#a song linked from 9 verses

[song-linked-from-nine-verses]

/it has come to my attention that this exist

art source here credits to linkeduniverse/jojo56830:

anyways HOLLYYYY this is real. this is it. this is why these two hate math rock. One does things proper and one can't do anything at all (what i mean is Legend can't even keep up with regular signatures let alone the jumpy-out-of-the-pocket signatures in math rock. And they even change signature in the middle of the song??????? on the other hand, Wind probably prefers working with proper signatures)

[chinesehanfu]

[Hanfu · 漢服]Chinese Warring States period(475–221 BC) Traditional Clothing Hanfu-Life of Qu Yuan(屈原）

【Historical Artifact Reference】:

China Warring States period (475-221 BC):Silk painting depicting a man riding a dragon (人物御龍帛畫)

it was discovered in the Zidanku Tomb no. 1 in Changsha, Hunan Province in 1973. Now in the Hunan Museum

A man with a sword is riding a dragon by holding the rein. The dragon's body was given the shape of a boat. A little egret is standing at the tail of the dragon. A carp under the dragon is leading the way. The umbrella in the top middle of the picture shows the owner's nobility. The work has become associated with the Chu poet Qu Yuan’s famous verse from his poem Shejiang (涉江, Setting foot in the river), ‘Carrying a long sword with weird colour; Wearing a qieyun–styled high cap.” (帶長鋏之陸離兮, 冠切雲之崔嵬)

Western Zhou Dynasty seven-huang jade pendant with linked beads/西周七璜联珠组玉佩

About Qu Yuan(屈原）

Qu Yuan (c. 340 BC – 278 BC)was a Chinese poet and aristocrat in the State of Chu during the Warring States period. He is known for his patriotism and contributions to classical poetry and verses, especially through the poems of the Chu Ci anthology (also known as The Songs of the South or Songs of Chu): a volume of poems attributed to or considered to be inspired by his verse writing. Together with the Shi Jing, the Chu Ci is one of the two greatest collections of ancient Chinese verse. He is also remembered in connection to the supposed origin of the Dragon Boat Festival.

Historical details about Qu Yuan's life are few, and his authorship of many Chu Ci poems has been questioned at length.[4] However, he is widely accepted to have written "The Lament," a Chu Ci poem. The first known reference to Qu Yuan appears in a poem written in 174 BC by Jia Yi, an official from Luoyang who was slandered by jealous officials and banished to Changsha by Emperor Wen of Han. While traveling, he wrote a poem describing the similar fate of a previous "Qu Yuan."Eighty years later, the first known biography of Qu Yuan's life appeared in Han dynasty historian Sima Qian's Records of the Grand Historian, though it contains a number of contradictory details.

Life of Qu Yuan(屈原）

The only surviving source of information on Qu Yuan's life is Sima Qian's biography of him in Records of the Grand Historian (Shiji), although the biography is circumstantial and probably influenced greatly by Sima's own identification with Qu.Sima wrote that Qu was a member of the Chu royal clan and served as an official under King Huai of Chu (reigned 328–299 BC).

During the early days of King Huai's reign, Qu Yuan was serving the State of Chu as its Left Minister. However, King Huai exiled Qu Yuan to the region north of the Han River, because corrupt ministers slandered him and influenced the king.Eventually, Qu Yuan was reinstated and sent on a diplomatic mission to the State of Qi. He tried to resume relations between Chu and Qi, which King Huai had broken under the false pretense of King Hui of Qin to cede territory near Shangyu.

During King Qingxiang's reign, Prime Minister Zilan slandered Qu Yuan.[9] This caused Qu Yuan's exile to the regions south of the Yangtze River. It is said that Qu Yuan returned first to his home town. In his exile, he spent much of this time collecting legends and rearranging folk odes while traveling the countryside. Furthermore, he wrote some of the greatest poetry in Chinese literature and expressed deep concerns about his state. According to legend, his anxiety brought him to an increasingly troubled state of health. During his depression, he would often take walks near a certain well to look upon his thin and gaunt reflection in the water. This well became known as the "Face Reflection Well." On a hillside in Xiangluping (at present-day Zigui County, Hubei Province), there is a well that is considered to be the original well from the time of Qu Yuan.

In 278 BC, learning of the capture of his country's capital, Ying, by General Bai Qi of the state of Qin, Qu Yuan is said to have collected folktales and written the lengthy poem of lamentation called "Lament for Ying". Eventually, he committed suicide by wading into the Miluo River in today's Hunan Province while holding a rock. The reason why he took his life remained controversial and was argued by Chinese scholars for centuries. Typical explanations including martyrdom for his deeply beloved but falling motherland, which was suggested by the philosopher Zhu Xi of the Song dynasty, or feeling extreme despair to the situation of the politics in Chu while his lifelong political dream would never be realized. But according to "Yu Fu," widely considered to be written by Qu himself or at least, a person who was very familiar with Qu, his suicide was an ultimate way to protect his innocence and life principles.[citation needed]

Qu Yuan is said to have expressed his love for the ruling monarch, King Huai of Chu, through several of this works, including "The Lament" and "Longing for Beauty".

Dragon Boat Festival/端午节

Popular legend has it that villagers carried their dumplings and boats to the middle of the river and desperately tried to save Qu Yuan after he immersed himself in the Miluo but were too late to do so. However, in order to keep fish and evil spirits away from his body, they beat drums and splashed the water with their paddles, and they also threw rice into the water both as a food offering to Qu Yuan's spirit and also to distract the fish away from his body. However, the legend continues, that late one night, the spirit of Qu Yuan appeared before his friends and told them that he died because he had taken himself under the river. Then, he asked his friends to wrap their rice into three-cornered silk packages to ward off the dragon.

These packages became a traditional food known as zongzi, although the lumps of rice are now wrapped in leaves instead of silk. The act of racing to search for his body in boats gradually became the cultural tradition of dragon boat racing, held on the anniversary of his death every year. Today, people still eat zongzi and participate in dragon boat races to commemorate Qu Yuan's sacrifice on the fifth day of the fifth month of the traditional lunisolar Chinese calendar.

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Recreation Work by : @晴南

Xiaohongshu🔗：http://xhslink.com/CU2x9J

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[ladykailitha]

A Corroded Coffin Christmas ft The Fallen

Hello and welcome to my Christmas AUvent Calendar! Every day from now until the 24th I will be posting a ficlet that is 500-1500 from an AU I've done over the years.

All stories will be marked with the tag #12 aus of christmas so you can follow along as I will only be tagging my permanent list for this (it would get too confusing otherwise).

The next one on our list is: The Fallen verse. You can read the story here and it's sequels here and here. All links will be to the first chapter, but the chapter itself will have links to the rest of the story.

Day 1 Day 2 Day 3 Day 4 Day 5 Day 6 Day 7 Day 8 Day 9 Day 10

~

Steve reached over and put his hand on Simon’s knee as it was bouncing faster and faster the closer they got to the studio. He was nervous as fuck. Hell, they all were. Because apparently the perks of being the boyfriend for the lead singer of the biggest metal band in the world is getting his band to do a Christmas album with them.

It wasn’t going to be a full album, just about eight or so songs that would feature The Fallen in someway. Steve was really looking for to the absolute gay fest his version of “Santa Baby” was going to be.

Other songs would include “Jingle Bells”, “Carol of the Bells”, “Last Christmas”, “Better Do it Right”, “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day”, “I Saw Three Ships” (the duet version Barenaked Ladies did with Sarah McLaughlin), “Little Drummer Boy”, and “Christmas Day” for the feels.

It was going to be so much fun. Gareth and Spencer were going to do a drum off for “Better Do it Right” and Shane was going to really get to let lose on the metal cover of “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day”. While Simon was going take over for Jeff in “Last Christmas”. Jeff couldn’t stand the song and didn’t want to have his ears bleed.

The car pulled up to the studio where they were led into the sound booth would be using. For the most part everyone would be going into different rooms and laying down their parts but would come together for the duet and Carol of the Bells where they would all be singing together.

Even Spence. Which he as super excited for. One secret that not even Eddie knew was that backup vocals weren’t sung by Asmodeus or Astraeus. But by Azrael. He had the best voice next to Steve and he loved that no one knew that but his friends and now Nadia.

They all gathered together in the green room with Bob, Chrissy, and Celeste all waiting for them. It appeared the Corroded Coffin boys weren’t there yet.

“Come on in!” Bob said brightly. “You can take your masks off for bit if you want, Eddie knows to knock before they come in.”

They all looked at each other and then all of them removed the masks with a sigh of relief. The masks were as comfortable as they could be but they were still masks.

They chatted for awhile, talking about the album and which songs they were excited to play. Everyone agreed it was Abbadon doing Santa Baby. Screw “Santa Buddy” for fuck’s sake.

Then there was a knock on the door and after they were given time to put the masks back, Corroded Coffin entered the room.

“Hey, guys!” Bob greeted brightly. “Come on in. I’m Bob Newby, I’m The Fallen’s music producer. Thank you for choosing me to do this with you!”

Jeff reached out and shook his hand. “We’ve heard nothing but things about you from the guys and couldn’t wait to get in the studio with you.”

“Yeah,” Gareth agreed. “It’s nice to put a face to the name.”

Then they all sat down and wrote down which order everyone would going in. And it was pretty much going to a full schedule for everyone for the next couple of weeks.

But they were all excited and couldn’t wait to get started.

Then the day came. The one everyone had been waiting for. The instrumentals had been laid and mixed weeks ago, but it was time for Steve to sing “Santa Baby”.

The little sound booth was crammed with everyone wanting to hear this. Both managers, Vickie their agent, and the seven other members of both bands all clustered behind Bob at the mixer.

Steve had his mask on, but rolled his shoulders as he started his vocal warm ups. He shook out his limbs and then grabbed the mic.

“Santa baby,” Abbadon crooned, “just slip a Jag under the tree for me. Been an awful good boy. Santa baby, so hurry down the chimney tonight!”

Eddie melted on the spot. If the guys had been in the know, they would be making fun of him so hard right now. As it was, they all were under Abbadon’s spell.

“Santa baby, a ‘54 convertible too, light blue. I’ll wait up for you. Santa Baby, so hurry down the chimney tonight! Think of all the fun I’ve missed, think of all the fella’s that I haven’t kissed. Next year I could be just as good, if you check off my Christmas list.”

Steve continued to sing the whole song and the sound booth was going to crazy. Once he was done, The Fallen boys flooded the recording booth and dogpiled Abbadon, telling him how sick that was and that it was going to be a number one hit for sure.

Eddie didn’t doubt that for a moment. Abbadon coming out as bisexual and then two years later, singing that? Yeah. That song was going to be huge. They all walked out of the studio to a bright July evening, excited for the album to drop in December.

~

They were right, The Fallen were asked to sing “Santa Baby” on every morning talk show, late night show, and for the POPS! Christmas special.

Another one that made the POPS concert, which surprised everyone, was Gareth and Spence’s Little Drummer Boy. They credited the idea to Of King and Country, of course, but there was just something special about a metal version of it that drove the masses wild.

The final surprise off the album was people clamoring to know who the contra alto was in their version of “Carol of the Bells”. They wanted to know who the guest female vocalist was. Both The Fallen and Corroded Coffin burst out laughing every time the question was raised.

“All vocals were done by Corroded Coffin and The Fallen,” Bob said in an interview with Rolling Stone magazine. “There was no female vocalist.”

Spence enjoyed every moment of the speculation.

When the album went platinum in two weeks, they threw a party with the two bands.

“Here’s to the best metal Christmas collab of all time!” Eddie toasted and everyone cheered.

Steve smiled, it was a very merry Christmas indeed.

~

Tag List: CLOSED

1- @itsall-taken @redfreckledwolf @zerokrox-blog @sadisticaltarts @dolphincliffs

2- @gregre369 ​@a-little-unsteddie @chaosgremlinmunson @cryptid-system @kultiras

3- @maya-custodios-dionach @goodolefashionedloverboi @val-from-lawrence @carlyv @wonderland-girl143-blog

4- @bookbinderbitch @bookworm0690 @forgottenkanji @dreamercec @blondie1006

5- @yikes-a-bee @awkwardgravity1 @genderless-spoon @fearieshadow @thesecondfate

6- @dragonmama76 @ellietheasexylibrarian @thedragonsaunt @useless-nb-bisexual @disrespectedgoatman

7- @counting-dollars-counting-stars @tinyplanet95 @ravenfrog @swimmingbirdrunningrock @lingeringmirth

8- @gutterflower77 @a-lovely-craziness @just-a-tiny-void @w1ll0wtr33 @beelze-the-bubkiss

[etz-ashashiyot]

I'm bored and stuck waiting and happened to remember that on my old blog I had made this statement:

Since I have a minute, I figured I'd finally drop the list with some brief explanations:

1. By Way Of Sorrow - Coyote Grace version

This song and its lyrics, especially as sung by a queer/trans bluegrass band, could not be more Jew-ish in vibe. I am aware this is a cover, but I have only ever heard their version and that's the one that matters to me. I love love love this song, so much, and it perfectly captures how I feel about having been welcomed into the Jewish people after years of exclusion and othering from numerous other quarters. Am Yisrael has taken me in, treated me like family, connected me to the Divine, healed my wounds, and helped me feel as whole as one can in a broken and unredeemed world - while giving me the tools to join the work of tikkun olam myself.

2. The Farthest Field - The Lumber Jills version

This is the best version I could find; the original I was shown I can't find but will link if I do. This song was actually introduced to me by one of my orthodox rabbis, and I agree with him that it can be understood as a beautiful image of geulah.

3. Hallelujah - Coyote Grace & Girlyman

This one just makes me happy, and the words, message, and themes are very on-brand for Jewish vibes as well in my opinion.

4. Be Thou My Vision - old Irish Hymn (this version and this version are my favorites)

This one is very obviously a hymn and therefore decidedly Not Jewish. On the other hand, the words aren't so explicitly Christian that it rules out use by Jews (in my opinion) and especially if you translate the words into Hebrew, it sounds just like a traditional piyyut. (@springstarfangirl if you want to add your beautiful translation, please feel free!)

5. Down to the River to Pray - Alison Krauss

This is one where I do think the lyrics are a lot closer to being Christian specific, but it makes the list for a couple reasons: first, I've encountered it in Jewish-specific contexts without modification (one of our rabbis actually had us sing it like a regular song during zemirot), and second, there's a modified version by Nefesh Mountain that's quite enjoyable.

