yoon

What got you into the batboys?/  How did you develop interest in the batfamily?

I have absolutely no idea! Oh, no, actually, I think I saw an imagine on Tumblr a year ago and just started reading fanfiction about it!

Outside the Batfamily, who is your favorite superhero (or superheroes)?

Wanda Maximoff, Pietro Maximoff, Peter Parker Laura Kinney and Logan Howlett! 

do you considere the robin's similar to peter Parker??

Yes, especially Tim!

How to you get inspiration for your one-shots?/  What inspired you to start writing? / What made you want to start writing? What do you do to get inspiration in writing?/ What is your motivation or drive? 

Before I started requests, I just had an accumulation of random stories in my head and had to write them out, now, most things. Sometimes it’s because of dreams, movie I watch with interesting scenes or plot twists, books or general ideas that just pop into my head, sometimes it’s also ‘what if’ type questions, if that makes sense.   

If your favorite batboy died,  how would you feel?

TeRiRbIE, probably mourning for the rest of my life lol.

Young justice season 3?

HELL YEAH DICK IS HAWT AF OMG

What's your favourite food?/ Favorite Food, 

Indian and Mexican food for life!

What do you like the most about your fave batboy?

EVERYTHING, MY BOYS ARE PRECIOUS

Do you think the rumor about Damian being Jason's son is true?

I didn’t hear about this before but nope, I mean how even?? 😂 Like, in most universes, the age gap between the two is between 10 to 14 years, how- I don’t- no, and besides, they come from a completely different background and I don’t know where this is from but it’s always going to be a no in my heart! 

Can you relate to any of the batboys?

All of them! I’ll generalise a lot because this might turn into an essay otherwise lmao.

Damian for his love of animals and hating people in general. Tim for the lack of sleep.  Jason is me tbh. Dick loves puns and jokes as much as I do.

Are Bruce and your father alike?

Kind of?

What's your favourite T.V show?

Sons Of Anarchy, Friends, The Vampire Diaries and Good Girls

Are you looking forward to Titans on October 18th?

I have mixed feelings about it, I’m happy they are making a live action Dick and Jason but it looks really bad, I’m still going to keep an open mind though!

Jason and Artemis or Kori and Dick?

Kori and Dick, I don’t seen Jason and Artemis’ relationship as more than friends, I don’t know what happened in RHATO, which is funny how I keep talking about the comics since I magically have never read any of them??? 

Thoughts on Redhood's transformation In Redhood the Outlaw?

I want my Jaybird hair back. I’m oKaY with the new design but I adore the old design!

Cookies: Alfred or M'gann?

Alfred’s (that was a tough one though!)

Is Brenton Thwaites good enough to be Robin in the upcoming series?

I don’t know! I’ve never really had a good face claim for Dick so I’m going to keep an open mind about it. He’d better had a nice bubble butt though!

Jason's gun or Dick's eskrimas?

Ughh this is haaard! Maybe Dick’s eskrima sticks.

Talia or Selena?

Selena

Poison ivy or Harley Quinn?

Harley Quinn

If you were in DC universe and you will be able to make a crossover it will be with?: Marvel, Transformers, Supernatural

Marvel or Transformers!!

Do you like birdflash?

I only see them as bros but I respect people’s choice of shipping them together!

Besides Batman what other fandoms are you into ?

Marvel, Sons Of Anarchy, Transformers, Stranger Things, Good Girls, From Dusk Till Dawn, The Vampire Diaries and loads more!

What’s your most liked story on wattpad

This one lmao (batboys x reader)

Do you like voltron  if so who’s your favorite paladin

I don’t watch Voltron, sorry, the fandom is insane and scary on Tumblr (without wanting to generalise) . I’ve tried watching an episode but I just can’t seem to get into it!

Will  you take request in the future Not that I’m asking for one I’m just curious I love your writing style

Aw thanks! 🙈 That’s so sweet of you. And yes of course!! I just closed them because I didn’t know when I would be able to have a reliable amount of time to write, I’m opening them soon hopefully! :)

Favorite movie of all time/  What's your favorite movie and why?

Logan, the FeElS, plus my girl Laura plus my man Donald Pierce is in it.

The Dark Knight (the one with Bane and The Joker) both villains are extremely intimidating and Nolan was able to portray them in an extremely terrifying way whilst keeping us on edge for the whole movies! True masterpieces.

Also Tomb Raider because kick some ass queen omg.

favorite character characters

DONALD PIERCE, Wanda Maximoff, Pietro Maximoff, Natasha Romanoff, Laura Kinney, Dick Grayson, Wally West, Roy Harper, Jason Todd, Damian Wayne among so so many others.

favorite (video) game, 

Outlast and Until Dawn! 

Do you have/wish to have any pets? 

Yes I have had a bunch! Three rabbits, a sheep and a goat! I wish I’d have a cat though!

How would you describe your clothing style? 

Comfortable and tries to be at least a little stylish lol

Any artists/celebs You look up to? 

Not really no, I’ve never really looked up to anyone.

What kind of music do you like? 

Pop, Classical not the Mozart type of classical.

Do You have any "rituals" regarding your writing process? 

Yes! If it’s a series, I write the whole plot down on a book with details and elements that I want included. I keep it besie me to be sure I follow the plot whislt writing it.

Since I write in the evening, if there’s a one shot request that I lack inspiration about, I write something else and think of a plot when I’m in bed before i go to sleep. It really helps be get the requests written and in the queue. 

I normally sit in front of my TV, catching up on my series or something and just write. I don’t really have a ritual other than this!

Favourite cartoon?

Young Justice ayyye!

If you were to choose your own name, what would it be? 

I’ve never really thought about it, I don’t know, I like my name! 

But I really like Kia or *gasp* Sam. Not Samantha but just Sam.

Favourite mythical creature? 

Griffin, phenix and dragons!

What language do you wish to speak? 

Italian and Spanish!

Any lucky items/superstisions?

A tiger’s eye necklace my cousin gave me three years ago, I wear it everyday! If you could be any animal, real or mythical, what would you be? 

A tiger, an eagle or a griffin. I can’t choose lol!

Do you think you'd survive in a post apocalyptic world? 

Maybe? I mean I feel like I would be smart enough but I saw World War Z and dying is better than surviving with traumatic experiences running through your head 24/7!

Where would you go for a dream vacation? 

Everywhere! I want to visit the world!

If a genie granted you 3 wishes, what would you wish for? (No wishing for more wishes lol) 

DANG IT! 

1. That everyone should have a different perspective so that they can realise how bad the world is becoming and to change that.

2. Appreciation of every single being on the planet that sexual orientation does not matter in a relationship and that, no matter what you consider yourself, that society accepts you no matter what.

3. That everyone becomes the best person they can possibly be. We could conquer the world!

Do you prefer rain or sun? 

RAIN!

Do you like thunderstorms? 

Hell yeah!

Are you good at puzzles? 

Depends which ones, generally yes. Depending on my mood, I can be very stubborn and finish it and sometimes I’m going to be screw it I give up lol!

What do you enjoy most about life? 

My mutuals, happiness, fraternity, you guys and a few other things I’m sure (can’t remember)

What's your favorite fictional world? (DC, Marvel, Shadowhunters, etc) 

DC, Marvel, Transformers and the 10 year old in me says Narnia as well!

What do you think happens after we die? 

I feel like you’d come back as a different person. I’ve always wanted to believe that you’d become an animal but I have no idea!

If you could only eat one food for the rest of your life, what would it be?

Indian food!!

Do you like to dance? 

Yes but alone! I’m horrible at dancing!

Where do you feel most comfortable/safe? 

With my best friend! Or at home!

What's something that always makes you smile? 

My mutuals, your comments they seriously make my day a little brighter.

Are you good at gardening? 

Nope I don’t like it either!

What's your preferred footwear? 

Sneakers if that’s what it’s called!

Favorite flower?

Roses!

What fills up your heart to bursting level? 

Kitties and puppies! 😍 Also anything including helping people or animals together and/or animals with their owners.

What’s the hardest thing you’ve ever done? 

Opening up to someone, showing my feelings and emotions and getting out there to make friends. I haven’t had the best childhood.

What’s your favorite poem or saying? 

“Hope for the Best, Plan for the Worst”

And most importantly: do you think we'll ever see good writing again in DC for our favorite characters?

I really hope so, the writers are becoming more and more despised. Only DC fans hate DC on a completely different level of hatred lmao.

What'd you think of Heath Ledger's Joker?

Terrifying. heath Ledge did a fine good job at portraying someome that puts that unsettling feeling in your gut. Every one of his scenes are iconic. The best Joker so far in my opinion. 

whO rAnKs NumBer TwO iN "Batboys with a fresh booty" since we all know dick ranks number one

Hmmmm, 

Conclusion...

That’s a very cute tushy if you ask me!

[not my pics]

what do you think about Erik Lehnsherr and Stephen Strange?

I’m not particularly attacted to Erik but I know he’s misunderstood and I understand why he’s so loveable by many people in the X-Men fandom. But he’s just not my type of guy.

Stephen Strange is badass and a sass master and no one can convince me otherwise. He’s an awesome character.

what would your perfect date with Donnie (Donald Pierce) be like?

Ohhh, going to the movies and then just hanging out somewhere nice, talking and laughing and then ordering takeaway and cuddling up on the couch whilst watching Netflix ahhh! 🙈

[dilldaydreamer-blog]

PI’s gift-apalooza

((Posting it here on tumblr from Discord)) Aka: PI has no control over his life when it comes to getting fits for folks on Christmas.

Coworker Beans  WQ:  What do you get a lady who can literally buy anything she wants? 4 hour of cute kitten videos you put together to ensure it has the finest quality rumble-engines and nice music.  As well as a really cute mood ring.  Redglare: A keurig device for her office as well as an assortment of coffees for it.  It counts as police property in that sense to be legal. :Yc Sleuth:  A high quality flask with a sword and laurel leaves engraved on it and a scrap-book. Inside are pictures of lil grubling Terezi from when she was grey magicked, along with a few of the office antic photos and a few newspaper clippings regarding her graduation.   Looks like there is a lot of empty pages for Sleuth to continue on filling.  Ace:  Some toys for Latrice and a scrap-book of similar nature but with Zahhak.  That grub sure did like to nap on Ace while they both slept.  Also several gift cards to various restaurants including one that boasts "burritos the size of your head" Nuavi: A handmade knit scarf and hat of soft blue.   As well as little bandannas for all her doggos. Dame:  One of those fancy bracelets that doubles as a spy camera so she can casually snap pictures via it. Looks pretty too.  Terezi: A bag of incredibly innacurate brightly coloured plastic dinosaur figurines. You know the ones.  Also those little capsules that you put in water and turn into sponges.  As a more serious gift, he has also gotten her a cute dragon plush doll and a knitted hat. Feferi:  New cookie sheets for her lusus.  A cuttle-fish plush doll, and a sparkly little princess tiara. (the kind you would find at like Claire's) as well as a knitted pink blanket. Equius: A gift card to a hardware store because Equius seems like he would rather buy a practical gift of something he needs than some random knick-knack he would feel forced to act gracious for Egbert: That giant book of puns the anons gifted him once.  May as well send it to a loving pun loving home. Bro: Also a bag of incredibly shitty inaccurate plastic dinosaur figures. And an incredibly shitty looking winter hat to match the incredibly shitty looking scarf from his birthday. Skylla: Snacks for Lady and a nice leather sidebag for Skylla with little imprinted dogprint patterns on it. Hal: A dvd of Astro Boy with a note "its an anime about a robot! :D" but also yes, he was serious about the Kit car-bed. It requires some assembly since it had to be disassembled to put into a box but congrats on your totally mature car bed. The Tiger: He gave her the box Hal’s car bed came in.  She loves it. Family/Close “Friends” Elliot: PI is actually taking an entire vacation day and going to spend it doing a nice day with him.  Play some puzzles, have some lunch, relax as best as possible. No work or internet.  He will probably die.  He also got Elliot a scarf and a winter hat that gives Elliot little bat ears.  And a gigantic 1000 piece puzzle along with a bunch of new teas. Jude: He has gotten jude a hand-made mothman kigu.  A spykit containing a picture frame with hidden spycam + nightvision, a lighter with an audio recorder in it, a voicechanger for his phone, and cool nightvision goggles.  As well as a bunch of alien themed socks and a few jars with origami bugs in them because it was out of season for real bugs. Kassius: A few books he thinks Kassius would be interested in, as well as just a lot of home items. Cause lets face it, coming in from a undercover homeless life tends to leave a person with not much belongings. So even little things like new towels, a dishrack and personal dishes, extra clothes, a new radio, and extra blankets is just nice to have. Fin: A nice set of gold cufflinks that have 5 engraved on them. A bag of little orange gummy sharks, a shark plush that may as well be orb-shaped with how round it is, a tiny origami shark, and a photo with a note. "A while back some grey faces gave me this photo saying they took it from a priest. I didn't know who it belonged to until I saw you with your father's appearance.  You mentioned not having anything of theirs...so I hope it can bring you comfort." and it is the photo of fin's parents with a baby Fin the greyfaces gave him months ago.  Clover: Little origami 4 leaf clover. An Officer Frisky adult novelty cop costume. (He figures Clover will find it funny) set of earrings of the charm symbols (so 2 hearts, two rainbows, two pots of gold, etc) And one really sparky glitterly gold bath-bomb. The kind that just holding it you get sort of glittered. Also that book about how to sneak healthy food into common foods for picky eaters. Paint: A brightly colored hand-made scarf, and a romance novel...but also a phone contact/address with a note "I spoke with the gallery director here, he often hosts small showings of local artists in one of his galleries. If you feel capable of putting together a small collection of your work, he'd be happy to assist you in doing a show early spring since many art collectors or patrons like to check out local talent there." Dave:  A cross-stitched "IOU one good gift." that has been framed. Rex: A box of those liquor cordial chocolates and a book that contains a collection of romantic poetry from Earth.  There is a handwritten poem in there that is essentially “you suck and I look forward to nailing your ass to a jailcell” but with more flowery words and metaphors. 

[xxfanfiction-emo-trinityxx]

A Diner Love Song - Ryan Seaman x Reader

Request: Hey! I saw that you write Dallon so do you by any chance also write Ryan Seaman? I’ve been looking for Idkhow fanfics for forever :(

Word count: 2 325

You had known Dallon for a long time, all the way since elementary school and you had always been involved into his music one way or another, even though you had never been officially part of the bands he was in. Mostly you had helped to set up stages, sell merchandise or you had played additional instruments. So when he had asked you, if you wanted to be part of his new project, a duo called ‘I don’t know how but they found me’, you had said yes immediately, even though you had not met his partner, a man called Ryan, yet.

When you met Ryan for the first time, you had been quite impressed by him. He seemed to be a sweet guy, tall, brown hair and warm brown eyes. You had kicked off the conversation by talking about one of your favorite bands, Green Day, that he also liked a lot. Dallon had stood at the side, watching you with a happy grin on his face, obviously glad that the two of you got along so well.

Now, two years later, Ryan had become one of your closest friends. You spent a lot of time together, mostly while the band was practicing, or writing music. You usually attended these sessions, since Dallon was always glad to have your creative mind at his side for help. You sat on the floor, in the middle of spread out music sheets, your gaze flickering over the pages, trying to ignore the distracting presence of Ryan.

Yes, you had started out with thinking he was really sweet, but by now you were hopelessly crushing on the drummer. When he had come to one of the meetings a few months back with blue dyed hair, he had seemed nervous about your reaction, but you had just been happy that he had found an additional way to express himself.

You reached for one of the pages in front of you and quickly read its contents.

“Hey, Dallon, were you looking for this?”

You handed the tall man the sheet on which a few lines of text were scribbled.

“Oh, yes, thanks,” he took the paper from you and walked over to Ryan. He had been looking for it for almost five minutes now, a few text ideas that he seemed to have noted down a while ago. “Do you think we can make something out of this?”

Ryan’s eyes scanned the paper and flickered over to you.

“Uh, yeah, sure, looks good I think,” he answered, but you could tell he had something else on his mind.

“Great,” Dallon smiled, “Maybe we can all get one of the lines and see what else we can do with it?”

“I wanna write a love song,” Ryan blurted out.

Surprised both Dallon and you looked at him.

“I mean, we could do one, right?” Judging by Ryan’s reaction he seemed not to have planned to say his idea out loud.

“Yeah, that’s a great idea,” Dallon immediately agreed, “are you gonna write it?”

Ryan nodded quietly, his gaze again flickering over to you, but you did not notice. Too occupied was your mind wondering about who Ryan wanted to write a love song for.

“So (y/n), hey (y/n),” Dallon tried to get your attention, “Do you want to help writing?”

“Oh, yes, definitely,” you quickly agreed. You loved writing poems that you knew would later be turned into music.

“Got an idea already or do you want any of these,” he waved around the page you had handed him earlier.

“I think I’m gonna take this diner-idea of yours,” you told him, referring to one of the lines he had scribbled down on the paper. It said ‘late night diner atmosphere’.

“Okay,” Dallon took a pen and scribbled your name next to the line. “I suggest we continue on Wednesday, it’s late and I wanna get home before the kids are off to bed.”

Ryan and you agreed, both being tired and hungry. Together you packed your things and cleared the floor of the sheets that had been lying around everywhere. Peacefully chattering you left the building and entered the cool night outside. It was dark already, the narrow sidewalk only lit up by a few street lanterns. Dallon waved good bye to Ryan and hugged you quickly before he skipped to his car that was parked a few meters away. You smiled at his behavior; you could always tell how much he looked forward to seeing his kids at home.

“And what are we two gonna do,” Ryan inquired.

Surprised you turned around to him. You had expected him to say good bye as well, leaving you alone to do whatever you wanted, in this case go to the diner a few streets down to get some inspiration for the text you wanted to write.

“Ahm,” you hesitated, not sure what he wanted you to say. “I was thinking about going to this diner, down the street, if this is okay with you?”

Ryan nodded, one of his blue strands falling into his eyes. “That’s a great idea, I’m starving.”

Side by side you walked down the empty streets. It was only half past eight, but this part of the town always seemed deserted, even though there were people inside the shops and restaurants. You sometimes wondered if they just beamed in there and out again since you never saw anyone on the street. Silence hovered over the two of you. You seemed to have run out of things to talk about and you could not decide if the silence was comfortable or awkward. You were just turning around the last corner when something warm stroked the back of your hand. You flinched and looked down to see what it had been, realizing that it must have been Ryan’s hand since it was not even an inch away from yours. You looked up at him, but he did not seem to have noticed anything since his eyes were fixed on the ground. For a moment you let your imagination run wild, thinking that he might have tried to take hold of your hand, but you quickly abandoned that thought. It had been an accident, nothing more, he was not interested in you in that way.

You reached the diner without any further incidents. He held the door open for you and you entered, immediately concentrating on the different sensations you noticed. You wanted to write a song about it after all. You noticed the red and white furniture and the big American flag on the short site of the room. The air smelled of bacon and coffee and quiet rock music was blaring through the speaker.

You walked over to one of the tables next to the window, sliding into the booth. The red leather that the chairs were made out of was a bit flaky and stiff but mostly still smooth. Your fingers wandered over the green table, taking in the coolness of the surface and the tiny differently colored patches of plastic that were worked into the tabletop. Ryan had slipped into the seat opposite you and suddenly you grew very aware of how he was watching you. Realizing that you had completely ignored him for a moment, you quickly looked up with an apologetic smile. He seemed not really to notice; his eyes were glassy and still fixed on your fingers that were resting on the table. You took a deep breath and pulled your hand off the table. Ryan kept staring at the spot for a moment before he looked up at you. Was he blushing?