6. Whither Thou Goest - traditional

Yes, this one is a hymn too, but the words are directly quoting the Book of Ruth - her famous vows to Naomi, and to the Jewish people - and so it's already practically a Jewish song. It also has a special place of pride for me as a ger, and also because I used it as my wedding song in both the English (as heard in this version) and I also transliterated the Hebrew for our singer to do as well. It works nicely in both languages!

7. Roll the Ol' Chariot - David Coffin

This one I think is a little less direct, but I love it and included it for two reasons: first, it's a song of getting through it and surviving and thriving under tough circumstances, and second, you could very easily put liturgy to this melody instead.

8. For the Autumn Sky - traditional

Ignoring the last verse, this hymn could be very easily adapted into a beautiful Sukkot melody. For the last verse, I'd either simply leave it out, or one could write a Sukkot or Tu Bishvat themed verse to distinguish it. Incidentally, this was one of my favorite hymns growing up.

9. Sanctuary - Shaker melody

The video for this one is obviously mega-Christian, but it's on the list because we actually sing it all the time in shul and it has a special place in my memory from going to camp as a kid. Our shul is definitely not the only one who uses it in a Jewish context, either: this version by Cantor Julia Cadrain is really lovely.

10. Genesis 3:23 - The Mountain Goats

Where are my fellow Mountain Goats fans?? I know you're out there, lol. Look, I know that John Darnielle is coming at this from a Christian perspective, but two things: first of all, TMG has a number of Jewish fans I think at least in part because the lyrics speak deeply to the specific feelings around life (and other people) being horrible to you, surviving, and thriving even in the wake of deep trauma. Second of all, I think this one in particular brings up a number of interesting ideas about the meaning of home, of homecoming, of returning to a home that no longer really exists in the same way, and of exile and redemption. What would it look like to return to Gan Eden? Is this what geulah is supposed to look like, at least in some interpretations? What does it mean if not?

Anyway, this is it for now, but I may add to this list later, because there are definitely a few more! Please also feel free to add your own in the notes!

[dailyniallnews]

niallhoran: Hello Lovers ! I’m excited to announce that ‘The Show: The Encore’ will be out digitally on November 3rd with vinyl and CD editions to follow on April 5th.

This new version of the album features 9 additional tracks including a version of “You Could Start A Cult” with @lizzymcalpine which is out everywhere this Friday. I’ve been a huge fan of hers for a while now and am so grateful she was able to hop on the song and write a special new verse. I’m also thrilled that the incredible @johnlegend came on for a new version of “The Show” and can’t wait for you all to hear the cover of tearsforfears’ “Everybody Wants To Rule The World” that I’ve been performing at all the festivals this past summer. There’s also some versions of the songs I did with @vevo and a preview of some live performances I did at a @spotify event right before the album came out (much more to come from that night to come soon).

Pre-order and pre-save from the link in my bio xx

[foxes-that-run]

loml

The title of this song refers to both love of my life and loss of my life. Harry's only track 13 is Love of My Life. Like Harry's LOML, loml is a song about letting a long held love go. Both are regretful of love lost but neither over it. As a song about a long museship the references to both Taylor and Harry's work is dense, so this post is long. A shorter TLDNR is here. The nature of the relationship Taylor is describing is one that should have a lot of references, and it does. Each chorus refers to a different song where Harry professed love.

The initial Spotify Canvas was of Taylor in a sweater looking emotional. After Fortnight was released it was replaced with Taylor and Post inside the Style-head reading Story of Us on the road. Taylor played loml once as a surprise song on piano in Paris, with Paris in the first show after their release on 9 May 2024.

Lyrics

[Verse 1] Who’s gonna stop us from waltzing back into rekindled flames If we know the steps anyway? We embroidered the memories of the time I was away Stitching, “We were just kids, babe”

The first verse establishes that Taylor is singing to an old muse at the end of a breakup, or false start. She refers to them being together in their youth, of wistful memories and that the love is irreplaceable. It is full of references:

Waltzing back into rekindled flames, Taylor refers to dance as a kind of subconscious action in several songs, this reminds me most closely of 'Dancing around it' in High Infidelity and 'Dancing is a dangerous thing' in Cowboy Like Me - where the dance is also tempting a romantic relationship, they know the steps - as in they have fallen into this before.

Embroidering memories touches on the Haylor theme of stitches. 'Away is in a lot of Taylor's songs. 'Taylor' embroiders in EHC and LK posted about embroidery after TTPD

'While I was away' reminds me of AYHTS "People like you always want back the love they gave away" and Midnight Ran's "the life I gave away" - a similar idea that she was absent.

Stitching 'We were just kids babe' is a reference to Patti Smith's Biography 'Just Kids' which is her memories about her time with fellow artist Robert Mapplethorpe who died of Aids. Taylor also refers to this time in Patti Smith's life in TTPD. Patti thanked Taylor for the callout with posting a photo of her reading Dylan Thomas' biography. This line establishes this muse is a fellow young artist who Taylor had an important relationship with when they were young. Taylor & Harry have likened themselves to famous couples

I said, “I don’t mind, it takes time” I thought I was better safe than starry-eyed I felt aglow like this Never before and never since

'I don't mind, it takes time', this idea is referred to in Peter also and other Haylor songs:

Run: Piece of paper where I wrote, “I’ll wait for you”

How You Get The Girl: I would wait forever and ever

“Slut!”: Everyone wants him, that was my crime, the wrong place at the right time

Say Don’t Go: The waiting is a sadness fading into madness

"I thought I was better safe than starry-eyed" - the prologue describes three muses, as does the Fortnight MV. One has celestial imagery that links to Satellite, such as stars, comets, orbit, planet and whole sky. Starry-eyed is in a few songs including:

CIWYW - Starry eyes sparking up my darkest night

Cowboy like me - Eyes full of stars

High Infidelity - Do I really have to chart the constellations in his eye

Better safe than starry eyed also reminds me of "How dare you think it's romantic / Leaving me safe and stranded" in Down Bad that refers to New Romantics "Please leave me stranded"

'Never felt aglow like this', 'never before and never since' is a glowing irreplaceable connection. Taylor described similar in:

This Love - This love is glowing in the dark

Question...? - Does it feel like everything's just like second best after that meteor strike?

[Chorus 1] If you know it in one glimpse, it’s legendary You and I go from one kiss to getting married Still alivе, killing time at the cemеtery Never quite buried

I knew from one glimpse, it was legendary, we go from one kiss to getting married is a reference to Holy Ground:

“Back to a first glance feeling on New York time/ Back when you fit my poems like a perfect rhyme/ Took off faster than a green light, go : Yeah, you skip the conversation when you already know”

A similar line is also in Glitch - "Five seconds later, I'm fastening myself to you with a stitch"

‘Still alive at the cemetery’ is similar to The 1: “In my defense, I have none / For digging up the grave another time” which in turn is a reference to the OOTW/LAWYMMD music video link where Taylor from the end of 1989 is Taylor at the start of the next video.

In your suit and tie, in the nick of time

‘In your suit and tie’ is dressed for a wedding. Arriving ‘in nick of time’ is the muse interrupting a wedding saying “don’t do this there’s still time!” Which Taylor said of Harry, when describing the muse of Style and 1989 Taylor said she expected this. Here she is saying she was fooling herself.

You low-down boy, you stand-up guy You Holy Ghost, you told me I’m the love of your life You said I’m the love of your life About a million times

“Low down boy; you stand up guy” is a person who has been in Taylor’s life since they were a boy (with a dirty mouth) who has grown to be a stand up guy. They are now grown but not with her.

Taylor then refers to Harry’s music, Holy Ghost refers to Two Ghosts and refers to Love of My Life by name. In which Harry says it 5 times, he’s performed it 102 times to around 700k fans, so yeah, a lot. Note it's “said” not “told me”.

[Verse 2] Who’s gonna tell me the truth when you blew in with the winds of fate And told me I reformed you? When your impressionist paintings of heaven turned out to be fakes

Taylor refers to truth often, but usually her telling or seeing a truth, But in the Alcott the muse tells her the truth and she says she she has fallen back in love with the muse. I imagine in Taylors life many do not tell the truth, but this muse can and does. Here Taylor asks if they will still tell the truth if they are together.

The muse told Taylor she reformed them. Harry says this in Stockholm Syndrome, that he "used to sing about being free but now he has changed his mind". On 13 May 2023 Harry added Stockholm Syndrome to the HSLOT set for the last 18 shows. A song he he wrote for Taylor when they were dating and had not performed since 2018.

The impressionist paintings may refer to the Two Ghosts music video, which was or became tour screens. (Thank you @notoriousbeb) The reference to fakes is where an overture of love did not come through.

Well, you took me to hell too And all at once, the ink bleeds A con man sells a fool a get-love-quick scheme But I’ve felt a hole like this Never before and ever since

The second half of this verse links back to past writing to each other

'And all at once, the ink bleeds' I LOVE this line so much. It has a double meaning, the ink bleeds as Taylor writes music inspired by a museship that has featured in so much of her work. The ink bleeds like emotion bleeds as the bleeding love theme.

"A conman sells a fool a get love quick scheme" this line is dense:

In Why She Disappeared, the poem played before Getaway Car in the Reputation Stadium Tour included "Wary of phone calls and promises, Charmers, dandies and get-love-quick-schemes"

Harry and Taylor have referred to each other as robbers, thieves, cowboys and now a conman see thief theme

Harry and Taylor have both referred to themselves as a fool many times for being stuck on each other.

Never felt a hole like this before or since is crushing, it reminds me of Questions...?'s "Does it feel like everything's just like second-best after that Meteor strike?"

[Chorus 2] If you know it in one glimpse, it’s legendary What we thought was for all time was momentary Still alive, killing time at the cemetery Never quite buried You cinephile in black and white All those plot twists and dynamite Mr. Steal Your Girl, then make her cry You said I’m the love of your life

In the second chorus Taylor again refers to songs by Harry, but changes which ones:

Mr Steal Your Girl refers to One Directions Steal My Girl.

B&W Cinephile may refer to when Harry kept his Instagram B&W for 2 years from when 1989 was released with the line 'the rest of the world was in screaming color' it may also refer to the Treat People With Kindness music video in B&W and widescreen. Harry is also a cinephile, both in being a fan of cinema and appearing in more recent films than her actor partner at the time.

[Bridge] You shit-talked me under the table Talking rings and talking cradles I wish I could un-recall How we almost had it all Dancing phantoms on the terrace Are they second-hand embarrassed That I can’t get out of bed ‘Cause something counterfeit’s dead? It was legendary It was momentary It was unnecessary Should’ve let it stay buried

Taylor acts this lyric out in fortnight in the eras tour.

Shit-talking can mean either disparaging remarks or saying something untrue and going on about it. Talking, (or drinking) someone under the table is doing so in excess. So I take this first line 'shit-talked me under the table' to mean the muse went on saying untrue things for ages, in the context of the rest of the verse I think that is making statements of love they were not yet willing to follow through on.

Taylor sees they were so close, a similar line is in TTPD there is a similar line of 'litany of reasons we could have played for keeps this time' Taylors muse has professed love and that they are endgame but not followed through.

In the Only Angel Demo Harry sang "I must admit I married you a thousand times. Had to change my tune when I found out what it'd be like."

Counterfeit is also in Glitch "It must be counterfeit, I think there's been a glitch"

The shit-talk is rings and cradles, in a time that Taylor was disappointed a long term relationship ended another long term muse flirted with settling down but did not. Harry wore the Peace Ring and Haylor ring for years, they seemed as possible promise rings which these lines remind me of. As do songs of both which may refer to the other. The Haylor ring is featured in merchandise for TTPD and Taylor wears it in the Fortnight Music Video so it is likely this ring.

[Final Chorus] Oh, what a valiant roar What a bland goodbye The coward claimed he was a lion I’m combing through the braids of lies “I’ll never leave,” “Never mind” Our field of dreams engulfed in fire Your arson’s match, your somber eyes And I’ll still see it until I die You’re the loss of my life

The final chorus reads as a bitter disappointment of Taylors muse has meekly said they will not be with her.

Stockholm Syndrome - which Harry readded to his setlist 13 March 2023 (gone since 2018) has the line "Baby, I'll never leave if you keep holding me this way, oh o-oh" Here Taylor has compared it to what looks like a goodbye statement from someone who doesn't want to talk about it.

It is the loss of Taylor's life, one she felt at the time of writing this song was not one she would get over.

Valiant Roar

The 'valiant roar' is likely a reference to Harry's Gucci Lion ring which he has worn since 2018 and briefly lost in April 2022 at Coachella. It attracted a lot of attention until it's return when it was learned it has an inscription of 'second time's the charm'. Taylor also wore a Gucci Lion ring at Electric Lady Studios on 12 April 2023 (before heading to Florida). At that time the 1975 were in Australia and Harry was in the US after a golf tournament in Augusta. This line also reminds me of this scene in DWD which OW described as a 'primal roar' to Rolling Stone in 2022.

[randy-jester]

My Imaginary Ride The Cyclone Hybrid Live-Action and Animation Feature Film that only exists in my head: Part 2

Here's the link to Part 1!

Apologies for splitting it into 2 parts. Tumblr literally wouldn't let me post it as one big chunk. 😭

Continuing on:

To refresh: This would be a hybrid film that combines both live action and animated segments. The majority of the movie would be shot in live-action under a sepia filter, but all of the choir member's songs would be animated with different art styles. "What The World Needs" is in CGI Disney style, "Noel's Lament" is black-and-white 2D animation, "This Song is Awesome" is stylized graffiti, and "Talia" is in watercolor.

Of course, "Space Age Bachelor Man" will use an art style resembling Silver Age comics (which, fun fact, is around the time Silver Surfer was introduced). The song sequence will actually show most of the events Ricky details in his fantasies (ie., him getting abducted to Planet Zolar, laying with the sexy cat women, stopping the war between K-9 and Zolar, etc.).

Side Note: We don't actually see Ricky get freaky on screen. But we do see him and the kitties in snippets of suggestive action accompanied by on-screen sound bubbles every time Ricky says "Meow!". (This movie is already getting an R-rating for every time Noel says "Fucked Up Girl".)

Another side note: I know that in the 2018 version of RTC, Constance plays the "Zolarian Queen". But because this is MY movie concept, I get to do what I want. And I say Jane Doe is the Zolarian Queen instead (SpaceDolls 4 Ever! <3).