The waitress came and both of you ordered a vegi burger with fries and some milkshake. While you were waiting for your food, you noticed Ryan shoot you a glance every other minute.

“Hey, do you mind if I start writing,” you wondered, finally not being able to take the silence anymore.

“Oh no, sure, I think I might start too,” he told you and both of you pulled out notebooks and pens.

You started with a little bit of brain storming, noting down all the impressions you had had when entering the place. Then you let your eyes glide over the people in the room. The waitress was a young woman, mid-twenties, with dirty blonde hair and too much make up. In the corner of the diner sat an old man behind his newspaper, a cup of coffee in front of him. The booth next to the door was occupied by some teenagers and at the bar sat a young couple. You wrote everything down and tried to avoid looking at Ryan. He had his feet pulled up on the seat and rested his notebook against his legs, focused on writing something down, but you could not see it. You concentrated back on your own work, reading over the things you had noted down, puzzling them into a story, the story that would later turn into the song. You had already written a few lines with which you were really happy, when the food arrived. The waitress threw a disapproving glance at Ryan’s hair that he either ignored or did not notice.

Over dinner you started talking again, this time about how Ryan was considering going to a concert of Paul McCartney one day. You laughed a lot at the stupid jokes he was making and he laughed as well, making you feel warm and safe. You wanted things to stay that way, the way they were right now. You together with Ryan, eating in a cheap diner while writing music and laughing your asses off because of some ridiculous pun.

“Do you already have something,” Ryan wondered when you were finished with eating and only had you milkshakes left and a few fries left. He reached over the table and stole one off your plate. You swatted his hand away playfully, only making him reach across the table again to steal a few more.

“I got a few lines, nothing proper yet, but I think it’ll turn into something,” you told him, glancing at the open notebook next to you. “Do you have anything?”

“Not really,” Ryan answered, grabbing another one of your fries. He had his notebook turned face down, so you could not see what he had written. “Can I see?”

Without waiting for your answer he picked your note book up. You wanted to protest, but decided to steal his notebook instead. When you turned it around, you were surprised that he had not written down one single word, instead the page was filled with fine lines that came together as a small portrait.

“Don’t-“ Ryan wanted to take the notebook from your hands but you turned away instinctively, studying the picture he had drawn.

It showed a person sitting in a booth next to a window, head lowered over a book that they were writing into. It took a moment to realize that the person he had been drawing was you. But it was you unmistakably. The way the person’s hair fell into their face was just like yours, the way they sat and dressed…

The notebook was torn out of your hand just when you had noticed the many tiny hearts that had been doodled around the edges. You looked up a Ryan, who clutched his notes to his chest, his face burning up with a blush, a blush you could feel rise into your cheeks as well.

He opened his mouth to say something but no sound escaped him, so he just stared at you with wide, brown eyes.

“Is that why you wanted to write a love song,” you asked, sounding a lot calmer than you actually were. You heart was beating in your throat and your cheeks burning from the blood that had rushed into them.

“I… I didn’t… you weren’t supposed to…” he stammered and closed his eyes. He was shaking as if he resisted the urge to run away and when he looked up at you, his expression had changed. Now it was full of determination. “You weren’t supposed to find out, but since it’s too late… I like you. Okay? I have for a while now, and… I just don’t want anything to change between us, if that’s okay with you.” You could tell how he pretended to be confident, but his eyes were betraying him.

“Not really,” you answered, watching as his pretend-confidence crumbled, not knowing what you were up to. Following an instinct you stood up and leant over the table. You placed your hand at the side of his face and pulled him close until your lips met. You could tell how astounded he was, but he kissed back quickly before you pulled away. When you opened your eyes, you he was smiling at you, still blushing terribly.

“Well, in that case…” he grinned. Without warning he cupped your face in his hands and pulled you in for another kiss.

This one was lasting longer and you relished the tickling of his hands against your skin. His lips were soft, slightly chapped, but still so soft, and smooth. He tasted of the strawberry milkshake he had had and a bit like fries. His kisses were gentle, yet demanding and you could feel your head get dizzy over the amazing feeling of him so close to you. When you both pulled away for breath, you were smiling brightly.

Amused you watched the crinkles at the corner of his eyes form, how his deep brown orbs scanned your face and his beautiful lips curled into a smile.

“Now that’s a plot twist, “ he giggled.

You nodded and sat back down. He did the same and you could feel him tangle his legs with yours under the table.

“Maybe we should combine our songs,” you suggested, smiling.

“A diner love song?” Ryan giggled again. “Sounds perfect.”

[pretty-eyes-jaeger]

Eren is the spark before a fire. He’s stormy skies and starting fights. Birds flying overhead and comic books read underneath the blankets at night. Freshly baked chocolate chip cookies and t-shirts that fit just right. Lazy days spent in the sun, daydreaming. Laughing too loud and crying too much. Giving life 110% and setting the world on fire. 

Mikasa is a rose, beautiful and dangerous. She’s romance novels and red lipstick. Vanilla and violin music. Flowers in springtime and strawberries. Courage and hazelnut coffee. Hearts made of glass and bones made of steel. Unconditional love and unrequited longing. Words better left unsaid and well-kept promises. Caring so hard that it physically hurts. 

Armin is sunshine, warm and comforting, intense and blinding. He’s blanket forts and imaginary lands with no borders. He’s treasure maps and paper airplanes. Books with worn spines and messy handwritten notes scratched in the margins. Warm sweaters and earl grey tea. Ocean breezes and shattered windows. Crossword puzzles and candlelight. Yelling at a wall until your voice gives out, even when no one can hear you. 

Levi is the eye of a hurricane. He’s 100-year-old trees swaying in the breeze and combat boots scuffing along the asphalt. Black tea and black coffee. Hands that can kill and eyes that can severe. Holding on too tight and reaching for your hand just as you walk away. Dry eyes and bleeding hearts. Calm and collected chaos, desperately held together with bandaids and string. 

Hanji is a streak of lightning lighting up the night. They’re experimenting with the mind and listening with the heart. Test tubes and textbooks. Off-the-wall trivia facts and laughing too loud. Phone calls at 3 a.m. and classroom pranks that go just too far. Not sleeping nearly enough and needing caffeine like oxygen. Hugs that say more than words and words that could out-do Shakespeare. Twisting the world upside down and every which way to find its best angle.

Erwin is a shooting star, blazing bright and gone too soon. He’s hot coffee and fires crackling in the hearth welcoming you home. Paperwork and pens that have a tendency to disappear. Pine trees and the hoot of owls in the night. Watching a thunderstorm from the window and giving your umbrella to someone without one on the street. Responsibility and hope. Dreams and peanut butter sandwiches. Smiling through the pain so others won’t give up. 

Annie is a frozen lake, untouched and enchanting, but chillingly lethal. She’s dark red lipstick and ballads about losing yourself. Cold hands and combat boots. Leather jackets and ball gowns. Soft guitar melodies and stargazer lilies. Winter mornings and angels pressed into the snow. Denial and desire. Knight’s armor and lover’s lips. Reaching out for someone’s hand, but pulling back before they notice.

Bertholdt is the ocean, vast and beautiful and deep and deadly. He’s sweaters warm from wear and hands covered in ink. Reserved silence and soft, unsolicited smiles. Purple skies before it storms and crying in the shower. Ice cream at 2 a.m. and piano ballads played in empty chapels. Books with dog-eared pages and happily ever after reluctantly scribbled out. Attentive ears and guilty heart. A candle burning, soothing and warm and about to tip and ignite the world in flames.

Reiner is the clash of two swords meeting in the air. He’s a knight in shining armor and a dragon waiting for its prey. Walking through the woods and running through the rain. Caramel and cinnamon. Campfires and ghost stories and soothing words when the ghosts overstay their welcome. Inspirational words and exemplary acts. Broken mirrors and masquerade masks you forget to take off. Heroic dreams and disappointing finales. Holding the world on your shoulders without knowing who’s holding you.

Jean is a rain storm, steady and calm. He’s button up shirts and skinny jeans. Rock music and writing love poems on the bus. Too much coffee and hair that takes hours to make it look natural. Cheap beer and nights you remember in a blur of smiles and kissing. Holding hands and keeping promises. Staying up late and talking until morning. Sunrises and autumn leaves falling. Words left unsaid and regrets piling higher each day. Hope of a generation scoffed every night after breaking your back to make the world a better place

Connie is laughter carried on the wind. He’s sunshine and beach days with your friends. Milkshakes and board games. Cheesy puns and cheesier pick up lines. Spring flowers and summer showers. T-shirts and harmless teasing. Toy soldiers and children laughing. Kind eyes and bloodied hands. Crumpled pictures of family members and tear-stained letters never sent. Hugs that lift your spirits and jokes that clear your mind. Young heads confused and hearts a mess, and legs that never stop moving. 

Sasha is the melody of a song, peaceful and filled with memories. She’s taking chances and jumping off the high dive holding your best friend’s hand. Autumn leaves and hot chocolate. Freshly baked bread and mac and cheese at midnight. Good morning texts and falling asleep before saying goodnight. Dancing in the rain and seeing shapes in every cloud. Nightmares that cling once you wake up and exacting revenge on your cheating boyfriend’s car. Pushing through the pain and smiling through it all. Following your inner compass. 

Marco is sunshine, warm on your skin. He’s running through the woods in spring and tumbling through the leaves in fall. Contagious smiles and fearsome disapproval. Chocolate and cuddling late into the night. Cinnamon and early morning pancakes. Coffee that’s all sugar and singing in the shower. Loving too hard and too fast. Experienced innocence and brutal honesty. Bruised and bloodied body and blazing, bright eyes. True kindness and blind loyalty. Too good for this world. 

Ymir is shadows, both cruelly mocking the light and lovingly, silently following after you. She’s harmless teasing and hurtful silence. Staying out too late and waking up too early. Whiskey burning your throat and dark chocolate soothing the pain. Horror films and nightmares that don't stop when you open your eyes. Photos with faces scratched out and love notes framed in photo albums. Hearts hidden behind walls and and claws out to play. Loving so fiercely it threatens to swallow you whole. 