"Ballad of Jane Doe" will be in stop motion (either using paper or puppets). In the first half, we see her recount the accident. She looks like how she does now (with the doll head). She hits the ground right before "And from the ground beneath my feet", and her head falls off. We see her laying headless on the ground for a some time while other carnival patrons are screaming and getting away from her. On "Just John and Me" she stumbles back to her feet. And on "Forever Eternally Jane Doe" she screws her head back on.

In the next verse, we see Jane try to reach out to the other carnival goers, essentially trying to identify her family and friends. When she finds none, Jane boards the rollercoaster again on "Time eats all his children in the end"

Essentially, the idea is that because it's her only memory, Jane is forced re-live the accident over and over again through her song sequence. She desperately wants to find out who she is and what her past was. But the only memory she has to dig through is that of the accident.

She falls to the ground again on "Forever Eternally Jane Doe". Then gets dragged onto the ride a third time by carnies. She looks tired like she doesn't even want to do this anymore. On "Like John I'll be eternally a forgotten name, some lost refrain" we see her fly and float through the air (like how the other choir kids did during Uranium suite). But this time she never hits the ground. Instead, at the end of the song, she just reappears in the warehouse.

Constance's song, "Sugar Cloud", is the only individual segment that isn't animated. Instead, it's shot in live-action, but in full technicolor! Think like how vibrant Barbieland looked in the Barbie movie. Like that. The reason why "Sugar Cloud" is in live-action is because Constance is romanticizing her life as it was, rather than what it could have been.

Constance begins her first verses, still in sepia, at the warehouse. But when she goes "Let me take you away", she struts forward and the scenery changes behind her to that bright technicolor look. And instead of being at the warehouse, they're back at the carnival. But everything is bright and sunny and idealistic.

During Constance's recorder solo, the choir gets new outfits that reflect each of their personalities. The outfits magically poof on out of thin air. The choir members keep these new outfits for the duration of the song, then go back to their school uniforms after the sequence is over.

When Jane Doe is chosen to live again, her body fades away, leaving behind a roll of film. Ricky slides this film into a projector, and the choir watches the reel of Penny Lamb’s life together.

After Karnak’s death, we see the sepia filter lift off from the film. Along with it, we finally get to see how much decay and disrepair has taken over the warehouse. The choir members have a spiritual glow around their bodies.

The choir members perform the last song, “It’s Not A Game/It’s Just a Ride” inside the warehouse. As the sun rises, their bodies fade away.

Title card rolls at the sound of crashing metal.

[americanwh0rerstory]

The countess’ meal

SUMMARY: you chose to stay in the cortez for a while, unaware that a certain lady was planning your demise…

CONTENT WARNINGS: blood, cannibalism sorta, clothes-on grinding, kissing, MURDER

A/N: some parts are loosely based on the song linked below, i’ve also never written WLW before so i hope this is good <3

SUGGESTIVE AND EXTREME THEMES BELOW, PLEASE READ AT OWN DISCRETION

You checked into the cortez a few days ago, aware of its dark past but unaware of the residents there. you spent a lot of time at the bar drinking Liz’s martinis, but you never spoke to anyone there. Sally tried to make conversation but failed. you just weren’t interested

what you were interested in, was the blonde haired lady you kept seeing around the hotel. an image of elegance and beauty, the pinnacle of feminine class. she had captivated you, and she knew it. the times you’d meet her gaze as she passed, accidentally brushing shoulders in a corridor, the faint metallic smell that blended with her perfume, it had you in a chokehold.

she knew what she was doing, she knew how her actions were affecting you, yet she didn’t stop. the air of charm that surrounded her was too enticing for you, and equally as thrilling for her. she liked the hunt, and you were on track to be her next meal.

it came as a surprise when you found an invitation in your hotel room, the note depicting that the countess wished to have dinner with you. it was unexpected, but you weren’t surprised. the tension had been building with every encounter you had with her.

you arrived at her room by 9:30pm, just the time she told you to arrive at. and once she opened the door you was overwhelmed with her radiance and allure that she seemed to constantly put out, as though it was the scent of her perfume.

“you came,” she says in her typical empty tone, but there was more under the surface. it was evidential by the way her eyes widened slightly, and the way the corners of her lips twitched. the act was almost unnoticeable, but you noticed it with how your gaze was locked onto her face.

her porcelain skin smoother than that of porcelain itself, her pearly-blonde locks of hair that seemed to cascade around her in perfect waves, her impeccable lipstick which gave her lips that perfect lined look, the way she looked down at you from her tall stature. you could gaze at her for hours, like a painting that screamed perfection in all 7000 languages. she was the epitome of class, perfection, radiance.

The dinner went well, you both made light conversation and she didn’t seem to mind the way you stared, if she did then she kept it to herself. you learned how well versed she was in various art forms, and you felt yourself fall further and further into the spiders web, unbeknownst to you how she planned to end this night once you were caught like prey. it was all too easy to her, you were like a moth to a flame.

as for her, she was leaving you to marinate. to soak and bathe in her presence to make you more malleable for her to play with. unknowingly to you, you were her meal: her dinner, lunch, and tea. but she wouldn’t tell you that, nor hint at it until it was too late for you to realise her true intentions of stringing you along for the past few days.

one thing lead to another, and before you knew it you were pinned beneath the countess as she kissed you. that perfect red lipstick marked your own lips in little smears, the heat building up from your chest as you practically poured your soul out into the kiss. it was the best kiss you had ever experienced, and it only got better when you felt her knee press itself between your legs. this was so uncharacteristic to the cold, composed, and stoic countess you had scene around the hotel but that was the last thing on your mind right now. there was nothing on your mind right now, just the way her tongue toyed with your own and the way her knee ground against your clothed core.

you were so lost in the kiss that you didn’t notice her reach for the letter opener on the cabinet beside you both, the metal glinting under the lights of her room. once it caught your eye it was already too late though.

the white-hot pain throbbed in your neck, causing your eyes to shoot open in agony only to be met with her now slightly pleased face. even in such a thrilling moment she wouldn’t show any emotion whatsoever. however just as quick as the pain hit you, it intensified as she pulled the knife out, the fountain of blood rushing out and into her open mouth.

her lips latched onto your neck, relishing in the metallic tasting liquid that sprayed straight from your artery into her mouth. the excess began to spill down her chin, coating her dress in deep scarlet. with the sanguinary scene being a familiar one to the countess, she wasn’t phased by the tears or the gasps and groans that escaped your lips, the strangled breaths were merely the usual for her. she didn’t stop, she just kept drinking until she was satisfied.

her dress was coated in the viscous vermillion that came straight from your body, her lips and chin stained with your blood. you were her meal, and your dying memory was seeing the satisfied look on her face. as the light faded from your eyes, you were clueless that you’d come back. your personal hell, the cortez, becoming your forever home

A/N: i fear i went too descriptive with this, but i hope it was enjoyable and that anyone who read the full thing enjoyed it

[ukelele-boy]

Animatic Call (June 17, 2024)

Hello everyone! I am picking up an old animatic idea from 2022 that we never finished! The song is called "Thus always to Tyrants" by Oh hellos

Here is the link to the discord! Check it out! You don't need to make your decision to join right away.

Deadlines: No deadlines decided yet! But approximately over the summer.

And here is a tentative outline of the animatic:

First verse: the six months he was missing, him going through the mortalification, the fall

Second: summary of trials and all the suffering etc to 'remake' him

Chorus: him talking to zeus in ton, the look of neutrality etc, showing the audience that he does not intend to follow zeus anymore

Bridge: him rebelling/ going back to see his friends (m conflicted to choose)

Coda: him turning back to zeus one last time, and asking the silent question before turning away

Tentative Color theme: red colors to gold/yellow representing blood to ichor, and also sunset/sunrise.

Character reference sheets: (in progress) for consistency so viewers can know who is who

[alteon77]

Updated Masterlist of Writing and Art

About the writer/artist: I like to write and paint. My current obsession is Sandman, but I enjoy most fantasy fandoms as well as anime (I think I’m on season seven billion of One Piece right now 🤣). I'm also weird as they come (and awkward, too), so just please ignore my oddball (coughTERRIBLEcough) sense of humor.

On a more personal note, I have PTSD and suffer from severe manic depressive episodes. Writing and art are my most familiar coping mechanisms, and I need them like I need oxygen. Seriously, there were times in my life that knowing I had to finish a story or a piece of art was the only thing stopping me from ending up dead. So, I don't take part in fandom drama. Having my peace and protecting my mental health are very big deals to me, and I won't risk those for anything if I can help it.

As for my writing, it ranges from short one-shots to ridiculously long novel series. I use third person POV (on longer series) as well as second person (on shorter things). I also try to always exclude physical descriptions when writing main character OCs and assign them nicknames to avoid using Y/N. I love to read Y/N fics, but writing them makes me feel like I'm at work. And who actually wants to ever feel like they're at work when they're engaging in a hobby? Definitely not me.

Lastly, there's usually more stuff on my AO3 page than I have listed here, because I forget to post it pretty often. Oops. I'll get around to moving it all over one day. Probably. Maybe.

Feel free to leave an ask if you want or just drop by my DMs. <3

Artwork links are at the bottom of this list, so if you're here for those, that's where they are.

Sandman 'Verse

All the Precious and Fragile Things (so easily do they break)

After banishing his lover from the Dreaming for her betrayal, Morpheus learns that she is pregnant with his child.

And that she’s been captured by a revenge-seeking Alexander Burgess.

What the both of them are unaware of is that this will set in motion a cascade of unfavorable events, causing a chain reaction that threatens the whole of existence itself.

PART I: All of This Past

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

PART II: These Tender, Loving Mercies

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

PART III: When It All Falls Down

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

PART IV: The Dark of War

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Epilogue

Sometimes He's Sweet

Morpheus hates the holidays.

As excited as she seems to experience the mortal holiday, he's… less so. Much less so. With the entire collective unconscious contained within him, this time of year can be wholly overwhelming, a miasma of too much red and green, too much worry, too much loneliness, too much excitement, too many similarly themed dreams, too many similarly themed nightmares, and far far too many holiday songs. It all bleeds out from the collective unconscious into his own mind, sticks there like weeping sap to a tree until he feels half-mad with the unrelenting presence of it, with his inability to get free from its cloying trespass upon his very being.

This is just a little sweet fluff for the holiday season. It takes place between chapters 19 and 20 of "All the Precious and Fragile Things". No spoilers here if you've read that far!

The Dog Debacle (or how best to sneak a dragon into the dreaming)

Morpheus' daughter gets a new dog.

Well..... kind of.

That Familiar Feeling of Family (or how Hob Gadling ended up as an uncle to his stranger's oftentimes feral children)

It's a pretty universally known thing that families are just strange. As Hob is quickly figuring out, however, this little fact is magnified by AT LEAST a billion when the family in question is Endless.

(A lighthearted story in which Hob Gadling finds out his stranger has married, makes friends with a homicidal maniac/ruler, and manages to become an exemplary uncle to a pack of magically mischievous children. Really, now all he has to do is convince everyone to stop calling his and Dream's weekly meetups "playdates", and then his life would be practically perfect.)

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

The Maker, the Muse, and the Sundered Song

In his temple, what remains of Orpheus waits in trepidation. Something is changing. Something that he knows might alter the very fabric of the world as he understands it.

Finally freed from captivity, Calliope struggles to make any meaningful changes to the laws that saw her bound and taken in the first place. When the strange woman appears on Mount Parnassus and offers help, Calliope knows she would be a fool not to accept it. Even if she thinks that she's being lied to.

Meanwhile in the peace of the Dreaming, Morpheus grapples with guilt over his son's fate. As he basks in the love of his new children, he can't help but to regret his own failings where Orpheus is concerned.

And as for May, she's really just got a job to do. And her own traumatic issues to deal with. And if it's all hella awkward because she's having to work alongside her husband's ex-wife, she'll see it done anyway. There's even the small possibility that she might eventually admit to Calliope the truth about her identity. That is if she can ever actually work up the courage to say it aloud.

Chapter 1

Nothing in This Closet but Boots and a Boy

Morpheus is wildly protective of his daughter.

That's probably bad for the boy in said daughter's closet.

AU's and Other Stuff in the Sandman 'Verse

Of Exes, Hellhounds, and Waffle Fries

Morpheus shows up to rescue the woman he probably loves (though he won't admit it) from hellhounds and ends up getting roped into helping with her family. This is one of those extras that doesn't fit into the main story, but it's fun, so I'm posting it.

The Bizarre Breeding Habits of Anthropomorphic Personifications

It's a tale as old as time.

Two idiots fall in love. Two idiots fall out of love.

Neither one of them is expecting a baby to come along and derail their unhappily ever after.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Original Fanart

I like to play around with different styles and to try new things with my artwork. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn't. I'm still learning, and I am so far from being a professional that it's laughable. But I only post things that I think look decent or that I think others might enjoy.

The Lover's Argument (Morpheus x oc)

Oneiros (Morpheus in Grecian garb)

Because I could not stop for Death, she kindly stopped for me... (Regency era Dream and Death)

[putschki1969]

【Lawson】What To Buy Part 3【Convenience Store】

Hello, this is Hikaru. Thank you for watching! This time, in response to your requests, I made a third video about my convenience store purchases 🛍️ Even though I am not mentioning it here, you can also buy soft kelp and tapioca milk tea at Lawson😋 If you have any items you often buy or would recommend, please let me know ☺️Please also send your video suggestions, I am always looking for new ideas 📝 [Introduced] ・Karaage kun ・Soft natto ・Kikyo Shingen Mochi Dora Mochi ・Mochi wheat bread cheese cream & double berry ・Salad chicken stick olive & cheese

“FEATURES” Acoustic Live Report

Yesterday, Hikaru was busy rehearsing for her upcoming acoustic live. Don't forget to tune in for today's live!! (Tweet by Hikaru | Tweet 2 by Hikaru) Following her first solo tour as freelance artist, Hikaru will be holding an acoustic live on March 17. It will be a live streaming concert so everyone can watch it. Hikaru will perform her songs from the album “FEATURES” ♪ Title: Stream LIVE “Hikaru Acoustic LIVE 2024 -FEATURES-” Date: March 17 (Sun)Time: 17:00~ Ticket sales start 🎫 2/10 0:00~ Ticket price: 3,500 (overseas credit cards accepted) Archive period: 7 days Link: https://musicchamp.page.link/PJByVDREEbTmdRf77 ※The ticket needs to be bought within the Music Champ app. Please download the app!

As always, I will do some live commenting as I watch the concert even though I am not too familiar with her new songs so I will probably not have a lot to say about them T_T Also not the biggest fan of an acoustic guitar-only accompaniment but that's a personal preference XD First things first, her shirt/blouse looks great, especially with the pearl necklace.

1.Flow: I recall not particularly liking the studio version. Can't say the acoustic arrangement has changed my opinion unfortunately. Still appreciate her vocals though. 2.Embrace: Very excited how this will turn out since I do enjoy the studio version quite a bit. Nice reverb effect. The verses sound amazing, obsessed with the way she sings the "mirai..." part. And the bridge with the “ai yueni…” is lovely. 3.Awe: "Embrace" and "Awe" back to back, YESSS! This honestly gets better every time I listen to it. Don't even mind when Hikaru gets a bit shouty because it works so well for this song. 4.Treasure: Meh... I'll admit that this doesn't do anything for me. Couldn't even remember listening to it before although I most definitely did. 5.Under the Rain: Ohhh, did not expect this song to make an appearance. Thought Hikaru would be focusing solely on her "Features" tracks for this acoustic live. Very happy. The chorus isn't my cup of tea but I love the melody in the verses. And the scene from the play will always be a personal favourite. Wow, the raspy voice Hikaru uses towards the end is pretty cool. Think this is my favourite rendition of the song so far. 6.Remain: Can't pinpoint what bothers me about the song but I am not a fan. 7.Escape: The acoustic version is better than the studio version I think. Not quite as chaotic. Still not my favourite. 8.Survivor: Feel quite nostalgic about Hikaru's first song as freelance artist. Solid performance. 9.奇跡/Kiseki: Still very fond of the melody during the instrumental section but the rest of the song is just okay I guess...Not even the lalala part works for me, it's a shame T_T

[song-linked-from-nine-verses]

/so what if my own links meet is in this au

[telomeke]

Current Tag Game

Tagged by @colourme-feral in this post – thanks dearie! 💖

Current time: 9:59am (when I started this! it's now much later but I'm not gonna re-write...).

Current activity: Had a work deadline last night so tidying up the aftermath (deleting unwanted files, etc.).

Currently thinking about: How the project submission for work went. Annoyed that I skipped gym this morning just in case there were last minute changes to the project submission and we'd have to re-submit today; but now that's not needed I'm missing legs day. Also thinking about munching on something extra because breakfast was too light (hardboiled eggs, grapes and blueberries – all originally meant as a post-swim snack, re-purposed to become breakfast since gym was canceled). Maybe fry up an omelet and sausages, or grill some salmon? 😋 Or shall I just munch on some creamy Whittaker's milk chocolate since lunch will be soon and anything heavier might spoil it? 🤔  

Current favorite song: I don't know if they qualify as favorites, but songs will enter my brainspace and then swirl around in there for a while, refusing to leave. So I'm constantly listening to them (on YouTube, not Spotify; don't have a smartphone) and/or singing along in an effort to exorcise the earworm. At the moment the playlist in my head is:

I Don't Think That I Like Her Anymore (Charlie Puth)  Charlie constantly amazes me with his superhuman ability to churn out catchy melodic turns and unusual aural takes on percussion sounds for his backing rhythms (e.g., the light switch in Light Switch). This song continues with his quirky stylings, and I'm loving the pounding bass coming in to frame the heavyweight sock-it-ta-ya message of the song's chorus after the light plaintive vocals of the introductory and intervening verses. The second (melodic) line of the chorus ("Cause they're all the same") is so simple and yet so perfectly fitting after the bold hook of the first line – I find myself asking each time I hear it how could anything else ever fit better? And then it builds and builds to a big finish, at the end of each chorus and also at the end of the song – that key change from B Major to C# Major is quite a genius step, retro yet so fresh. (But still... C sharp? 👀 OK if your electronic thingamajig can auto-transpose but hell on a trad keyboard.) I know this song is from a year ago but I'm not simply wallowing in nostalgia (oh all right, so yes I am a bit) – there is nonetheless a BL connection that first got me hooked on this. The cast of my current fave I Feel You Linger in the Air did their own take on the TikTok Kpop dance challenge of this song (linked here, with other TikToks here) and they're just so cute dancing along. Nonkul attempts a little elbow jab in homage to the original choreo, while Bright gives up after a couple of bars and just goes on doing alternating wrist twirls like those you sometimes see in Southeast Asian dance… 🤣 Alee and Tian seem like they're having fun, as does Attila, but who knew Khun Robert could actually look this good, all goofy and charming when he smiles doing a silly little jig?

‌

All I Want for Christmas is You (Mariah Carey)  Ever since Ms. Mariah broke her icy containment after Halloween (see this video here 😂) I've been singing along, getting in the mood for carols, fruitcake and Christmas decorations because it reminds me of time spent with (departed) family. Happy because those are happy times worth recalling, but also bittersweet because those loved ones are no longer around.

‌

One of Your Girls (Troye Sivan)  While I tend to feel a pinch of resentment whenever Aussies of European origin seem to get opportunities in the West more easily than non-white people do, I have to remind myself it's the system and not the talent that is at fault. So credit where credit is due and I'm a fan of what Troye has done with this and his earlier releases (like his video with PP Krit 😃😍). One of Your Girls is just so beautiful and languid as it teases with its message, and consistently Troye is breathtakingly beautiful and languid in the video, teasing us with an offering of the forbidden. I'm feeling things I never thought I would. 😮 The choreography is pretty daring too. (Especially that crotch flare – where did they tuck the dangly bits? I'm wincing as I watch.) Also shout-out to all the different representation with the models. 😍

‌

Then I'm Gonna Give You Up (Rick Astley)  This is Rick Astley spoofing Rick Astley (more explanation linked here) and just so funny. Especially since the original song is already iconic on Tumblr.

‌

Fast Car (Luke Combs)  Another nostalgia trip, this is an absolutely stellar rendition of the already phenomenal original by Tracy Chapman. Almost like Marc Cohn's Walking in Memphis with its sense of urgency and of bottled emotions about to explode, maybe just a shade less of Marc's full-throated growl in Luke's voice, but earthshaking nonetheless. In these 21st century times (and in my corner of the world where BL and queer rep cross my dash all the time) I love that Luke (a married man with a wife and two kids, looking for all we know like the straightest of the hets) didn't change Tracy's line "So I work in the market as a checkout girl", paying homage to the original and smashing at the gender-obsessives everywhere in a quietly powerful way.

‌

Currently reading: My language study textbooks; not much time for anything else though I do miss having a good work of fiction to keep me company whenever the slate of Thai drama dips in quality.

Currently watching: I Feel You Linger in the Air – a really impressive work, solidly-grounded in its universe with overhanging familial, social and political intrigue that threatens to overshadow (but never really does) the chemistry between Khun Yai and Jom.

I've fallen in hard love with this and just hope that Tee Bundit will display the wisdom associated with his name (for those as linguistically-obsessed as I am, Bundit is the homologue for pundit in English, pandit in Hindi and pendita in Malay) and wrap up the finale with more finesse than he has done on his other shows. (Something tells me though that the sense of foreboding you get while watching IFYLITA is partly due to the dread that Tee is going to rush and stumble through the last bits, leaving viewers less than satisfied with the ending like he did with Lovely Writer, Hidden Agenda and Step by Step.) However this goes, I'm a new fan of Nonkul and Bright's acting, and can't wait to see more of them.

As to what else I'm watching – I'm still trying to finish Only Friends, if only to be able to say that I've finally watched a Jojo show all the way to the end. It's not for me, though it has some moments that shine (like Neo's performance, and all the shirtless scenes) but I struggle to find anything that satisfies on a more cerebral level. I'm not opposed to sensuality and messy drama being foregrounded over more intellectual underpinnings (all hail KinnPorsche) but for me it doesn't go earthy and raw enough to make up for whatever else it doesn't do.

Current favorite character: Pat and Pran from Bad Buddy will always be on this list, but because I'm currently enjoying IFYLITA I'm sure I've been visited by Por Jom, Khun Yai, Khun Ueangphueng, Ba Prik, Ming and Khun James in my dreams lately (and also a certain racing piglet 🤣).

Current WIP: All in my head, but I have a final wrap-up post on Bad Buddy locations percolating, as well as one on the graphics in the show (that give us hints of Pat and Pran's interior worlds).

Tagging names I've seen more than once cross my dash and/or notes:

@neuroticbookworm @airenyah @alexis-mika @belladonna-and-the-sweetpeas @wen-kexing-apologist @twig-tea @pandasmagorica @respectthepetty @dribs-and-drabbles @waitmyturtles @dimplesandfierceeyes @writerwithoutsound @bengiyo @grapejuicegay @lamonnaie @lurkingshan @callipigio @italianpersonwithashippersheart @recentadultburnout @kattahj @theheightofdishonor @fiddlepickdouglas @dc-alves @brazilian-whalien52 @slayerkitty @silvercrystal1 @dudeyuri @ranchthoughts @suni-san @chawarin-panich @lurkingteapot @solitaryandwandering

and anyone else who'd like to play. 😍 Apologies if you've already been tagged; point me to your post if so! And apologies if I've forgotten to mention anyone; if I follow or if you follow me please know you are loved and do play along if you wish! 💖

Also a special tag carved out for the lovely @visualtaehyun as a part-apology; you've tagged me before on a couple of other games and I wrote out about half of my replies – but then work deadlines became urgent and got in the way. Ruefully I had to abandon those posts (especially since they're now weeks out of date). So this is my way of saying thanks for tagging me on those tag games, sorry for not replying, and I hope you'll play along with this one because I love getting to know like-minded people on Tumblr! 💖

[elektrischemaidchen]

Lisztober #9: Blind Grief

“Hey, good news, Drosselmeyer has made an 11 minute long weird ballad about Liszt.”

“Oh, COME ON!”

@franzliszt-official : We have TWO songs for you today.

One, from a noble spirit with a sense of beauty, the other is a roast, written by a Maiden without a heart, frivolous and wicked. There's a nice German expression, decribing the latter: What does it matter to the proud oak tree if the bristling cattle rub against it? ;)  I laughed my ass off anyway. For real. Chapeau.

Here we go: A Liszt-(Aleksey Konstantinovich, not Leo) Tolstoy-Ballad! (No translation, this time. Really, that’s too difficult for me and would destroy the beautiful spirit of it. I didn’t find an English translation either, but here’s a link to the whole poem, maybe you will be able to translate the site via Google)

See, even tumblr itself hates it:

If there's one unwritten rule in the Maidchen Fight Club, it's: no song without a twist or a joke. I've already broken this credo 4 times this week alone, mea culpa, I accept my punishment ;)

Enjoy this lovely pasquil, a nasty tribute to our single „Zeitmaschine“:

(So baby, take a time machine now and fly away for a month / You cheeky little bee Stay in the past / until Franz finally crowns you with a laurel wreath She bangs Franz Liszt, Oh yes Oh yes But he doesn’t  hear her plea She bangs Franz Liszt, oh yes We know You have studied/ now give it a rest otherwise our listeners will be all gone in a flash We have to save our honor now And jet to the next destination... Which is not Franz Liszt, oh no oh no Not even as a young gentleman Nor from eighteen-thirty or how old he would have gotten

Franz looks at her and says Praise to my listeners! Leave me here with thanks and we'll leave very quickly She bangs Franz Liszt! And I also greet those who have not heard my song. May only salvation befall them! Long may the prince reign happy and honored! May the people be granted a carefree life And peace to the noble boyars!” [I don't even know what boyars are, Bro])

And now for my defense of the “most boring piece of Maidchen history ever written”, with the “ROFL speech filter” that you “hoped someone would get to the point at minute 5 and would just take pity on the guy and slap him, but then the bullshit went on for another 6 minutes” and whose “last verse is so ironically abt that you could have put it at the very beginning”:

1 The text is not mine, it's Count Tolstoy's. Liszt himself set it to music autobiographically in 1875. And hardly anyone knows it. A pity. This time the song is not based on his notes. More on that below. You can skip it ;)

2 There is no poem that could appeal more to musicians. Because the blind singer is also you, my friend. At least sometimes. Not even our friends and fellow musicians hear this, so why should boyars?

3 I find the poem heartbreaking-beautiful and so sad that I actually shed a tear. I'm a sentimental bitch. Go ahead and laugh!

4 Any shortening would have ruined the story. Especially if it had been cut down to “two verses”. Philistines.

5 The filter is really cringeworthy. Sorry. The time pressure, the time pressure.

6 As for the boyars: Google is your friend, „Bro“

Now to Liszt himself:

I originally wanted to write something about Daniel and Blandine. But that didn't really seem appropriate.

When Franz set “The Blind Singer” by Count Tolstoy to music, he probably didn't know that his eye condition would get worse and worse six years later. Oh, the irony. :( But the text must have spoken to him differently: It also reflects his entire musical life with such bitter sweetness that I was truly awestruck. He, the blind singer, originally called to entertain the nobles at dinner; he, who makes the most beautiful unearthly sounds, doesn't realize that no one is listening to him. And just carries on. Even when he finally realizes that nobody is around anymore, This.

It's a bit like in this place, you see ;)

[madrone33]

Right so... been going crazy trying to catch up on the explosion of stuff peeps have been doing since the EPIC: The Musical Ocean Saga release, but. Got some downtime now, and I just wanted to post my reaction to listening to the songs, 'cause it was wild bro.

Fyi, this is all taking place at around 11:30 pm 24th Dec for me, as I'm an australian, so that would make it... uh, 8:30 am 24th Dec for americans I think? Idk, timezones are weird bro. Basically, I listened to the songs and then wrote down my immediate reactions at like 1 am lol.

*ahem*

OK HOLY SHIT HOLY FUCK. OK OK. They came out for australians. They CAME OUT FOR AUSTRALIA!!!!