Historia is a windstorm, growing steadily more deadly by the minute. She’s lemonade and mid-afternoon naps in patches of sunlight. Disney princesses and Tarantino films. Christmas lights and diaries with locks. The smell of roses and the feeling of silk on your skin. Floral skirts and high heels. Tiaras and swords. Midnight thunderstorms and veiled smiles. Burned letters and bad decisions. Hugs that last just long enough and hands held far too tight. A tight-rope walker you can’t bear to tear your eyes from. 

[alcalavicci]

Not going to quote much of the poem, but I wrote annotations on it:

Page 1

I’m fascinated by the breakup of “pun/ish”. Pun? Punish? Jack is speaking to Dean throughout this poem, so on this page, he’s asking Dean to do something he hasn’t done before, which is to laugh out loud, have this huge belly laugh. What’s he asking here? Tickle Dean into the biggest laugh of his life? Edit: On second thought, I’m reminded of that quote from the director from Down to the Ships, who dealt with his mother saying Dean couldn’t laugh out loud.

Page 2

Confirmation pun is intended here. I feel like “ovary/vagina desires” and “hempty/page” are inside jokes. Every vagina, stoned pages, maybe? I’m getting the feeling they both love puns, since Jack rhapsodizes so much on the idea of puns here. I like the idea of puns inspiring people towards revolution, towards action, but I’m not entirely sure on the connection. Also, this poem is called The Deanbro Arcane, and he addresses Dean as Deanbro here.

Page 3

Barney’s Beanery is a ‘50s beatnik hangout that Dean presumably went to for the first time with Wallace Berman and met Jack. It’s notable because celebrities could go there without others staring at them, which Dean must have appreciated. Jack admits he knew Dean as a child star, but they clicked the first time they met. Despite that, Jack still compares him to James Dean, in the sense of “troubled young man who managed to make everything awesome.”

Page 4

JFK time: around 1963. The names mentioned here don’t bring up anything in a search. Non-famous mutual friends? They are now in their late twenties- as of 1963, Dean would’ve been 27 to Jack’s 30- and Jack says they’re on top of the world. Lenny Bruce was pardoned after his death over a 1964 obscenity trial, and Wallace Berman beat him to having an obscenity trial in 1957. There’s a reference to all the postcards Wallace and Dean sent through the mail to various friends here. John Heartfield was a German artist who pioneered the use of art as a political weapon. Heartfield’s friend, Grosz, is also referenced, and Grosz also made caricatures of Berlin.

Page 5:

Some people feared the rise of fascism after JFK was assassinated, so many artists, Jack and Dean included, fled to Paris. I guess that explains why Dean filmed Rapture in ‘64/‘65? Dean introduced Jack to Pierre Molinier (photographer, among other things, who submitted a dildo to the 1965 Surrealist show as “for his own stimulation”) and Hans Bellmer (who made a ball-joint doll then photographed it in various poses). Montparnasse is definitely where Dean filmed Rapture. Artaud Anthology is an anthology of French poetry by Antonin Artaud, published in 1965.

Page 6:

I want to say Dean’s mentioned Gustave Moreau before? The name sounds familiar. Moreau was a Symbolist painter, and the museum of his works is in Paris. Jack mentions meeting a girl through Dean who was a model for the artist Fautrier. Fautrier died in July 1964. The model was an au pair for Jack and his wife the next year, while Dean went back to “Elaye.” Looking that up, that’s a name from the Quran that means “greatness”. From context, I think that means Dean returned to the US and presumably, seeking out greatness? Beginning of Vietnam War is vague, but I’m guessing Jack means the mid-1960s? Anyway, he’s on some Greek island, in a cafe, talking with Alan Bates.

Page 7:

Lol, too funny that Bates says the actor that beat him out to the role of Paul Morel is the best actor ever. At this point, Bates, a British actor, was really early into his career. The second part of the poem begins, and I think Jack is talking about Los Angeles, what with the tons of cars everywhere and how everyone is shallow af. I can see why he was happy to flee to Europe for a while.

Page 8:

The LA hate continues. He’s discussing how everyone is obsessed with fame, and how they’ll fake smiles just to make it. Loving the hate that kills, so the fame machine in LA will chew you up like a motherfucker. Stalingrad being renamed in 1961 aligns with the studio system dissolving. By the studio system collapsing, that meant child stars didn’t have to go through so much trauma. The head here is the movie companies and the body is LA. They met in LA and they’re shaking up LA via double “punitration” (finally! A pun!).

Page 9:

Drugs drugs and more drugs. There’s a reference to a R&B song here that they bopped out to. Third part starts here, with Dean hitting the table every time Reagan gets mentioned.

Page 10:

Dean is intensely political, with his motivations for making Alsino. Yet, he’s out of his mind in Topanga Canyon, with Jack making the effort a few times a week to drag him out to baseball games (as late as the mid-60s) and to concerts at a local jazz club (60s-70s).

Page 11:

Jack talks about Dean sacrificing himself so that his friends could have more of what they wanted out of Hollywood. Interesting he says Dean hates money, but I could be reading the slang (“doremi”) wrong here. Dean is also described as a child at heart, which I can absolutely see.

Page 12:

Jack says Dean is surrounded by this “Alone,” how he’s off in corners by himself and how he’s also alone with his family. Like, the way I read it, there’s everyone else then there’s his family. I’m reminded of fans recounting what happened at his Hollywood Star ceremony, how his wife and kids weren’t there and he mumbled some flimsy excuse about how they needed him. Jack describing him that way makes this puzzle piece fall into place. Fourth part starts here, with Death waiting for Dean. Stroked, car wrecked, caressed? Sounds like Dean had multiple close encounters with death.

Page 13:

Many bottles of alcohol… second reference I’ve seen to Dean being a heavy drinker, third overall across other things I’ve seen about him. Not surprising, considering what else I know. At last, Jack meets Dean again and it’s not a happy reunion, for Dean isn’t Dean anymore. Dean doesn’t know what art is, he hates golf (despite once playing it daily), he has no memories of the things that were given to him by friends. Must’ve been hell for Jack, meeting him like that.

Page 14:

All this art, surrounding Dean. Jack refers to Dean’s dice art as a final piece of artwork for him, as his way of saying he wants to move on. Yet in the end, Dean remembers nothing.

Page 15:

The last, the saddest page. Jack says Dean recognizes two people at this point. Not sure who the second is (but I do have an idea), but Dean is with the first, winding down his life.

[oddree13]

Dec. 14 - Wrapping Gifts or Inability To Wrap Gifts - @omgcpwinterextravaganza  (Read on AO3)

Day 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25

The first holiday season Jack spent with Bitty was eye opening to say the least. He’s never seen so many baked goods in on location, or some many different containers.

Bitty had picked out differently themed tins depending on who was getting cookies, fudge, or toffee.

He had fours kinds of wrapping paper, one for the Bittle family, another for the Zimmermans, a third for their teammates and friends, and a fourth just in case. Each present was wrapped with a ribbon and a handwritten tag.

Of course Jack offered to help, but all he was ever allowed to do was write the gift tags after Bitty saw him put a gift in a bag.

And Jack had to admit that all the effort Eric put into his gifts was not only appreciated by their friends and family, but it made their home look quite loved during the holidays.

***

Ransom and Holster were both bag guys when it came to the holidays, after trying a failing for years to use wrapping paper. But they had a system. And a spreadsheet.

Over the years both men had collected data on their friends and family, entering it all into a spreadsheet that was used to send cards, track gifting trends, and denote important information like favorite color and Hogwarts house.

So come the holidays Ransom and Holster would go to the store and buy in bulk different color paper bags and tissue, in variety of sizes of course, and when time came for a party or gathering, either man would just have to see what color that party had been designated and grab all the bags loading them into the car.

The only change came when the twins came into their life. Ransom found custom burlap sacks that look like they came from the North Pole. They were bag people after all.

***

Shitty and Lardo didn’t exactly have a system so much as whims depending on who the gift was going to.

More often than not, gifts given to the Knight side of the family were handed to them in the original box or bag, price tag left on, with a stick-on bow atop. Shitty would admit at parties that his favorite part of the holidays was watching the different ways he could make his family twitch at parties.

For their friends it was usually handed to them, out of whatever packaging it came in, but presented with an explanation as to why they were getting said gift. More often than not it was artwork Lardo had made specific for the person, or a small items they found on their travels that reminded them of their friend.

Shitty would swear it was because he didn’t think their gifts should be packaged and bound in more trapping of classists capitalism. Lardo would admit that they just hated wrapping.

***

Nursey was not prepared for William Poindexter, gift wrapping expert. Each year, come December, a roll of industrial sized craft paper would be shipped to their home. After that, Dex would break out the twine to tie down the gift.

Then came the gear. It began with a ruler and shears, but over the years Nursey had bought his partner a variety of gadgets including a tape dispenser that rested on the back of Dex’s hand with an elastic band, laser guided scissors, and mount of the roll of craft paper that hung over his work bench.

In addition to the craft paper and twine came the recycled accessories. Tissue, bows, boxes, and bags, all saved and reused from year to year. Dex had even gone so far as to label the boxes with the initials of their kids so he’d never switch their gifts accidentally.

Nursey contributed in the only way he was allowed, cards. Each year he wrote out a family card, a poem naturally, encapsulating their year, and the card was affixed to every gift they handed out. Dex, may or may not have an album of each family poem tucked away somewhere.

***

Cait and Chowder somehow managed to find the most unique containers and gift wrap every year.

For example, on year, they got scraps of cloth and tie-dyed them using holiday colors and gave everyone colorful bundles that could be reused.

Another time Chowder spent a whole year collecting every peanuts strip he found in the newspaper and saved them for wrapping paper. It didn’t matter that in the last month he and Cait were swiping papers from people’s recycling bins to fill the gaps, because the challenge for them was part of the fun.