I was on dicord, right? And then another australian says they're out, and i'm like wait what but there's still like 16 hours till midnight in est, but i look up 'luck runs out jorgre rivera-herrans' on yt (cause it's a unique name) and scroll down and FUCK IT'S THERE!! THE STANDARD AUTO TOPIC VERSION!! IT'S NOT EVEN MIDNIGHT HERE YET?? (23:24 at the time of discovery. The vid says it was uploaded 3 hrs ago already)

The piano. I heard the first notes of piano and ohhhhh shiiiit it's actually happening!!!

i opened the door and called out to mum 'cause i was still in disbelief and she was still awake and i was like "mum... i think it's out" or SOMETHIG LIKE THAT IDK THE EXACT WORDS. She said jokingly she'd thought i had an existential crisis and GIRL IT KINDA FELT LIKE IT?? I WAS NOT PREPARED! I WAS SUPPOSED TO HAVE ANOTHER 16 HOURS!

I tapped on the link thingy to the album in the description and then i had the album RIGHT THERE HOLY MOTHER OF JESUS. IT'S STORM. IN THE FLESH. THERE'S A FUCKING TRUMPET-

I did my civic duty and informed (read: screamed in all caps) to everyone in the discord while mum listened to the first song 'cause she said she was interested and asked and i was so excited and gave her my headphones to listen to storm and then I took em back once I was done and now it's time to go dark. I said goodnight to mum and... pressed play.

Here's the highlights:

Storm: mixing is on another level bro. The vocals, the harmonies, the chorus, and hearing all those snippets without breaks in between, actually flowing and making sense and that ending beat is AHHH-

It went so fast. It's three min long how did it go by so fast what-

Luck Runs Out: the piano is godly. They actually changed the melody of the 'you could be caught off guard' part. My first thought after ooo? Was 'damn it no longer sounds like shut up and dance w/ me' lol.

I think this one changed the most from the snippets. Jsut the way they say lines, and stray words. I love it. The harmonies-

KYFC: the intro is that one atmospheric snippet he did with the flutes!! Aeolus sounds so sassy compared to the old snippets oof hell yes! There's a small instrumental interlude between the first chorus and the crew asking about the bag which is new.

THE PENELOPE PART. OH. MY. GOD. I LEGIT TEARED UP, I WAS CRYING, I'M CRYING JUST THINKING ABOUT IT AND TYPING THIS OUT IT WAS SO FUCKING HEARTBREAKING.

Trying to hold them in his arms? Time to be that father he always wanted to be?? His eyes and heart and soul is heavy??? I'm FUCKING CRYING-

Also wow he really just stayed up for 9 days huh? Respect. Also, fuck those crewmates man. Bet they felt real stupid when it got them killed. Oh, wait, fuck it didn't Poseidon killed everyone but them oh hell nah- And Odysseus still goes to save them from Circe?? Bro. BRO. Just let them die. It ain't worth it.

And that's how Jorge introduces the land of the giants? Cool! I was wondering about that.

Poesiedon pull up! (Is it bad that i thought he sounded like ares in the pj musical there lmao-)

RUTHLESSNESS: it's here. Oh my lord it's here. Everyone stay calm. Fuck it IT'S FUCKING HERE!!

The chanting, Ody's terrified 'Poseidon...', the electric guitar on Poseidon's verse, the fucking growl in his voice is amazing, the 'Die.' is as;ihfd HELL FUCKING YES!!

I love that the 'Captain-!'s of the drowning men is more apparent here, and the silence afterwards... ooof you can hear Ody's horrified stuttered breaths and the way the lyric's changed to '43 left under your command' is soooo fucking good.

And then Ody's sudden defiance and the fucking burning in his eyes as he defies a god and escapes death- Yes. YES! It's so good-

... No wait it's over?? That's it??? WHYYYYY-

(Side note - the fact that there weren't any ads between vids is incredible and I thank the gods for this blessing.)

Ok, but all seriousness, that was incredible. I- I couldn't stop smiling. My face actually started hurting I was smiling so much. I was shaking the whole time, and I had to keep reminding myself to breathe, and- It was amazing. This was an amazing experience, and I'm so glad I could freak out to mum, and she was excited with me, and it was such a good surprise, like an actual chrismas gift from Jorge or some shit. I love it. I love this. Genuinely. It's an amazing thing he's given us and I thank him, sincerely. Thank you, Jorge, and everyone involved in creating this for people to enjoy and love. You should all be proud.

Thanks for reading me freak out, whoever made it to the end lmao. Tagging @dootznbootz because their rambles gave me the confidence to throw my own into the void. Thx :D

[chronic-ghost]

Chapter 9 of Recovery Road

chapter rating: E (18+)

pairing: dieter bravo x f!reader

word count: 11845

chapter summary: if you thought you knew the full story of natalie lorraine, you were myth-taken

chapter warnings/tags: non-consensual touching, implied sexual assault, emotionally abusive parents, drug/alcohol use, underaged drug/alcohol use, women existing in the male gaze, putting too much of myself into characters as per yooshg

a/n: Header comes from the “Circe Offering the Cup to Ulysses” by John William Waterhouse. Song for this chapter is Gold Dust Woman by Fleetwood Mac – watch me make a fic playlist after the fact lmao. Bear with me while I wax embarrassingly poetic about my favorite oc blorbo. Remember this does end well!!!

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There are many different types of myth but, essentially, they can be grouped into three: etiological myths, historical myths, psychological myths. Etiological myths can offer explanations for why the world is the way it is. Historical myths retell an event from the past but elevate it with greater meaning than the actual event (if it even happened). [Lastly] psychological myths present one with a journey from the known to the unknown which, according to both Jung and Campbell, represents a psychological need to balance the external world with one's internal consciousness of it. – Mythology, Joshua Mark

“in front of my mother and my sisters, 

i pretend love is cheap and vulgar.

 i act like it’s a sin– 

i pretend that love is for women on a dark path. 

but at night i dream of a love so heavy 

it makes my spine throb–

i dream up a lover who makes love like he is 

separating salt from water.”

— Salma Deera, “salt” 

Natalie Lorraine is a myth.

And like in all the great myths, birth is a painful, violent emergence. 

Slowly, labored across years and many heartbeats, what remains is the inevitable conclusion of being fucked over, of being lazy and careless, of innocence taken too soon. Careless children grow up to be careless mothers, careless fathers. 

The titans of the world leave to make their mark on history and, in doing so, mark their children in a way more powerful, more regretful than any legend could possibly make them out to be. 

Medea is brutalized in legends and in verse for the most heinous a mother can commit.

Odysseys forgets what being a father means.

Oedipus Rex curses his children with an unforgivable sin by way of their mother, their grandmother, and that staggering failure is felt through to Antigone, a generation removed. Antigone dies. Haemon and Eurydice die too. Pain and grief are family heirlooms passed through pale fingers at the stroke of midnight. 

But despite all that. Before all that. 

Myths begin when the heroes are forced to make a choice, choose a direction in the way their lives end up. It might not always be obvious, and the gods might have things in store for them. But there is a choice and the fallen hero always chooses.

But they were all children once. You have to remember that. You have to believe that.

(Aetiologic)

I hate these socks, you think to yourself, they’re itchy and they hurt my toes. Every time you swing your legs over the edge of that leather couch, your legs too short to touch the ground, the toe of your shoe pinches you. You really, really want to take off your shoes, but Mom said you had to keep them on all day, especially in the office. In his office. You think your dress looks like one of your baby dolls and you don’t like it.

So you stop kicking, even though the sound of your heel against the leather made a funny noise. You can move too, and make the leather squeak, and that is pretty fun too. Grinning, you bounce like you aren’t supposed to on your bed back home, the cushions chirping – it sounds like they’re farting – you giggle, rocking back on your hands from left to right, squealing along with the leather as you made it –

“Enough!”

You freeze, tears immediately welling in your eyes, fear almost painful in your chest. 

But he’s not talking to you. Your father is still in his office, with the door barely shut, and he’s talking to someone on the phone. Yelling, actually. He’s been in there since the little hand was on the fifteen and now it’s on the thirty. He told you to wait there while he called your mom. You tried to sit still, but it was boring and all the toys were back in the other room. 

He never yelled at you, your dad, but he did yell at your mom. 

When you talked to the other kids in your preschool class, their mommies and daddies lived in the same house together, slept in the same bed, talked nicely to each other. Yours didn’t. 

“Well, what am I supposed to do with her, LeAnne? I told you I have a meeting at four today and she could be here for three hours. I told you! I can’t have her here! You need to come pick up your daughter!”

Your foot kicks up and down. You didn’t like it when they talked about you like you weren’t there. 

“Hey there.” A woman with blonde hair and big eyes sits down next to you. She was always around your dad, and always handled his papers and briefcase and sometimes his coffee. She is younger than your mom but way older than you are. You think she’s really, really pretty. None of her dresses look like baby doll dresses. “I’m sorry your dad is taking so long. Do you want something to eat, or drink?”

You shake your head. Your mom said not to talk to strangers, so you didn’t open your mouth. 

“Are you bored? Do you wanna watch some TV?”

TVs were everywhere in your dad’s office building. Down near the elevators, and then more when you got out. It always seemed like people were watching a tv and the actors on the tv. Actors were people whose job it was to be on the tv or in the movies, your dad told you. He told you he knew a lot of famous actors, but when you told the kids in your class about it, they said they didn’t know any of those people. 

“You’re just making things up!”

“You’re a liar!”

You really wanted your dad to introduce you to an actor, just to prove them wrong. You thought it was pretty cool how everyone was always watching them. Like they couldn’t look away. 

You nod at the pretty lady. She smiles and picks up the skinny black tv remote on the table in front of the couch. 

The tv in the corner of the room pops on. The size of it doesn’t take up the wall like some of the tvs in the office do, but it’s still bigger than the one you have at home. 

The nice lady taps the button a few times, the channels changing, until she comes to the kids channel. It’s a little old for you – all of the shows at preschool are cartoons and this one has real people in it – but you want this woman to like you. 

“Do you like this one? Friends in the Family? It’s so funny!” 

She turns and leans back against the couch with you. You hear people laughing on the screen, even though you don’t see anyone. There’s a young girl, older than you but younger than this nice lady, and she has a boy with her on her parents’ couch. The boy leans in and kisses her cheek and the invisible people go ‘oooooh’. 

“Ooooh!” You mimic and the nice woman laughs, grinning at you. Something warm and tight goes up your chest, and you pinch your lip with your teeth, toes curling in your stupid shoes. You liked making her laugh.

On the screen, a little girl – maybe the other girl’s sister – pushes through the kitchen door. You gasp in surprise. She looks like she could be in your preschool class. She’s all mad and she crosses her arms, pouting.

“Someone’s gonna get it!” 

The invisible people laugh and the nice lady giggles so hard she leans forward and you’re giggling too, even though you don’t quite get it. That warm feeling reminds you of when you drink soda too fast, but it’s good. 

You frown too, put your hands on your hips, parroting the little girl on tv, “someone’s gonna get it!”

Her pretty mouth opens in surprise, her eyes sparkling.

“Oh my God, that was so good! You sound just like her!” You giggle, your face hot. “Have you ever asked your dad about acting?”

You shake your head. You, an actor? On tv? No way!

“Well, you should! You could be really good!”

You don’t know what to say, you want to keep making the same faces that little girl is, when your dad’s door opens. The young woman next to you lurches forward and shuts off the tv. He comes out and you can’t tell if he’s angry or upset or if that’s just how he looks. You’re not around him enough to know. But he stands in front of you, thinking something.

“Judy, would you get us two juice boxes from the fridge downstairs?”

“Of course, Mr. Milken.”

The young woman leaves and you’re a little afraid. You don’t want him to yell at you for watching that show for older kids. You twist your little fingers. 

“That was your mom on the phone. She’s going to be a little late.” 

You nod. “Okay.” 

“Did you have fun today at my office? Did you like meeting all my friends?”

You nod, this time quicker. “Yes! I would like to meet an actor one day!”

At that, he smiles and you relax. People who are angry don’t smile. 

“While we wait for your mom, do you wanna play paper football?”

“What’s that?”

“C’mon. I’ll show you.”

So the myth begins. All it takes is a single idea. A single want. A single desire. An innately human desire. We build myths and we tell stories and we fill them with the things we want to hear.

You’re turning fourteen next month. It’s circled on your calendar in your bedroom. It’s not like it’s that big of a deal, but at least now you could start the emancipation process. If you wanted to. You laid awake at night, thinking about what you’d call yourself if you ever changed your name. Something vaguely French-sounding. European for sure. But they were just fantasies to get you through the day. 

It’s early in the morning. You haven’t heard anything from Mom’s room in a while so you figure it’s just the two of you in the house again. You totter out of your room, blinking sleep from your eyes – it was a very late night on set last night and probably would be again, given how the production of this made-for-tv movie was going and especially with the extra homework you’ve been doing to make up for the time off you’ve taken – as you wander across the small, sun-streaked living room, and around the corner to the kitchen. You hear something from the fridge and just as you are about to ask your mom if she’s cooking (which is never a good idea), a man stands up. He’s older than you but younger than your mom and he has the last piece of your sourdough bread in his mouth. He smirks and you unconsciously tug down the hem of your sleep shorts.

This has been happening more and more lately. The way men, older men, look at you, it’s different now. Has been for a while, but now there’s more of them, their gazes sit on your bare skin longer, the light in their eyes changing, the lines around their mouths tightening. You don’t really know what it is they want, but it’s baffling to you that they think looking at you like that will convince you to give anything to them. 

It's the way your mom’s new boyfriend is looking at you. Your cheeks heat up without your consent and you hate it. 

He’s hungry and he’s scrounging around in the fridge and now he’s looking at you. Still hungry.

“Hey, you must be LeAnne’s daughter,” he says, taking the bread slice out of his mouth and propping his hairy arm on the top of the refrigerator door, his gaze sweeping you from head to toe as if deciding whether or not to make a sandwich out of you. Who likes this kind of shit? Oh, that’s right. Your mom. 

You narrow your eyes at him. “Yeah. That’s me. Is she here?”

His eyes follow the backs of your thighs as you walk over to the coffee pot and take out week-old coffee grounds. They’ve turned blue, started to mold, but you dump them out into the trash with three good smacks.

“Uh, she’s still in bed. She said you could get to school on your own.” 

Behind you, the fridge door slams shut and you curl your toes, begging yourself not to flinch. There’s something inside of you demanding you to not show weakness. Steadying your own hand, you dig into the jar holding the coffee grounds. It’s halfway empty, you make a note to pick up some later, the thought pressed up against the swell of panic that’s growing at the edge of your awareness. 

“I’m Alan.” He leans up against the counter out of the corner of your eye. “I know we just met, but I could take you, to school . . . if you want.” 

His thick middle has nothing to do with age, only poor health. Evident further by his off-yellow teeth and bad breath. 

“I’m o-okay. Thank you.” 

There’s three minutes left on the coffee timer. His gaze is like open palms on your skin. You hate it. He sidles up closer and your nails dig half-moon crescents into your skin. The lovely smell of coffee brewing is overwhelmed by his cheap cologne. He’s big. Bigger than you. Bigger than any of the boys in your class, or any of the men on set. You’ve never really noticed the men on set, they’ve never been this close before, but you’re sure he’s bigger than all of them.

You’ve never felt quite so small. 

“You were in that movie, right? ‘Those ain’t your average space-invaders’, that was you right?” You nod, the back of your throat drying out. He chuckles. “You were good. Really good. You were so pretty.” 

“I was ten.” 

He shrugs. “Yeah. Ten outta ten.”

Your stomach clenches and it’s like he can tell. Alan reaches the two inches across the linoleum and gently strokes your forearm. A light, smelly panic sweat breaks out over your forehead, under your armpits. 

You want him away from you, want him gone, to run back to your room, but where would that get you? 

Roll over, play dead, show your under belly. You don’t know what else to do to make him go away.

“Well, if you see my mom,” you ease around him, your forearm sliding from his grasp just as his fingers tighten, making sure you don’t seem offended, “tell her I’ve got a ride to–,”

“Hey, wait, where ya going?” 

You all but run back to your room, the coffee pot beeping behind you. You throw open your bedroom door and leap inside, locking it behind you. You don’t realize you’re panting until you feel light-headed, dizzy – you feel sticky all of a sudden and rush into your bathroom. Steam pours from the scalding hot water, the red handle all the way to the right, as you stand over it, watching it rush down the drain. With your lips pinched between your teeth, you run your hands under it and muffle a scream. It hurts. It burns but it’s like his touch is evaporating off your skin and there’s relief in that. It’s the first time you realize that the pain you give yourself is different from the pain that they give you. 

Not all of them are like that. 

Some of them are actually kind of okay. 

You’re fifteen and dressed as a pumpkin for the Halloween party hosted by the studio, the suit baggy and oversized, and for once, your mom’s friends don’t stare at you. No one really has all night and it’s nice. You feel like you can ease into the wall and no one would notice. There’s a long black couch on the other side of a plant with glowing lights in the shape of ghosts wrapped around its trunk. You stepside around a few directors, one of your other actors, and head straight for the couch. 

You don’t realize Jim, your mom’s current boyfriend is already there until you sit down and groan. He laughs from the opposite end and you jump. 

He’s more her age, thankfully, and doesn’t really seem to notice if you’re at home or not. In fact, you can’t really remember another conversation with him that lasted longer than a few minutes.

“You liking the party?” He asks.

You shrug – never show your actual feelings. “It’s kinda late. I’ve got classes on Monday, so I’m hoping to make it an early night.”

He nods, slowly, distracted. There’s something about his eyes that isn’t right. Not in the way that he looks at you, but at everything, like he’s trying to look through a dense fog.

Your mother is nowhere to be found, which isn’t entirely out of the ordinary for this sort of thing. She’d either show up and be the life of the party or show up so trashed she had to be escorted out of the building. 

But it is odd for her to just leave one of her toys lying around. 

“Do you know where my mom is?” You ask Jim and he shakes his head, as though it takes a considerable amount of effort just to hold himself upright. There’s definitely something wrong with him.

And then you see the smoke coming from his fingers and you finally realize that skunky smell is coming from him. 

He sees your gaze fall. “You want a hit?” He asks, either not remembering your question or not wanting to answer.

You’d never tried it before, not really having time between shooting schedules and school and your mom wanting to take you out to meet new casting directors and writers. You sit there, staring and realize Jim is probably one of the only consistent people you see in your life, everyone else a revolving door of names and faces and elbows to rub. A tiredness breaks over you like the push of a wave and you sway, wanting nothing more than to be at home under the covers. You wish you’d brought your walkman, so you could have hid out on the soundstage until the party was over.

You’d grown skinny over the past year. Rewarded and praised for it by producers and studio execs, you saw that people listened to you more, looked you in the eye when you were beautiful, made more beautiful by the thinness of your cheeks, your narrow thighs. Your mother was convinced you were taking pills, but couldn’t find anything in the house. And yet, the real reason behind it all was sometimes you were just too tired to eat. Too tired to move. Happy to curl up wherever you found yourself and sleep until the next person needed something from you.

But this is what you wanted, after all. You asked for a life of movies and revolving doors and fake people and men staring at your ass. You are reminded of this all the time. 

You nod at Jim, curiosity getting the better of you and wondering if other girls did this sort of thing in basements or with their friends or boyfriends. You portray a teenage girl on television, but sometimes you don’t feel like one at all. 

He reaches out to you and you take it. You’d smoke a cigarette once, with a few of the kids from that one time you guest-starred on that sitcom, so you think this’ll be the same.

“What’s it going to feel like?” You ask, the white paper inches from your lips. Jim looked at you and his eyes sort of crinkled. 

“It’s good. Real good. Like there’s a cloud between you and the rest of the world.”

That did sound nice.

You put your lips and inhale – it burns in a way you weren’t expecting – and you cough. Jim laughs in a way that makes you feel like you’ve done something wrong, that you’re silly.

“You’ll get it,” he says, “you’ll get it.”

You try again and remember that he held his breath before exhaling. You do the same, but the scratch makes your eyes water, your chest tighten, but you hold on, until you feel smoke cauterizing the back of your throat close and you cough again, less this time.

Jim laughs again and takes back the skunky cigarette. “Hey, look at that, your first joint and you handled it like a champ.” 

He smokes more, losing interest in you, so he turns and watches the party. Your heart beats roughly in your chest, but that might be more of the nerves than anything else. You fidget on the couch, waiting for something to happen, but it never does.

“I think I need another h-hit. I don’t feel anything.”

Jim frowns at you, shaking his head. “Hell no. You took two giant puffs on your first go. I’m not babysitting you when you’re puking in the toilet with the spins.”

“The spins?”

“When you drink while you’re high. Can be a real bad mix.” 

You blush, wondering if he saw you take sips from the flask in your purse or he just assumes you’re always drinking because you’re LeAnne’s daughter. 

“Just sit back, relax, you’ll feel it. In a bit.”

So you try his approach, nonchalantly watching people dressed in devil costumes, in white vampire fangs and cloaks, little skimpy bunny outfits, as the party rages on. You watch, and slowly, the whole thing feels distant. Like you’re in the far back of a theater and everything in front of you is some sort of stage.

You find you like it in the back row, in the quiet and the darkness. It’s warm, sort of like you’re dizzy but you sway with the movement and you don’t get sick. You find that you are rolling your head back and forth and you giggle.

Jim smirks at you, that joint almost gone. “Yeah, there it is.”

You’d never been high like this before. Buzzed a little bit from the beer in your flask, but this was new. This was . . .

“It’s nice,” you smile widely to the ceiling. “Does it always feel this way?”

“Like I said, you can mix with alcohol and get really fucked up.” Jim shrugs. “And different strains do different things. This is gonna relax your brain, but there’s others that’ll give you a body high.”

Body, this thing you’re in that doesn’t feel like it belongs to you.

“But a mental high from weed and a mental high from glue are like two totally different things.”

Your bones feel like they weigh a thousand pounds and you could just melt into the leather. But you turn your head, dropping it against the back of the couch.

“You can get high from glue?”

“You can get high from just about anything.”

“Oh.”

The needle-like feeling that pricks your heart every time you come to one of these parties is gone. The sloshy oozy feeling in your stomach when you go into public with your mother is gone. There is nothing left inside of you except weight and heat and air that comes in through your nose and out through your mouth. 

You giggle again. What if this is how a pumpkin feels all the time?

“Will it always feel like this?”

He doesn’t understand your question, doesn’t care enough to think about it, so he answers the only way he can. “Nah, should only last for a few hours. Then you’re good. No hangover, which is a plus.” 

“But I always want it to feel this way.”

He grins again and pulls out a small plastic baggy with some fuzzy brussel-sprout-looking vegetable inside. 

“Got twenty bucks on you?” 

You’re sixteen and you’ve just started in your first major motion picture. Offers are rolling in, you no longer have to seek them out. The brand new telephone for your brand new house is constantly ringing. You have to unplug it to sleep at night. But that usually makes your mother yell at you. 

She wants to answer every call that comes through. As if this house was hers.

You sit cross-legged on your bed, grinding up the weed you bought off a sound-stage guy earlier today in your silver grinder, your headphones in to drown out the noises coming from the other side of the house as well as the ones in your head.

This boyfriend was not so nice and in a drunken stupor grabbed your ass in front of LeAnne. She raged and yelled and blamed you. 

Get out, she told you. Leave. Get out. We don’t want you here. Leave. 

This is my house, you old bitch.

Licking the paper gently, you finish rolling the joint and press pause on your walkman. Stevie Nicks pauses in her crooning, and is it over now, do you know how? pick up the pieces and go home, and you remind yourself to find a purply drape at the next flee market. Reaching to the end of the bed, you plug in your headphones to the hot pink tv and flip to the right station.

Henry had sent in a new tv for your birthday, and you had that promptly thrown out. You bought this with your first check from residuals. 

It’s almost eleven. It’s about to start. 

You light the joint, inhaling smoothly, as the credits for Twenty-Three and Fun start up. 

The joint quivers at the end of your knee, your toes curling. It wasn’t produced by your father’s company, but it was all anyone talked about at school, in the gossip mags. You thought about buying Tiger Beat just for the pictures . . . of one specific cast member.

You bite your nail as the theme song plays and the credits roll through all the gorgeous, young actors smiling as they go about their perfectly average lives in the big city. 

And then his name shows up and you inhale smoke quickly to stifle the thing expanding in your chest.

Dieter Bravo. 

His smooth soft hair, dark sweet eyes. God, he is so cute. 

Your hand clenches the sheets. You’ve never had a boyfriend, only been kissed once while at dance in between shooting schedules that you’d begged your mom to let you attend. It was bad, it tasted bad, his lips were rubbery and wet, and you didn’t feel anything. 

Not like when you imagine what it would be like to be kissed by him.

Twenty-Three and Fun is out of your demographic, but maybe you could convince someone to let you try out for the part of someone’s little sister who comes in for the weekend. You’d just love the chance to meet him. He makes you feel like nothing you’ve ever felt before, nothing you know what to do with, but you tingle all over with it.

You’re at the tail end of sixteen when the spiral starts. 

When you don’t know where to put this loneliness that’s been dragging you down. 

Men stare at you but not in the way you want. Girls your own age won’t look at you, and women glare at you while their husbands stare. And boys, God, boys your own age –

You wipe the tears from your eyes, the wind snarling through your hair, the heat of the summer night sinking into your skin like wet clay. You know you’re driving too fast, but you don’t care.

Every day you go to work and put on someone else’s skin. Their clothes. Their face. For a while, it’s been freeing, to pretend to have normal problems, a normal family, a normal life. Because you knew even if you had never chosen to go into your father’s industry – which was now just as much yours – you knew your life wasn’t ever going to be normal. Not in the way it mattered anyway. 

But there is something there when you step in front of a camera. A feeling that doesn’t come from a dark place, from feelings of abandonment and loneliness – it comes from a place inside of you that still feels like you own, still is yours to hold and keep safe, despite everyone taking things from you without asking. Instead of taking, it gives. It builds. It grows, despite the salted earth of your soul. 

You like becoming someone else for a while, thinking as they do. Dancing, laughing, eating, playing as someone other than yourself. You like to create. You crave it. You create life for someone else that doesn’t exist and you love it. It feels right, imagining something if not for you, for someone else. Someone who looks like you but isn’t you. It feels good to dream. 

But lately. 

Lately, this job is no longer an act of creation. It’s fake smiles and ad campaigns and commercials and it feels rotten. Hollow. Like you’re under the eyes of a thousand leering men instead of just one. It feels cheap. You feel cheap, for wanting it to be something more. This desire for life itself dies in your hands, choked out, aborted before it had the chance to breathe.

Your body, yourself, is being twisted, molded into something you don’t want it to become and the only time, the only time you feel as though you have even some slight control is when you have none at all. When you detach from your corporeal form, so high or drunk you can’t feel your fingers. 

It began with the beer your mom’s boyfriends left in the fridge, then the pills in her medicine cabinet. Then the mini bottles of Crown Royal and Jim Beam in the mini-fridges at your dad’s office. No one ever seemed to care when you swiped the whole row into your backpack. Maybe others had done the exact same thing. 

You didn’t know how or why these things made you feel better but they did. You didn’t care about the tears on your face, the hot flood of anger beating in your chest, and you didn’t care about the speed limit, not even when you saw the flashing red and blue lights.

But you started to care when they put you in lock up and then you definitely did when your father’s lawyer bailed you out. 

You went home and threw up for six hours. No one came to check on you, no one came to find you when you yanked the phone cord out of the wall. You clutched the porcelain basin of the toilet for what felt like days. Years. You aged decades that night.

When you woke up, you showered, ate, and called back your father’s lawyer.

You had decided on a name, a new name to put on the emancipation papers. 

You told the lawyer very clearly and seriously over the phone: “I want my name to be Natalie Lorraine.”

It was the emancipation that finally did it. The final chop from the parental vine. The day she kicked you out, you came home from school, in between shoots for a new film with Gerard Butler and in talks for something with Helen Miram, and you find your mother curled up on the kitchen table. At first, you legitimately thought she was dead; the top half of her body was crumpled against the wood, her feet tangled with the rungs of the chair. She faced away from you, her right hand curled around an empty crystal tumbler and a three-fourths empty bottle of Belvedere inches from her fingertips. 

You stare, dumb-founded, your heart so slow you could hear it pound like a drum in your ears. And then she twitches. 

And then she wails.

“How could you? How could you do this to me? I’m your mother. You owe me. You owe me you owe me you owe me.”

She heaves boneless to the floor, the glass and bottle slipping out of her hand and shattering like droplets of rain. You can’t move, transfixed, as your mother, hands split open, knees carving bloody trails across the tile, drags herself towards your feet, like a freshly dug-up corpse. 

She’s muttering, spitting, snarling – she’s a starved, beaten beast, ready to make its last stand. 