One memorable year Cait spent time creating a custom made crossword puzzle for their friends that was then printed on wrapping paper. Chowder had arranged that year for a group photo to be taken and their wedding, and come the holidays gave each of his friends the photo mounted on a wooden block, wrapped in a game about their friendship.

Each year their wrapping took a lot of work but it was worth the way their friends lit up getting their gifts.

***

Whiskey, Tango, and Ford were not good at gift giving or gift wrapping. So each year it was simple as each only had one task to complete.

Whiskey would go to the store and pick out a bottle of alcohol for everyone on their list. Ford would acquire a bunch of bottle bags and sacks for the bottles Whiskey bought. And Tango? Well Tango would spend a few hours at a variety of card stores picking out the best holiday puns for their friends and family.

[spamzineglasgow]

(REVIEW) Arboreally Speaking: Amy Todman’s Twig and Katherine Osborne’s Descansos

(‘I have a mind for puzzles but this is final / level for the win’ (Osborne, Descansos 2018, p. 5))

In this review, Rhian Williams compares the arboreal language, sprawling branches, vibrations, snaps and tactility of two rich and generative pamphlets: Katherine Osborne’s Descansos (salo press, 2018) and Amy Todman’s Twig (Amy Todman, 2019).

> When Katherine Osborne tells us that ‘Trees have advanced language.’ (2018, p. 2) Amy Todman might have been listening attentively. Druid-like with her divining rods (to call on a divining rod is to ‘work the twig’), Todman opens her Twig (2019) – a strange, unsettling four-part drama – with the assertions, ‘Twigs are not forming letters / Twigs are not characters’ (‘Act One’, n.p.). And yet, they are mobilised in the service of this intense, visceral engagement with utterance. Todman’s commitment to making her piece open to the communication of stubby branches (‘The Hum of Concordance’, Act 3) calls to mind ancient woody language – the ogham, the Welsh bard Taliesin’s Cad Goddeu – those early models of language as root and branch, as anticipating leafy protuberances, as arboreal mysticism. And yet, Todman’s piece is resolutely calm, steady, grounded (the epigram to Osborne’s collection, from Clarissa Pinkola Estés, perhaps provides some explanation: ‘There is a lot to be said for pinning things to the earth so they don’t follow us around’). At least at first, Todman’s twigs are entirely ‘twiggy’ – sui generis, they are twig; not branches anticipating growth, not decimated tree awaiting kindling, but insouciant objects, confident in themselves – ‘The twig is slender and I enjoy the way it looks, its natural curve and blunt hard end’ (‘Stick Meme’, n.p.). But in Todman’s avant-garde handling, the twigs become forceful conductors of bodily energy: ‘While twig balances page and chest I am contained, point of pressure located’ (‘Stick Meme’, n.p.), suggesting a materiality that feels reiterated in the chapbook’s haptic mise-en-scène of thick, creamy paper enclosed in a laid paper cover that combines digital printing with some kind of hand roughing: spots of pulp-y exposure allow the material’s woody origins to suggest themselves in glimpses that remind me of the fate of a book cover I once left out overnight and was trailed over by slugs. Twig has a seductive, analogue hand feel.

> This piece is odd and enigmatic; tonally it feels almost anarchic in its provocations – sad, absurd, funny, ominous. Each of Twig’s four acts begins with exposition – including quasi stage direction – in prose before slowly splaying out into ‘scenes’ of experimental poetics that utilise space and layout to create spare formations that suggest a kind of released breath in relation to the tight, pressurised scenes of poetic labour. For Twig seems (at least to me) to be a drama of expression. Its movements oscillate between an intense scene of domestic privacy and the seemingly public space of the theatre; its protagonists are a poet and a twig, bound together as bridge, and the twig and lettering, caught in a drama of takeover. In this absurdist theatre, humans (or at least, ‘characters’; I understand the pun here on person in a play and a written letter to be intentional) contort to manipulate twigs on threads, only to be eviscerated from the scene by Act Two as ‘The twigs are untethered and still’, leaving just a struggling voice that falters through letters that have been described in sticks and circles: ‘The stick is part of this descriptive process but we are not sure how’ (‘One Twig, One Edge’, n.p.). By Act Three the twigs are losing their material integrity: dissolving into letter sounds, losing their edge, ‘There is no twig’ (‘What Has Twig?’, n.p.) and at this point of dissolution we understand that ‘twig and human move closer, or human is closer to twig’ (ibid.).

> In this drama of mutability, even metamorphosis, the twigs are overtaken by letters in sticks and circles; before this, Twig has probed in its short, curious interludes the twig’s relationship to line, to words, and to curves, but concludes ‘A line that circles is not a twig’ (‘Words For’). All this is staged in relation to the private scene of effort that is the poet’s heroic struggle to write at the kitchen table, where ‘The twig is a bridge between body and table and I am careful with the pressure on my chest’ (‘Stick Meme’, n.p.). Here the effort of writing is dramatized as the poet moves the twig to inscription, awkward and unsteady always, and deeply breathing through restriction (one feels the breath of ancient lyric utterance in this piece’s respiratory poet machine). The deliberate setting up of barriers, obstacles (in the text’s own terms, awkwardnesses), wilfully works at revelation, intensity, or some kind of excavation of the act of writerly expression: ‘My movements are stilted and the words come with slow violence, attention beyond the capabilities of computer keyboard or pen’ (Stick Meme, n.p.). The piece is too physical to be nostalgic, but it certainly evokes the histories of writing, of ancient processes and poses the quality of their manifestation in the digital present as some kind of question.

> Act Four’s soft, gentle, wetting rain, when it finally comes, feels like an irrigation… or a flood; the kind of rain that the chapbook itself perhaps has been left out in, following its touch-driven logic. And so Twig’s absurdist theatricality dramatizes a coming to language – earlier there was ‘Release        soft as butter’ (‘The Edge of My Body Where I Write’, n.p.) – with all the ambiguity of the theatre’s space’s intersection of subjectivity with spectacle. The murmurings and stutterings of the text gather together in the final exquisite line, ‘It is a fine rain of the uncertain forming of shapes in the mouth of the narrator’ (‘Twigs Are Not’, n.p.). I feel I have been through a drama myself, through an effort of comprehension. This perplexing, probing piece worries at the act of writing – William Carlos Williams’ famous maxim that ‘the poem is a machine made of words’ is refigured as visceral commitment: ‘my body / a machine that breathes’ (‘Dead Wood’, n.p.). Gesturing at the langue/parole dyad through its generic modes of drama and lyric, Twig engages dialectics of abstraction/materiality; community/individual; expressed/repressed. I’m not entirely sure what this strange piece looks to stage, what it mourns, what it divines, but I found myself caught on its branches.

> Twig foregrounds methodology, taking us through the active processes that might allow us to discern ‘Fallen lines and heavy human traces’ (‘The Hum of Concordance’, n.p.). For Osborne such traces have already been marked; the poet’s work, as intimated in Descansos’s recurring motifs of communication, is to notice the markings and to tune into the presences that endure to accompany all our wanderings. Named for the small shrines of tokens that mark sites of sudden death, often at roadsides, Descansos is a collection of lyrics – some prose poems, many more fragmentary, but still left-aligned pieces – that register as aftermaths, as records of anguished grief, hot-tempered responses to deadening methods of assimilation (‘Take me to your Research Team. I will give them. Evidence’, p. 2), as insistences on the persistence of spirit, of the potency of portals (arboreal again):

           Your tree is out loud & the party

           going on is a disappearing act /

           is the portal

           we can afterlife through (p. 19)

> Despite its more apparent occasion, and its leading trope of visually enshrined memorialising, Osborne’s collection too is indirect and enigmatic in its method. Descansos is preoccupied by ways of knowing, by epistemology; littered with tokens of correspondence (dreams, telephones, omens ) and processes of attunement (vibrations, magical thinking, automatic writing, spirit guides, Shaman), the collection is in a continual, sometimes-disorientating, process of discerning, channelling, conducting: ‘I am driving. Divining a message / from the hearse in front of me’ (p. 12). In this commitment to engaging the unsaid, the buried, the suppressed, the lifeworlds beneath contemporary accounting, Descansos feels like a collection for our times. To read it is to join with its commitment to storytelling, to swerve with its movements between narration and lyric expression, and to listen as command of the lyric ‘I’ shifts between voices, speaking from now, speaking from before, insisting on ontological disruptions: ‘I was an astronaut showing up at the funeral. I was lava pouring down into the village’ (p. 14).

> Perhaps most strikingly, this is a collection that engages – complexly, sometimes covertly, sometimes overtly – with the work of reckoning with America’s colonial-settler past and present, its status as stolen land. We are confronted with frontiers, with the landscapes of capture and extermination – Omaha, ‘gateway’ to the West, the Great Plains on fire – and with the violences that mark the distinctions between animals as companion/spirit species, the stolen cattle, those being ‘meadowed / to death’ (p. 16), and those mere simulacra in New York apartments: ‘where there / are no animals, just pictures of the / animals in calendars sold half price’ (p. 16). The scene is post-industrial (‘Oil fields up in smoke’, p. 1; ‘on a planet being mined to death’, p. 13; ‘I sign to the crops that alibi the pesticides driven into their lyric’, p. 14) and not post-colonial enough (‘Drums are circling / with this Message’, in ‘(Biloxi, MS)’, p. 16, historical site of civil rights activists swimming in resistance, and location of a memorial for those lost in Hurricane Katrina). In this way, Osborne weaves an intense sense of personal quests for reassurance, for answers, for explanations – relationships with a missing mother, an appetite for learning that teeters into a distracting voraciousness (‘I can only pay attention if I think / it has to do with me’, p. 19) – with the maddening effects of a nation’s disregard for the duty of acknowledgement, reparation, repair. The earthy contents – fire, animal, woods, water – in relation with Descansos’s beautiful cover art of constellations, seems determined to focus, even if unevenly and mysteriously, America’s relationship with territory, the dysfunction of its relationship with space (both terrestrial and ET).