You were a mistake

You ruined me

You ruined your father for me

Her sentences are blurred, notched together, overlapping, and intertwining. The only thing you remember is the vitriol and hatred more palpable than her own breath. 

Someone older, someone more separated from their pink, flushed girlhood would have the callouses to ease the burn, dull the cut. But at sixteen, you didn’t. At sixteen, with a burgeoning substance abuse problem and at the mercy of the first of many instances where adulthood begins to rob you of the small pleasures of life, you watch your mother crumble and it scares you.

In that moment you want nothing more than to be taken care of, in a way that doesn’t feel like it’s asking too much but it clearly is. You want to be safe in a way that is primal, the animal fear of the dark and unknown. You’ve seen your mother drunk before but not this drunk, never heard the sounds she’s making — the wailing, the disappointment, the sorrow and rage. It scares you so badly you want to cry.

The gap between girlhood and womanhood is closed when you understand your mother is only human. Nothing less. And nothing more. 

She’s still muttering hateful, horrible things as you take her to her feet and ease her onto the couch. 

She’s silent when you throw a blanket over her. 

She’s pale, shaking, green. 

Go away. I don’t want you here. I don’t want you around me. Leave me alone.

Leave me.

Leave me.

Leave me. 

Go away. 

You leave her, not knowing if it's serious enough to call 911, if you can actually die from drinking too much, but that fear, that vice-grip around your chest, it’s squeezing your lungs so tightly, tears leak out of the corner of your eyes. But then it sinks. Sinks into your bones, your blood, your muscles. Watching your mother folded up like a broken doll, you experience fear like you’ve never felt before. 

Blink and you’re in your room.

Blink and you’re under your bed, curled up, knees to your chin, and you’re crying. You can’t stop crying. It’s the only thing that seems to appease the fear, the sense that nothing is real and everything is going to turn out badly and it makes your stomach twist. You gag on your own spit and you shake and you tremble and you experience your first panic attack without anyone to tell you what’s going on. How to survive something like that. You grow up thinking this is how everyone lives and you’re just too pathetic to take it. You let that shame and embarrassment fester and grow because it has no way of stopping. 

Your father is also served with the papers. 

Two weeks later, the production for your upcoming movie was suddenly put on hold. The role with Helen Miriam went to someone else.

He never helped you get ahead in the industry, but he absolutely blocked you from it. He never called you again.

Someone, someone else, might have been hurt by the fact that your father cut you off without so much as a goodbye. But it’s not like you could miss what you never had.

You take the hint and enroll in UC Santa Barbara under your new name.

The myth of your maidenhood ended in much of the same way it began: at the behest of someone else and exiled as an afterthought.

You tried the whole sleep-around-to-fill-a-need thing for the freshmen year of college. It didn’t take. You liked sex but you liked the chase more. You liked the hunt, the thrill, the unconscious desire to touch, when the desire to do something first emerges in their heads. You like to watch the basic urge emerge in their darkened eyes before the other shoe drops. Drops and splatters coherent and rational thought like a bug on a windshield. 

You liked sex, even if more often you had to get yourself off while your partner had fallen asleep, their needs met. But you liked being wanted more. The drugs helped bridge the gap and given that you had no idea how to make friends because you'd never had one your own age before, the puddles of bodies that dripped onto couches and floors at parties seemed to be as good a social circle as any. They all started to recognize you at parties, in lecture halls, at bars. They nodded, you nodded back, and you sat down. 

No longer alone.

But not entirely wanted either. 

It was enough though. 

By your third year, you were known more for your party provisions (with your old contacts from the industry) than your ex-boyfriends. 

You meet Heidi Morgan through one of your production management professors. 

You’d gone in to speak with your professor, a man notorious for sleeping with his students, and believed you to be next in line (men were so much better at doing what you asked when they thought you’d sleep with them), so you were hoping that you could convince him that it was actually your lab partner who stole the paper from you, not the other way around, when you see him with someone else. 

Blonde, small, feisty. 

Heidi Morgan takes one look at the grotesque ogling in his eyes and promptly introduces herself. 

In her own fire and take-no-shit attitude, you find kindred spirits. 

She later asks you out for drinks, you think it’s been too long since you went down on a girl, and you completely misread the situation. 

She clears things up and then asks you to read for a part. The whiplash makes your head spin, but given that she’s not calling you a giant slut, it’s probably good news.

She knows who you are. Suspected because you looked familiar and because she has friends in some truly weird places, she confirms her suspicions by the end of the day. So she gives you a call, you show up, flirt too much, and maybe end up with a job. 

She gives you the script. It’s good.

Really good.

Why me? You ask her. You graduate in two weeks. You’re turning twenty-two in a few days. There’s nothing you’ve done in recent years to make her have this kind of faith in you. All digital memories of you reflect a knobby-kneed, round-cheeked little girl then that same little girl with tits and a smirk well beyond her years. 

She didn’t think she might find her lead in a dingy auditorium, she says, but crazier things have happened. It’s not a guarantee, or a promise, just an offer. Try out, see what happens. 

Crazier things have happened.

The rest is less myth and more old history.

(Historic)

The day you meet him is not unlike any other. Except in the little things. Your bra strap breaks when you go to put it on. Your belt loop gets caught in a door handle and nearly shucks your pants to the floor. You somehow get lost on the way to the studio even though you have your phone mapping the route. It takes you around and around and around until you get out and ask a very confused gas station attendant where the fuck the sound stage is. 

It’s not momentous. Annoying, perhaps, so annoying that all these little things pester your brain like flies gorging on rotten fruit. You’re distracted, one eye always glancing over your shoulder. Trouble, trouble, trouble, your problems seem to whisper, you’re in trouble.

A PA comes to find you, saying Heidi specifically asked for your presence but she’s gone missing. He thinks he knows where to find her, if you’d come with him. You eye him up from the black leather couch you’re draped across, irritated at the day and at him for his shameless staring. You nod, and immediately he starts running his mouth about his own Hollywood dreams. He’s a writer, you know, maybe you’ve heard of some of his smaller indie work, it’s not very much, but folks who know say it's good so maybe he’ll be able to sell it if –

The door to the back of the lot opens and it’s like god snapped his fingers in your ear. It’s not momentous, or earth-shattering, but holy shit does it fuck you up.

He’s broad. Tall. Forearms, thick and veiny, stocky thumbs and tense fingers. His hair is just on the edge of being long, but combed back in some attempt to tame it, to fold it into submission. His right earlobe is puckered, pierced, but no earring. His beard and mustache are trimmed, clean shaven elsewhere. Despite how he’s built out adult male muscle from his days on Twenty-Three and Fun, he still has those boyish eyes, a dimple that would drive anyone up a wall, and eyelashes you’d pay a thousand dollars for. You knew this was coming but it still feels like a kick in the chest. 

That kick burns when you realize something.

He’s fucking pissed. He’s beautiful, carved from your very dreams of what the most gorgeous man on earth would look like, but he’s fucking pissed.

Surprisingly, at you. 

Well, that’s disappointing. 

He comes at you with his claws drawn and you’ve never, ever been one to back down. You swipe back and hope you draw blood.

You discover other things about Dieter Bravo, the boy who you used to have a heart-stopping crush on when you didn’t know anything better. Fantasy will always be better than reality, and this isn’t exactly how you’d thought your first meeting would go.

And yet, you discover something else, something very, very curious. Something soft and impressionable, bruised purple and green. Something you want to lean on with your entire weight until he chokes. It’s ugly, but it’s amusing. Maybe this is how you hoped your first meeting would go, albeit with some tricky obstacles and a ticking clock. 

You want to press and see what spills out. 

Dieter Bravo cannot and does not look away from you. 

The day you meet Dieter Bravo is also the day you meet The Sixers, the day you meet Marie. She’s small, mousy, but apparently a fucking rock star on the drums. You like the irony; quiet and unassuming until she bangs through your head with percussion. Where the rest of her bandmates are wide-eyed and eager and come with more drugs than a pharmacy, there’s something about Marie that you find so tenderly earnest you kind of wish you didn’t come dressed like you were going out to eat the fleshly hearts of men everywhere. You want to approach her on her level. You don’t want to scare her away. There’s something redemptive about a kind, sweet girl like Marie striking up a friendship with you. 

If you could ever figure out how to start one. 

“Excited for the filming to start?” You ask her after nearly everyone’s picked up their things and left after the reading. She glances at you, then over her shoulder, as if you were talking to someone else. You instantly feel insanely protective of her. 

She blinks a few times before distractedly shaking her head. “No. I’m actually terrified.” 

“About being in a movie?”

She cringes, as if it’s the most shameful thing in the world. 

“Yeah. I love playing in front of crowds, but something about being on camera scares me.” 

You make a note to find out the next time they’re playing live.

“It’s honestly not that bad. It feels a little weird, like some unblinking eye staring at you, but then it just kind of fades away.” 

She bites her lip, tucking that short brown hair over her ear. “Have you done this before?”

You’re not exactly hiding your childhood movie star past, but you don’t really want it broadcasted.

“Here and there.” 

The rest of her bandmates are chatting amongst themselves, perhaps not yet aware you’re trying to befriend one of them. You’re not quite sure how it’s going.

“If you ever want, we could talk and I could give you some pointers.”

Fuck, why did that sound like a line? It shouldn’t. You didn’t want it to. Where was the line between asking someone to be your friend and asking someone for a fuck?

If she notices your embarrassment, she doesn't show it. She grins brightly, unashamed. “Yes! Oh my god, yes, please. I’d love that!”

Normally, when giving someone your number, you’d grab their hand and write it in Sharpie, giving them a good wink. Now you tear off a corner of the call sheet and write down your number in shaking hands. It’s a small piece of paper, easily lost. That’s okay, if she does lose it. No need to freak out.

She’s grinning, smile expanding across that round face of hers as she takes your number when someone calls her name.

Roxie, the one with bright-red flaming hair and gorgeously thick eyebrows, takes a glance at the piece of paper in Marie’s fingers. One eyebrow arches, and she says nothing.

Roxie looks at you like she wants to devour you whole. You think you’ll let her. 

You decide to ignore him.

Whatever his problem with you is, it doesn’t have to be dealt with immediately. Maybe he’ll come around and if not, no skin off your nose. It’s none of your business what happens off camera, what he thinks about you as a person. All that matters is giving a good performance and you know you can do that. 

You just sort of wish you had known more about the role before Heidi offered it. You really sort of wish you had known Dieter was going to be your co-star. That night, after approaching him in the parking lot, you had two glasses of wine to settle your trembling nerves, and you flipped through the script.

He was so calm and collected at the table read today. Cool, relaxed, at ease with himself and the world. Everyone knew him, everyone talked about him, either directly to you or in snatches of conversation.

Dieter Bravo – you could not ask for a better scene partner!

Dieter Bravo – he’s so, so nice. He always stops for fans!

Dieter Bravo – this shoot is going to be so much fun with him!

You’d never been particularly star-struck, but for the first time in your life, the idea of working with your co-star was daunting. When you were up against Gerard Butler, you’d been in the game for a while, knew the industry, showed up in the trades. Now, you felt like any other Santa Barbara graduate stumbling out in front of the camera for the first time. Where was that all-knowing smirk you had perfected at fifteen? God, had you always been so transparent?

You felt like you had to prove yourself at that table read. You know you were going a bit overboard, but they watched you, transfixed, and it empowered you. Mark Bronson, Marie, the rest of The Sixers, they watched you like Taylor had possessed your body and you instantly became a rockstar. 

Only, he didn’t. He watched you and didn’t look away, but he looked so uninterested in your performance, the tears that filled your eyes were partially real.

And then he touched you and in that moment, you knew he was mocking you. Laughing at you, you fucking child. He was the legendary star here, not you, and to think you ever had a chance was laughable. The heat of disgust in his eyes hurt, more than you wanted to admit. 

It was day one and he hated you.

Things escalate. 

He caught you high on set and it felt like you were being scolded by your older brother. He didn’t get it. He never did. All that shit about how he knows what it’s like – bullshit. All fucking bullshit. He was somehow always in the corner of your eye, watching you, begging you to fuck up so he could expose you like the fraud you are. 

And a pathetic fraud you are at that. He touches you and it’s like algae, hot and dense, spreading across your skin. You fight the feeling that strokes your cunt and you grit your teeth. Stop touching me, go away, stay back – please. 

You’re twenty-two and still harboring that fucking crush you had when you were sixteen. It’s embarrassing. It’s pathetic. It’s so, so, so wrong.

You try to ignore him. Try to exorcize him from your every waking thought. It doesn’t take. You get drunk at the pool party and you want his eyes, anyone’s eyes, on you. 

Marie is shy, you try to sober up around her, but you’re too far gone and you don’t want her to see you like this.

So you find Roxie. And Samuel. They give you something that makes your pupils dilate to the size of quarters and you feel like you’re made of cosmic dust. When they touch you, beauty and awe and the atoms of the universe bloom across your skin. You like kissing them, you decide. The water dripping off you from the pool feels like bad lovers and broken kingdoms up for sale.

You end up at his door. You don’t mean to. You genuinely forgot what room you were in. 

Consciously, you know he’s married. Consciously, you know he hates you. But that doesn’t stop you from asking anyway. 

“You could join us, you know.” 

You want so badly to be his theatrical equal that it hurts, it burns hotter for a moment than your desire for him, and he just stares at you. Consciousness somewhere in a nearby galaxy, you can’t read the look on his face. And then it blurs, he closes the door, and the entire hallway grows thick, heavy leaves.

Disappointment is a physical object and it burrows into your chest. You think you can feel your ribs moving to make room.

Sam and Roxie fuck on your bed while you’re curled up on the futon. You don’t even change out of your suit. You kick them out as soon as they are done, not wanting their hungry gazes to turn to you. 

This is always the worst part. When the emotions and memories that you’ve managed to pry off you as you coat yourself in a protective layer of LSD, finally come back. They wrap around you like a vice and you can feel the beginnings of a panic attack start in the tremble of your fingers. You stay there in the armchair, damp and cold and shivering and trying not to choke on your own throat, until the early hours of the morning. You think you could die like this but you don’t. You never actually do.

He doesn’t bring it up and neither do you. You sort of wish he would, just for a chance to . . . no, that’s fucked up and, if not legally, morally wrong. You can’t wish for anything when it comes to him.

It’s easier to hate him. To pretend like he was some over-involved, self-obsessed diva who stepped on your lines on purpose and flat-out refused to run scenes with you. It was easier as a whole for a while.