> As with Todman’s Twig, Osborne’s Descansos – like all the best poetry – does not determine its contexts entirely, does not restrict its vibrational affects. Both texts seem intent on the intensity of poetry as a means of enquiry, as a ‘way into’ something, as a tool for both enigma and expression. In its offering of itself as a series of Latinx shrines, Descansos points abstrusely to the missing, to the lacunae (all too material in the numbers of missing persons from Native communities in North America), to the exterminations and evaporations of American history. To the stuttering analogue tapes of record (the grammar of penultimate stops in the prose-poem sentences makes this textual), Descansos draws our attention, asks us to: ‘Rewind. I know nothing at the beginning and. Here. Pause the video. Did you catch that? The start of knowing’ (p. 8); we are compelled to advance. And yet the collection is ominous, foreboding, anthropocenic. The archer draws back the string, the arrow quivers, the horses hooves thunder. And still we are drunk on certainty, on mapping:

With some laughter between

           Trees we map with all I know

           About trees

           A boat could rescue us

           So we go deeper into the woods

                                               (p. 13)

I sense Todman listening again. Somewhere a twig is cracking.

~

Amy Todman, Twig, Chapbook, 32pp, edition of 100 (Amy Todman, 2019)

Katherine Osborne, Descansos, 32pp (salo press, 2018)

~

Text: Rhian Williams

Images: Salo Press/Amy Todman

Published: 5/6/20

[whatdimissmotherfuckers]

Cheesy

Word count: 1940 Pairing: Peggy Schuyler x Reader Summary: It’s Valentine’s Day and of course everyone has a Valentine. Besides you. Warning: swear words. Gayness. Hamliza. So basically me. Beware, tis I

Notes: This is a Valentines fic, but my lazy ass was lazy and i didn’t get it done on time. But well, a lot wanted of you wanted a Peggy fic. (No, nobody requested this. I felt like it.)

“God, I fucking hate Valentine’s Day”; you groaned irritatedly as you arrived at the table where all of your friends sat and were in the middle of a conversation.

Peggy was currently picking at a red rose, which she was holding in her hands and look at you with a surprised expression on her face.

“Why would you say that?”, she asked uncomprehendingly and with a long sigh, you sat down beside her.

Of course Peggy couldn’t possible understand, why Valentine’s Day was that horrible for you. She was happily single for more than a year now and nevertheless, the boys were still standing in line for her, and you could understand them.

She was pretty, sporty, a lovely person and she had a smile so bright it almost blasted your socks off.

“Well, Peggy. To be honest, I can understand Y/N. Valentine’s Day is just another invention of the capitalism to squeeze money out of lovestruck fools”, Alexander added while he was leaning over a few papers, on which he instantly started to write on.

Eliza, sitting beneath him, slightly raised an eyebrow.

“Is this the reason why you didn’t buy something for me and John?”, she then asked and John and nudged her.

“Well, I think his poems are more beautiful than any other present he could buy for money. You know, roses or chocolates aren’t very personal”, he said softly, but Alexander, engulfed in his writing, didn’t seem to notice what John said, because he didn’t react to it, but continued to scribble down notes.

“Yeah, you’re not wrong John, but-” Before Eliza could finish her sentence, Alexander jolted up and turned to his girlfriend, and gave her a concerned look.

“Did you not like it?”, he asked, almost nervously, while staring at her with big puppy eyes. Feeling bad, the Schuyler sister instantly leaned in to give him a tender kiss on his forehead.

“Of course I liked it, please don’t worry. Thanks, my dear.”

You suppressed another groan, before you contributed furthermore to the topic.

“Dude. It’s not the waste of money which annoys me. It’s because i’m single on Valentine’s Day, and you can’t exactly claim that”, you explained, and before Peggy could say something, you stopped her.

“And Peggy, the people are almost fighting to be with you. So, yeah, “I’m single” is not an argument.” You took a sceptical look at the table, which was practically flooded with roses and boxes of chocolates.

“Okay, but I don’t have a Valentine”, she responded, and pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. You tilted your head in confusion.

“For real?”, you dug further into the subject and your glance wandered over your other friends, but they didn’t seem to be surprised at all.

Immersed in their own little debate if Valentine's day was an invention of capitalism and whether that was a bad thing, they were passionately theorizing back and forth, leaving Peggy and you out.

“Well, actually, you could be my Valentine, (Y/N)! What do you think, pizza and a good movie? Tonight, at my place?”, she asked, a little bit shy, but you nod hastily.

“I think this will be amazing!”

Without further thinking, you set up a time to meet, as you suddenly had a crucial question. Was this a date? Or just a regular movie night among two friends?

The confusing thought didn’t leave your head anymore. You didn’t even know if she was into girls. You tried to remember every conversation with Peggy, but did she ever mention her sexuality? And even if she did, did this change anything?

You felt weirdly conflicted.

The time stretched like a chewing gum, as you were impatiently waiting in front of her apartment, shifting from one foot to the other.

You were way too early, and you knew it. Normally, you would just walk in and ring at the door, Peggy would eventually open up, but today it seemed weirdly impolite.

You nervously fixed the collar of your white blouse, feeling like you hated your outfit already, even though you’ve only wore it for an hour or so.

Was this is a date now? The thought lifted up the corners of your mouth.

Peggy, the youngest of the Schuyler sisters, and totally out of your league…

“(Y/N)?”, somebody’s voice brought you back to reality.

“What?” You shook your head confusedly, before you realised who was standing before you.

Her hair tied up in a bun, while a few curls had found their way out of the hairdo and were framing her face nicely, Peggy was standing in front of you. She was wearing an oversized sweater, dyed in a warm, yellow tone and she was smiling at you, but you could tell by the expression in her eyes that she was mildly confused.

“Um, you were standing here for a quite a bit”, Peggy noted and you scratched the back of your head.

“Yes, um. I didn’t want to be too early”, you admitted and earned a hearty laugh from your vis-à-vis.

“Oh, bullshit. What’s up with you today, since when are you paying attention to the time? Come on in!”, she said, and held open the door to her apartment.

“Well, normally I’m not contemplating whether we’re having a date or not”, you thought to yourself, but decided not to say anything and quietly followed Peggy into her home.

Immediately, you were surrounded  with the sweet scent of Peggy’s perfume and unconsciously, you inhaled deeply.

“So, i’ll order Pizza and we’ll watch a movie, right?”, she suggested, turning towards you with a flyer in one hand, and a phone in the other.

“Yeah, i’ll have a cheese pizza. You know, just to be ...cheesy today”, you said, tossing your bag to the side.

A moment of awkward silence ensued, and Peggy scrunched up her face at the lame pun.

“Okay, how about you’ll go into the living room, i’ll come back in a second”, she said with a strangely secretive smile on her lips. You did as she told you and made your way into the living room, which seemed to be tidied up, like always.

On a second glance though, you could see that everything that was laying across the room has been stuffed into a drawer, which was so filled up that it didn’t even properly close anymore.

It brought a smile to your lips and you made yourself comfortable on the couch. Crossing your arms over your chest, you still felt a bit nervous, but the feeling quickly disappeared when Peggy bursted into the room and nearly jumped onto the couch, wrapping her arms around you. You happily rested your head against hers and enjoyed the embrace, which felt like you both were made for each other, like two pieces of a puzzle. You relished the moment, which resulted in silence, but not the kind of awkward silence where you didn’t know what to say. It was a peaceful silence, it emphasised the close bond between you even more, and the only noise that was interrupting the silence, were the quiet breaths, and, at least you imagined it, your own heartbeat, because you felt it pulsing in your chest so heavily, that you were afraid Peggy would notice.

After a few moments of rest Peggy asked which movie you wanted to see.

“Something romantic?”, you suggested, giggling. “It would be fitting, for Valentine’s Day”, you explained yourself a second later, before Peggy could oppose it.

But you worries were unnecessary, because she nodded excitedly.

“Sure, I love love stories!”, she agreed, and you breathed a sigh of relief.

The two of you relaxed for a few more moments, before Peggy stood up to grab a pile of DVDs from a shelf.

“Let the right one in?”, she asked, coming back with a stack that was so high she could barely look over it.

“Nah”, you decided after a second of considering it.

“Silver Linings?” Another no came from your side. This procedure was repeated a few times, till the pile on Peggy’s lap was reduced to a single DVD, the others were all scattered across the room.

“Men in Black?”, she suggested eventually, and amused, you raise an eyebrow.

“That’s not very romantic”, you stated, and watched how her face reddened.

“Yeah, well… I mean, it’s my favourite movie”, she confessed and you beamed happily.

“Well then, let’s watch it!”, you decided and Peggy’s eyes sparkled with excitement.

Soon after, you both had prepared everything and were leaning against each other, as suddenly, the doorbell rang.

“Oh shit, the pizza!”, Peggy remembered and hit herself with her flat hand against the forehead.

“Stay here, I’ll be right back!”, she hollered, already on her feet and almost tripped over one of the DVDs.

So again, you sat alone on her couch and listened to the distant voice of Peggy, the jingling of change and the loud bang, when  the door was slammed shut again.

Shortly after, the living room was filled with the familiar scent of the popular dish named pizza.

“Nice!”, you shout excitedly. “How much do I owe you?”

“Ah, you’re good”, she replied, sitting down next to you and shoving one of the pizza cartons into your lap.

“Yay!”, you playfully nudged her side. “Thanks a lot!”

“Ouch.” While rubbing the place where you’ve hit her, she gave you a look of anticipation.

“Are you alright?”, you asked her cluelessly, and she nodded hastily.

“Yeah, everything good!”, she assured you, but the suppressed smirk on her lips said something else. The way she toyed with her hair made you become a bit suspicious.

“What?” You tilted your head, but she just shook her head in response.

“Did you drop my pizza or what?”

Sceptical, you opened the box, till you froze in shock.

There was something written on the inside of the carton, more specifically, it was a question written in sweeping, cursive letters, and as your eyes focused on them, you could make out what it was saying.

Want to be my girlfriend….or is this too cheesy?

With a squeak you closed the pizza carton again and it laid it aside, before looking at Peggy, a grin spread over your face, and you weren’t able to say something.

Her face was flushed in a bright red, and she nervously fiddled with the rim of her sweater.

“So..what do you think?”,Peggy asked, and buried her face in her hands.

You quickly took her by the wrists and gently forced her to look at you.

“Yes. Yes. YES! Yes, I would like to be your girlfriend, and yes, this is way too cheesy!”, you practically shout into her face, before letting go of her.

She beamed at you, her eyes widened.

“Oh my god, yes, my plan worked!” Peggy pumped a fist, till you gave her a questioning look.

“Oh! I asked Eliza to give me her roses and everything, to make you jealous. Up top!”,  she explained, and you couldn’t help but to let your jaw drop.

“Really?”, you asked again, not able to believe her.

“Yeah, I did! It was just before you came over to us!”, she explained and held out her palm so you could high five her.

With a slight smile on your lips, you shake your head.

“You’re such a dork.”

Instead of giving her a high five, you grabbed her hand and pulled her closer towards you,till your foreheads were touching.

“But I like that.”

Slowly, the two of you leaned forward even more, till your lips brush against each other softly.

[blondeeyedguy3722]

We are completely designed to fail at them. You meet someone. Your brain chemistry gives you all the alarms. Your pulse quickens. You get butterflies. Their name takes on a special meaningful weight. They thrill you. You blush when you think of them. This is just on one side. If both of you feel this way? The bells ring. You can’t believe it’s real. You understand love songs. Love poems. Soulmates. Twin Flames. My Whole Life has Led to this Moment. Magic. You can’t get enough of each other. Meant to Be. You feel like the whole world is rooting for you. Then what? That’s where the stories end. That’s where the song moves on. “Happily Ever After” is one of the greatest lies ever told. There is no such thing because it’s not reality. The first part is easy. Your partner can do no wrong. Their habit of clapping their knee after they’ve made a painful pun and they are congratulating themselves on their cleverness is an adorable quirk. Sex is indescribable. Its like your bodies are two puzzle pieces that have finally found each other. Their touch causes goosebumps. Kissing them is like every passionate in the rain kiss in the movies. You go to dinner and can’t get enough of each other. How many sisters do you have? What did you want to be as a child? What was your biggest fear? But then what? Your stupid brain chemistry kicks in. You’ve moved from “The Honeymoon Phase” to “Companion Phase”. And we, stupid creatures as we are, miss that phase. We miss the butterflies. Now it’s the person that farts all night if they had the burrito bowl. That quirk when they make a bad pun and start slapping their knee makes you want to put a fork in your eye. Sex is “okay”, more so because it’s comfortable and familiar. Dinners become both of you looking at each others phone and commenting about how your food is. We then doubt. We wonder. Is this it? Did we settle? We see our single friends out there having the time of their life. We hear the first date stories. When they go bad, we feel grateful for what we have. When they go well? More doubts. You have ridiculous fights. Who took out the trash last? Why did you spend so much money at this bar last night? Why do you wear that stupid t-shirt? Why didn’t you say “bless you” to me after I sneezed? And stupidly enough, your brain now assigns this person as “yours”. MY girlfriend. My boyfriend. They are now a possession of yours. Something that is a part of you. We don’t feel necessarily as attracted to them, but they are ours. So we take them for granted. We stop thinking about their needs. We nag them. Or hang up. Or snap at them when we have a bad day. They do the same things. If you make it through companion phase (around the 5–6 year mark) you enter the long stretch. This person is a part of you, the same way you are a part of them. You are a team. There is no more magic. The hugging and kissing is usually reserved for the goodbye, hello, good night. It’s been years since you had a “make out” session. You have weekly or bi-weekly date nights. See a movie. Go to a restaurant. Go to a bar. Go home. Some of us are programmed to feel gratitude in this. To find comfort in simple love and joy and family. Yet I find most of us are wired differently. Our brain sending us signals: “Well…I mean this is nice and all…but…is that it?” And now our magic-bringing fart machine becomes a little bit of an enemy. They snapped at us the other day. They don’t listen when we talk. And that really cute guy from Marketing keeps making eyes at us. It’s okay to flirt a little right? I’m a human. I deserve to feel beautiful/handsome/hot/sexy whatever. I’m sure he is doing it too. And there goes our brain, sending us some heavy romance chemicals. The quickening of the pulse. The excitement. The newness. The longing for pleasure. The sexual excitement awakening again. IF we don’t act on it, we come to resent it, and we usually blame our partners in some way. If we act on it, and we cross that line. Have a torrid affair that usually ends. Now what? Heartbreak. Betrayal. Jealousy. Anger. And your fart-machine sadly/angrily leaves. And now what does your stupid brain do? Based on eons of survival instinct. It sends you non stop signals: GET HIM/HER BACK! It paints everything about them in rose-colored glasses. Romance movies and break-up songs now speak directly to you. “She was the love of my life man, and I traded her in for a hot 3 month fling from Marketing”. We endlessly text, apologizing, emailing. We were wrong. You are the love of my life. Please baby give me another chance. If they do. You get a fresh start. If not it becomes a wound you carry with you now. You view relationships a bit more cynically. You are more guarded. There is this person out there that carries a portion of you, and now they are gone. And eventually they will be with someone else and our brain tells us that’s a horrible and miserable thought and that we need to bury that with food or ice cream or alcohol. Human beings are completely ill-equipped to handle heartbreak. It’s one of our worst mechanisms which is bizarre to me, that death, the fullest and most real “THE END” we have, is literally less painful then a bad heartbreak. We have no idea what to do with it. Relationships always start with both people in the same place, yet they never end that way and anyone that says “it was completely amicable” , is in my opinion lying. Hearts never break even. Now it becomes a confidence issue. One person moves on first. They are seen as “winning”. The other usually needs time to heal. They are sympathized with, or given 1000 words of well meaning but usually useless encouragement. If they never get with anyone again, it will be met with sympathetic nods “they never got over that breakup”. They are only seen as “okay” when they are in the cycle again. And a few years later, after you’ve spent thousands in therapy, and read a bunch of self-help books and maybe did some yoga and meditation, learned some fun new words like “mindfulness” and “enjoying the moment”. Now you are doing okay, you are feeling good. And one day at a cafe, you meet a guy. And his smile makes you weak in the knees. And there goes your evil brain again. Oh but don’t worry. *This time* will be different.

Quora

[tanmath3-blog]

Gerri R. Gray is a poet with a dark soul, and the author of the bizarre adventure novel, The Amnesia Girl (HellBound Books, 2017). Her writing has appeared in numerous literary journals and anthologies, including Beautiful Tragedies and Demons, Devils & Denizens of Hell 2 (both published by HellBound Books). She has also contributed to the book, Ghost Hunting the Mohawk Valley by Lynda Lee Macken (Black Cat Press, 2012). She is a lifelong aficionado of horror, dark humor, and camp, and blames her twisted sense of humor on a wayward adolescence influenced by the likes of Monty Python, Charles Addams, Frank Zappa, and John Waters. 1. How old were you when you first wrote your first story? I wrote my first story at the ripe old age of thirteen. It was a short (and somewhat dreadful) play called Won Ton Soup, complete with a musical score that I composed. 2. How many books have you written? I’ve written two-dozen non-fiction books on the subjects of witchcraft and the occult, under a different name, all of which have been published. I eventually grew disenchanted (pardon the pun) with that genre and yearned to branch out as a novelist – a dream that I had for many decades. So far, I’ve written one novel and a collection of poetry and short stories under my real name, and I’m currently working on a second novel. 3. Anything you won’t write about? I enjoy writing dark poetry (the darker, the better), twisted humor (the more twisted, the better), and horror – especially if it has peculiar characters and/or a bizarre twist to it. However, if a subject matter doesn’t interest, excite, or amuse me, I simply won’t write about it. It would be a boring mental torture for me, like doing math homework or income taxes. 4. Tell me about you. Age (if you don’t mind answering), married, kids, do you have another job etc… I’m old enough to be an antique car, although in my head I’m still thirteen at times. I’m a Capricorn; originally from the Chicago area; my favorites colors are red and black. I’m married to a wonderful Canadian man named Brian, who’s retired, and we have no children. Up until several years ago, we operated a bed and breakfast out of our restored Victorian mansion. It was called the Collinwood Inn and themed after the 1960’s supernatural daytime drama, Dark Shadows. Before the B&B, I owned and operated an antique shop outside of Jamestown, New York (a city whose claim to fame is having a graveyard where Lucille Ball’s remains are buried.) 5. What’s your favorite book you have written? The Amnesia Girl! I really had a blast writing it. It actually started out in the 1970s as a weird little play called The Joy of Insanity, but never went anywhere. In fact, not only did an agent reject it, but she also expressed her disdain for it by writing on the first page, in red pencil, that it was “vulgar.” I felt completely discouraged by that and literally tossed the manuscript into a box and moved on with my life and my writing career. But it nagged at the back of my mind for years until I decided one day to re-write it as a novel, give the story a major overhaul, and breathe new life into the characters. Completing it was kind of a bittersweet experience for me I have to admit. I was delighted with how the story turned out and excited to begin shopping around to find a publisher for it. But on the other hand, when the time came for me to type ‘The End’ on the last page, those two little words made me feel like I was letting go of an old friend that had been a part of me for such a long time, and the finality made me feel a little melancholy.