Marie started talking to you on her own now and that made you forget Dieter for a bit. The rest of the group was hesitant in their welcome, despite what had almost happened between you, Sam, and Roxie. But they all came around when you gave them the cleanest Molly they’d had in years.

It was like college all over again, but the faces were consistent this time. Five of them. You smoked in their van, fuzzy orange carpet fibers tickling your ear as you looked up at the glow-in-the-dark star stickers on the roof. 

“Why are you called The Sixers if there are five of you?” You ask suddenly. 

There’s a pause and then a collective chuckle. You watch it like lightning spark between them.

Nick finally speaks up: “Because it sounds like the sex-ers.”

“Sixty-nine n’ feeling fine.”

You laugh with them this time and you feel your breath mix with theirs. 

While meeting him wasn’t a particularly momentous occasion, the drive up to his AirBnB was. Maybe it was the lack of air this high up, but around every turn, your chest got a little tighter. The Sixers had shown you The Labyrinth with David Bowie last weekend (“how have you never seen that movie? Did you grow up under a rock?”) and you can’t help but think of the Goblin King coming to whisk you away. At the very least, the amount of rings they wore were the same. 

You try desperately to not look at his white-knuckles around the steering wheel and fail tremendously.

The thing is, you don’t really want to fight with him. You don’t want to have to interact with him through this hazy, distant, drugged out wall, but that seems like the only way he’ll talk to you. He’s always scowling at you, like you’d done something wrong, and you hadn’t. Sure, you thought about it and fucked yourself on the biggest dildo you had about it, but you hadn’t actually done anything. You hadn’t even made a move on him, not even bat an eyelash. But it seems like you just breathe in his direction and that sets him off. 

You still don’t understand why his past drug problem is now your problem too. In your absence from Hollywood, you’d somehow missed his ups-and-downs as he transitioned out of a teenage heartthrob into a fully adult hot mess. You’d certainly missed his marriage announcement until you googled it in the bathroom after lunch one day to see if what you’d heard the two techs talk about was true.

She’s so fucking hot.

Yeah, she was a model, right? Dude fucking scored big.

Fuck, she was a model. Even if she wasn’t, she certainly looked it, from all the red-carpet photos of the two of them. He looked at her with complete and total adoration.

Hollywood party boy settles down with recent marriage to cubist painter’s daughter

The headline was wordy but got the point across. He was off-limits. 

You didn’t know how to make someone like you if you couldn’t offer them sex or drugs. What the fuck were you supposed to do with the sober and married Dieter Bravo?

And yet, there were times. Moments. Fragments. Bursts of light in a mirror, where you thought he looked too long. How his eyes flickered black when you talked about your bra, or your tits, or your ass. But that’s all they were – fleeting instances of your own insanity bleeding into reality. He would never look at you like that. He hated you. 

It scared you, the way he expected you to act when you couldn’t hide behind being high, when you couldn’t flirt your way out of a particularly tense situation. He wanted you raw, exposed, your face revealed to the light you had spent years hiding from.

And then he did the darndest thing.

He was nice about it. In the kitchen, and then on the patio, he asked you questions about your start in the industry, what you’d like to do with your life, how you saw your career going. He cooked for you and made you laugh. He invoked the holy saint Sister Heidi as a bargaining chip and it was all the excuse you needed to drop the boxing gloves. You didn’t want to fight with him. You wanted to be his friend. You wanted him to like you.

Scratch that.

You wanted him to fuck you within an inch of your life and, sure, it was stupid to finger-fuck yourself to him, on the same couch as him, but maybe you wanted to get a little caught. Okay, a lot caught because then he’d tell you to fuck off and he’d draw the line in the goddamn sand and, sure, it’d be embarrassing and, sure, it’d hurt like hell but you’d get over it. You’d nurse your heart but you’d get back on that fucking bike because you really, really wanted this movie to work – but –

He fucking doesn’t. 

He doesn’t kiss you but he wants to. He looks at you like he wants to suck the marrow from your bones, drink the blood from your heart through your cunt.

Dieter Bravo wants to kiss you desperately, but because he is a good man, he doesn’t. And because you’re a shit person, you make it hard on him. You make it hurt because it hurts you and just for once, for a second, you want someone to understand how you feel. How you hurt. How you ache. 

That house in New Mexico changed everything. For you. For him.

Friends didn’t make time with each other because they were trying to plug up the moans in their head. Friends didn’t keep busy to keep their hands off each other. You weren’t friends with him, but you did get along. You learned a lot about him. You’d never had a real friend before but you sure this isn’t how it’s supposed to feel. 

Instead of a myth, your relationship is built in handprints. Red blotches on cave walls, their original meaning lost to time, a dead language no one speaks any more. Sometimes the prints overlap, sometimes they don’t. There are no words spoken, but the feeling is there all the same.

You think, if you could just take your aching heart out of your body, you could actually be Dieter Bravo’s friend. He fills in holes you didn’t realize were empty. Chasms for art, for acting, for food that didn’t come in a can or delivered on your front door. He knows about wine, and whiskey, and needs help dressing himself. He never made you feel like your asks were too much, your need to connect too great. He took your hand and told you what you wanted was normal. He’s funny, patient, and loves Shirley MaClaine movies. He did her entire monologue from The Apartment one night after hours of begging and it brought you to tears. You had a scene partner in Dieter Bravo, you had someone to challenge you, to rethink scenes and pull back deeper and deeper character layers. He’d taken a course online about psychology to have a new perspective on analyzing characters and you thought it was fucking genius. 

Marie filled certain relationship needs – a girl to talk about drama with, a fellow fan of live music, someone to make you look up to – but Dieter fulfilled more, if not all of them. Despite working in an artistic industry for years, you’d never once talked trade with someone and certainly not someone who knew it so well. You were awestruck by him. 

Call it infatuation, call it being horny, but there is a connection, a red through line that connects you both. And for a while, that’s enough. 

Until it isn’t. 

The mark of his blotchy handprints on your heart stop when you fuck some guy you barely know because Dieter hurt you. 

When he won’t look at you while he’s pretending to fuck you, you feel self-conscious again, like he’s going to think you’re some inexperienced little nepo baby. But he does his duty and you do yours and you’ve never felt so empty. 

Your handprint stays, while his blurs away. 

(Psychologic)

After production ends, you exist in the margins. No more mythologizing. No more cave drawings. 

And then Marie shows up.

She takes you to get your nails done like it's the most normal thing in the world. What is wrong with her? Doesn’t she know what you are?

You get smoothies and see some live music and she keeps you from spiraling. There is no possible way she knew about the lines of coke upstairs in your bedroom, but she takes you out into the light all the same. 

You go out to shows with The Sixers. They love having a groupie who’s a Hollywood star. Marie seems embarrassed when they show-case you, but you find you don’t mind waving a bit on stage and introducing the band. You think you see a pair of deep brown eyes in the crowd occasionally but you know it’s not. You have to accept your fate. He might not like you and he doesn’t hate you, but he certainly doesn’t want anything to do with you.

Not friends, not lovers, but something else. Something almost.

You and the Sixers swim in the ocean off the Santa Barbara coast. You go to parties and you play the bongo drums in a treehouse in South Los Angeles. You bring the good drugs and everyone loves you. 

You don’t want to go to the wrap party, but Marie insists. You think she likes being famous just for all the opportunities to get dressed up and do your make up. She told you once that you are the prettiest girl she’d ever seen without any motive behind it. She wasn’t trying to fuck you or fuck with your head. It was just the truth in her eyes and it made you nauseous.

You go to the wrap party because it’s something better to do than get high on shrooms for the fourth time this week and as a reward, Cooper shares his blunt with you in the car. You laugh easily and often and loudly and Cooper keeps you steady with a hand on your waist. You’re nervous, you want to drink more, but you already feel like you’re carrying too many cups and plates and the noise it’s going to make when you drop them all is going to be deafening. 

He’s here. He’s here with his fucking gorgeous wife and you stand behind Cooper so you have something blocking your line of sight.

Just as you are about to order your first vodka soda of the night, Dieter rushes back into the house. The weed and coke in you switch the plugs in your brain and suddenly you are very, very angry. 

But the Dieter you find is fragile, beaten down, vulnerable. He talks to you like he did in New Mexico and it dulls the edges around the hole in your chest. He looks at you like you’re his saving grace, his last hope. 

Myths lie. They blur the truth to make a better story. They build up a man larger than life, they make goddesses out of women, and they sanctify, canonize love. They make you ache with the wanting of the fantasy of it, and that’s on purpose. Myths are the human experience on fire.

Kissing him, you feel on fucking fire.

Meeting him didn’t feel momentous. But fucking him certainly was. 

The settlement of your mythology burns to the ground, flames licking the sky. He has crystalized in your veins and, in an instant, you’re hopelessly addicted.

With Dieter Bravo, you come to like sex. You come to love it actually. It’s an itch, a fluttering, warm feeling that makes you twitch and tense when his hands aren’t on you. There’s some part of you that knows the inherent danger of giving one man, much less this man, that much power over you, but fuck, you can’t help it. 

You’re too young, too inexperienced in the world to know the difference between when a man wants you for sex and when a man loves you. In your mind, the two are the same and cannot be separated. You know what it feels like to be wanted to be fucked, but in your nativity you assume that’s how a man looks at you when he wants to love you — and this time you’d welcome it. 

There isn’t much to say about New Orleans, except for three things:

One, you’ve successfully confused yourself into thinking this is what being in a relationship with him would be like.

Two, you’ve never felt safer and more wanted and more complete than you ever have when you take drugs with Dieter. (that primal animal fear is gone for the first time in what feels like years)

And three, you’re so fucking in love with him you’re sick with it.

In the sickness, you grow weak. You burn with fever. Your bones ache and your mind races. His touch is simultaneously a balm and a contagion. 

You love him. You love him. You love him.

You love him unlike anything or anyone. 

Marie is actually the only one who ventures a guess. Who catches you, wings pinned to the corkboard, and asks you point-blank, “are you fucking Dieter Bravo?” 

Maybe she’s braver because it’s over text, permanent traces of your infidelity, but you stare at her message for hours. You think about it in the hotel shower after the plane lands in Los Angeles. You haven’t seen her in weeks and you’ve stopped returning her phone calls. 

Your high falters at the idea that you might have (and probably did) lose a friend over him. But what did that matter, in the grand scheme of things, your sickness asks you, now that you have him?

Now that he’s the only thing that matters. Now that he is everything. 

He goes back to his wife. 

After everything. After what you did for him. After what you gave up. How you prostrated yourself for his love, for a moment of his time. He can’t see it, it’s eating you up. You think cancer has kinder teeth than his. 

The foundations of the core of your being are rocked. It doesn’t feel real because he’s still in this hotel with you, the same hotel where you fucked in the bathroom, where you flirted with him for the cameras to sell the movie, where he begged you to stay with him, you’re gonna stay, right? you’re gonna be with me, after this? And maybe it isn’t real because he only lasts being apart from you for twelve, maybe fourteen hours. Maybe he’s sick too. Maybe he’s fucked just as much as you are. 

In your dark, deep wretched heart, you hope he is. You hope he’d die without you. But you don’t know. You don’t know because he never says it. 

This time, it’s real, he promises. This time, he’s never going back. This time he’s going to say he loves you, his kisses pledge to you. 

This time he’s not going to leave you.

In the mornings after Chloe leaves and you kiss him E-tablets with your tongue and he fucks you in every way he knows how, he curls up next to you and you tell him. It doesn’t matter he doesn’t seem to hear you.

You tell him you love him, have always loved him. Dieter Bravo turned from an imaginary companion, to a friend you didn’t want, and now to a lover who makes you think you’re special. Something valuable, precious. Something that is worth keeping. 

Until you’re not.

Myths serve to answer questions about our place in the natural order of things. To ease tension. To provide guidance. 

Why does it rain?

Where do the seasons come from?

What is the sun, and why does it leave and return?

What is heartbreak?

What is grief? What is sorrow? How do we carry them with us?

How do we go on when the world is determined to break us?

When you’ve always had nothing, and now you still have nothing and no one – he doesn’t love you and he’s going back to his pregnant wife – you ask, what’s the fucking point?

Not even the myths can answer that one.

Later, when you wake up under the bright lights of a hospital room, your memory is cracked, broken into terracotta pieces on the ground. There are things missing from you.

You don’t remember calling Oliver, only that he was there and he was high out of his mind and he gave you whatever he had in his pockets. You don’t remember what you took, or if Oliver was kind to you when he watched you swallow pill after pill.

You don’t remember the shower, the ambulance ride, or being admitted.

You aren’t sure exactly what you’ve lost. But you feel the missing edges.

Dieter is missing from you.

If you close your eyes, still the movement of your body, block out the noises of the machines and the hospital around you, you think you remember hearing him say it.

You think he might have said it when he kissed your forehead, but it feels older than that. Like his words and his actions stem from two different memories but you’re so fucked up they blur together. You want to hold onto that new memory, as fabricated as it might be, for as long as you can.

But then sleep over takes you again and it flushes everything out. The next time you wake up, you don’t remember that he ever said, I love you. 

When you wake up, you know he’s gone. You don’t know how you know, or why, but it feels like a piece of you has been torn away in a bloody chunk. Like someone had taken pliers to your fingernails and tore them off until blood splattered onto the floor.

Like someone put a knee to your shoulder and wrenched white teeth out of your mouth. 

Until you are gummy and dripping.

You open your eyes not to Dieter, not Heidi, but Marie. Mousy, intelligent, thoughtful Marie curled up asleep in the chair next to you. 

The sound of your crying wakes her up. Wordless, judgement-less, she crawls into bed with you, takes you into her arms, and lets you sob like the heart-broken mess you’ve become. 

God, can you die from pain like this?

She strokes your forehead and tells you, no, you can’t. You might want to, but you can’t. 

For the first time in your life, you’re not a myth. 

You’re not a story of a little girl whose parents didn’t love her enough. 

You are not the story of an actress whose star burned too bright and hot and the cosmos punished her for her hubris. 

You’re not the story of a woman who fell in love too hard and too fast with drugs and a man much older than her and got shattered on the rocks. 

The book has closed, the final chapter has come. There are no more stories to tell, nothing left to make fantastic. 

You are a broken human body. 

Natalie Lorraine is a myth.

You were a child once. You have to remember that.