  6. Who or what inspired you to write? I developed an interest in writing, including songwriting, early in life when I was in grammar school. I can’t really give credit to any one person or thing as being my sole inspiration, as I draw inspiration from so many different sources, including individuals and events from my own personal life, dreams, nightmares, the arts, and underground culture. I’ve always been attracted to the absurd and the abnormal, and, in many ways, those things inspire my writing as well. Even though my novels and short stories are works of fiction, I’d say nearly every one of my characters is based, to varying degrees, on actual people who I’ve known or who have affected my life in one way or another. As far as what inspires my poetry, I tend to write some of my best poems when I’m in my darkest, gloomiest moods. 7. What do you like to do for fun? Writing is the number one thing that brings me pleasure. I also have a passion for photographing old cemeteries, paranormal investigating, watching old films, rummaging through second-hand shops, adding to my record collection, reading books, playing board games, and doing jigsaw puzzles. I’m not really a “people person,” so I tend to enjoy things that don’t require or involve large groups of people. 8. Any traditions you do when you finish a book? Sometimes I’ll have a big Brown Cow to celebrate. Sometimes I’ll have more than one. 9. Where do you write? Quiet or music? I don’t know how this will affect my public image as an author, but I almost always do some writing in the bathroom while sitting on the “mystical throne of inspiration.” I also write in my bedroom or in my home office. Wherever and whenever the mood strikes me, I suppose. My usual modus operandi is to write down the words on paper first, and then type them into the computer. Quiet is essential, as is solitude. When I’m working on a horror story, I’ll sometimes like to have “mood music” like Henry Mancini’s “Experiment in Terror” or Humphrey Searle’s “Suite from the Haunting” playing in the background. 10. Anything you would change about your writing? In a perfect world, I would do away with writer’s blocks and grammatical errors, and everything I cranked out would become an instant best seller. (Hey! A girl can dream, can’t she?) 11. What is your dream? Famous writer? What writer doesn’t dream about being famous or writing a best-selling book? We wouldn’t be human if we didn’t. I’ve always believed that a person without a dream is a person who’s dead inside. Without our dreams, we have no hope, no passion, and no drive. My dream had long been to see my novel, The Amnesia Girl, get published; and, thanks to HellBound Books, it’s a dream that’s been realized! My new dream is to see it made into a motion picture someday! 12. Where do you live? I live in the central part of Upstate New York in what used to be called the Leatherstocking Region. (That has kind of kinky sound to it, don’t you think?) Our home, a mid-19th century Italianate mansion, is the quintessential haunted house, complete with a tower and resident ghosts. It’s also a money-pit, so I hope to sell lots of books. 13. Pets? Yes. A Siamese cat named Aristede.

14. What’s your favorite thing about writing? I love the entire creative process of writing, and being able to touch people in some way with the fruits of my imagination, whether it’s making them laugh, scaring them, shocking them, or whatever. I love getting a reaction. I’ve always felt that one of the best things about being a writer is the freedom to be eccentric. A lot of people are of the opinion that all writers are eccentric, so they automatically expect you to be that way. They’re totally discombobulated if you aren’t. (Believe it or not, I think this is the first time in my life I’ve ever used the word, ‘discombobulated.’) 15. What is coming next for you? Hopefully, it won’t be the IRS. I’m currently working on a new novel that will be even more bizarre than my first, and I’m also compiling and editing short horror stories for an all-women anthology called The Graveyard Girls. Additionally, I have a book called Gray Skies of Dismal Dreams due out in early 2018. It’s a collection of my dark poetry and fiction, and some of my cemetery photography as well. 16. Where do you get your ideas? Most ideas just pop into my head from out of nowhere, and usually when I’m in bed and drifting off to sleep. I’ve had so many stories, poems, characters, and dialogue come to me that way that I’ve lost count. It’s almost like channeling. And when I was working on The Amnesia Girl, I would sometimes wake up in the middle of the night and have entire yet-to-be-written chapters of the book play out in my brain as though I were watching a movie. Sometimes it was a little weird, but always entertaining. I started keeping a notebook and pen next to me in bed because if I don’t write all these things down when they come to me, I almost always forget them in the morning. You can connect with Gerri R. Gray here: Official website: http://gerrigray.webs.com/ Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/AuthorGerriGray/ Amazon author page: https://www.amazon.com/author/gerri_r_gray HellBound Books author page: http://www.hellboundbookspublishing.com/authorpage_gray.html Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/17311761.Gerri_R_Gray

  Some of Gerri R. Gray’s books:

  Getting personal with Gerri R. Gray Gerri R. Gray is a poet with a dark soul, and the author of the bizarre adventure novel, The Amnesia Girl (HellBound Books, 2017).

[willandandy]

Top 10 Love Songs by Will

Hello my name is Will Stubbs and I love music. My cohost and I are here together because of our shared love of the art form. I feel that music is the best medium for creativity, and the best standard of communication on earth. People can explore new ideas and emotions with the help of music. I am here to talk about music that interests me and maybe start a great conversation. Thanks for reading and remember to love music forever.

             Today I write a list of top 10 love songs. I know it’s a tacky and silly idea. But for me, I want people to know what songs give me butterflies in my stomach. Or tear me up inside in the specific way a relationship can. I’ve never really been in love, but these songs describe the best iterations of what I feel that is. Now these may not be the best songs about love, and I concede that some of these may not be intended to be happy either. They definitely describe something about love or a relationship. Let’s get started.

 1.    Big Star – I’m in love with a girl:

Now I know that this song is really simplistic, almost to the point that it’s tacky. That’s kind of why I like it. I don’t think this band gets enough credit in the grand scheme of things. They were masters of simple catchy music. Their lyrics may not have been that deep or puzzling. This song is just beautiful. It’s soft and well sung. You don’t always have to make the most complex music to evoke a lot of meaning. Sometimes love is simple and that is why this song was on my list.

2.      Bloc Party – This Modern Love:

This song is my 2nd favorite song of all time, so it seems intentionally obvious that this song makes it on this list. I love everything about this song. The way that Kele sings is fantastic. The opening riff is catchy and makes me reminisce of romanticism. The lyrics are so awkward and confusing. They say a lot about how humans communicate now. Interaction is now perceivable awkward and clumsy. The rhythm section is very noticeable, and in a good way. Just good indie music from a great album. I love the closing few lines “Do you wanna come over and kill some time?

Throw your arms around me.” Great love song for my list.

 3.      Radiohead – True Love Waits:

I simply love this song (no pun intended). This song is another obvious choice for me. Thom Yorke may not have the best voice in the world, but he makes up for it in the way he sings. He emotes with such passion and devotion in this song it’s astounding. He is very desperate to keep this girl from leaving him. I empathize with the way he feels and I wish to feel the way he feels so I can truly know what love is. The lyrics are sort of strange, but weirdly fit the band and song itself so well that it makes perfect sense

4.    The Cure – Just Like Heaven:

This was actually a tough choice for this band seeing as they have so many love songs. This one had to make it on my list. It’s a really catchy and bubbly song. The lyrics are very deep and meaningful. If there was one song I wish I wrote, it would be this, or even any song by the cure. Robert smith has a way of showing his emotions like no other person. I love this song, by one of my favorite bands none the less. I know I could have easily put Lovesong or Friday I’m in love. I had to do this song, simply for the lines “Why are you so far away she said

Why won't you ever know that I'm in love with you?”.

5.    D’Angelo and the vanguard – Really Love:

This song is a unique one on this list. The lyrics are perfectly fine, but the music behind it says a lot more in my opinion. The flamenco guitar is played precisely, and it makes the song sort of sexy. The string section remind me of an Old Italian love film. It’s very dramatic and has a lot of emphasis. D’Angelo comes in and his voice is so smooth and soft, it like an instrument itself. The whole dynamic of this song is very undisturbed and beautiful. There are a multitude of instruments played in this song at perfect times that it adds a lot to the piece as a whole. It has an enormous amount of depth and it definitely deserves a spot.

6.    The Beatles – Hey Jude:

This band contrasts Big Star in many ways. They are the masters of making a simple song on the surface. When you dive deep into their catalog, their songs are much more than they appear. The emotions typically overwhelm you in such a way that you don’t know what to feel anymore. This song may be an obvious choice, but I almost find that strange. The reason Paul wrote this was to comfort John Lennon’s son when he and his ex-wife went through their divorce. But still I listen to it and it almost gives me a confidence. As if he is telling me not to worry. That if what I’m about to do is meant to work, it will. You have to open up your heart and try. Hey Jude is very full of life and inspires me to love.

 7.      The Smiths – There Is A Light That Never Goes Out:

I never fully appreciated The Smiths until I was older. This song has always stuck with me though. It’s a great expression of myself in a lot of ways. The song is sort of about an introvert who finds comfort in another person in such an unedifying emotion that it’s overwhelming. Morrissey is willing to die and give up everything in that perfect moment. I have had that many times and I always truly appreciate them. As far as relatable, this song is the closest on my list.

 8.    Father John Misty – Real Love Baby:

This song is really cheesy and campy, although it is in a self-aware sort of way that Josh can pull off. This song seems like the closing credit music for an 80’s teen romantic comedy. Josh has done this before such as the song I Love You, Honeybear. The title alone should give it away. Unlike that song, or even that whole album, this seems overly stylized, but not as much of a joke. Josh seems to have made this because he didn’t care about being cliché. He just wanted to make a love song and I can really appreciate that sentiment. I think it’s really catchy and that’s why it made the list.

 9.      Death Cab for Cutie – I will follow you into the dark:

I know another super obvious song, but its Valentine’s Day. I think this song deserves a listen, but the lyrics are particular. I think it’s not just a love song. The lyrics seem to be about a man who was damaged emotionally, so relationships are tough for him. So when he finds the one he loves, he sort of lets go of himself. The way that Ben Gibbard sings almost reminds me of a child reading a poem out loud. He sounds the words out so phonetically correct and clear. His voice itself sounds shy. It’s as if he is holding back emotionally, but it fits the dynamic of the song.

 10.  The Cranberries – Linger:

This song is sort of the antithesis of the list, but not necessarily. The song seems to be about being in love with someone who doesn’t love you back and there is nothing you can do about it. The idea is emotionally exhausting to think about. I can imagine the frustration and hopelessness to have someone that you care about in a specific way but can’t express it. The song is sort of hauntingly beautiful. Dolores’s voice is so soft and beautiful. I like this song as well, because it contrasts to their usual alt-rock/post-punk stuff. This song is really nostalgic for me and will always be one of my favorites.