#all people that were gatekeeping this photo from me I will be throwing hands

[nico-di-genova]

EVERYONE MOVED

[mzminola]

Community

Straight and cisgender people being part of the broader queer community is good in a variety of ways, and the example from my own life is growing up queer in a small town with parents who were supportive before either they or I knew I was queer.

My mom and dad grew up in Berkeley CA and were involved through their youths in a variety of extremely nerdy things like the Society of Creative Anachronism, Dungeons & Dragons (and a Star Trek inspired sci-fi variation), theater, etc. Within those groups, and other parts of their lives, they had a lot of queer friends.

They moved around a lot as adults, and this was the pre-internet era so staying in touch was harder, and even when they stayed in touch they didn’t necessarily see people in person much. I wound up growing up in a small liberal town in western WA. Statistically, due to the small population, I just did not know any out queer adults in my hometown when I was growing up. There was no GSA at the school, either.

But for years I had stories of queer adults, long before I ever knew I needed them. I never once worried my parents wouldn’t accept my bisexuality, because I was so very used to my parents talking about queer friends of theirs who were giant nerds, with the exact same fondness and nostalgia as all their other friends. Stories of queer-specific shenanigans were told alongside all the other shenanigans.

We had semaphore flags in the costume playtime box because Dad’s a nautical history nerd, and we had big motorcycle goggles designed to fit over chunky glasses because Mom used to catch rides around the Bay Area with lesbian biker friends. That blend and casualness was just a normal part of my childhood.

~

I learned from stories of my parents’ friends that you could take stereotypes and turn them into in-jokes; gay friends playing backyard baseball or catch or other sports totally flubbing a throw, and heckling each other with “What’s the matter honey, your wrists too limp?”

~

I learned about the AIDS epidemic, of the loss, the grief, the stigma, and of the ways people fought back. Supported each other. I learned a lot more when I was older from queer adult survivors of the epidemic online, but I learned first from my parents, who were still grieving friends they lost.

This was not distant history, this was not something that happened to “other people” this was something that happened to their community.

~

My father’s mother’s brother is gay. My great uncle. He raises tropical birds. When he was a much younger man than he is now, the signaling style of wearing a diamond earring in one ear was starting. Now, at the time, most men to wear a diamond earring as a signal of their sexuality wore very small, discreet flecks. Just this little flash of light that might catch your eye, that might make you look again.

Great Uncle inherited his mother’s engagement ring, took that honking big “look at me and admire how I got engaged! Look at me, look at me!” diamond to the jeweler, and got that sucker turned into an earring. You could not fucking miss it.

And you know what? That’s how I learned about queer signaling as a thing people could do, it was presented as a fun family story, and I wouldn’t have heard it if not for my parents, because Great Uncle lives in a completely different part of the country from us and doesn’t travel much, so I’ve only met him twice, during which everyone was catching up on current life, not stories of his youth.

~

When my mom, dad, and their friends were all young adults who’d recently left home and were living in a different state from their families, one of their friends was a butch gay man who’d recently come out to his parents. And his mom wanted to be supportive, and she was a person who sewed clothes herself. So she made him shirts. She had his measurements, and she’d regularly mail him care packages with beautifully hand-made button up shirts in pink and purple fabrics. Because those were the gay colors at the time, and she wanted to make sure he knew she supported everything about him, that she would never want him to change himself to fit in society’s mold.

Now the thing was, pink and purple were not actually to his taste. They were not colors he’d normally pick out for himself. But he and his parents didn't live in the same state anymore, this was pre-Internet, if you wanted to share photos you had to take them, develop the film, and mail them. So she wasn’t seeing his style regularly, she was seeing the style of the out gay men back in the Bay Area, and doing her best.

He wore the shirts. He was running around the Oregon countryside as a butch gay man in the early 1980’s in pink and purple button ups, because his mom made them for him with love, he loved her too.

So I heard this story growing up, and I learned from it. I learned parents could love and wholly support their queer children long before I ever heard about parents who rejected theirs. I learned love is in the actions we take. That it’s going to be imperfect, but what matters is we’re trying our best, and accepting that from each other.

~

I’m bisexual, and I’ve got some weird gender stuff going on. I did not know any out queer adults in my hometown growing up. I did not find any writings until the early 2000’s when the Internet became more accessible. My school did not have a GSA.

But I knew I wasn’t alone. I knew pieces of west coast queer culture and history. I knew queer people could be giant nerds, could be outdoorsy, could be silly and serious and fully rounded people with rich, wonderful lives. That their friends and family could accept them wholly without hesitation. Because what was there to hesitate over?

I’ve said before my hometown is liberal, and it is, but it still had enough prejudice to keep me semi-closeted as a teen. I had peers insist to me that “a child needs a mother and a father”, had adults insist civil unions were fine but marriage equality would violate religious freedoms, heard peers use “gay” as an insult from late elementary school onwards (and the teachers just ignoring it).

I needed all those stories from my childhood. I needed them. And I had them. Without ever having to ask.

And my brother had them too. He’s straight and cisgender, and he has never been anything but 100% supportive of me. He was arguing for equal rights and refusing to use the derogatory language peers were before I ever came out to him.

When I see people trying to gatekeep the queer community, this is what I think of. I think of being a kid in a small town, without knowing any local out queer adults, hearing people around me say bigoted things, but having all these stories burning in the hearth of my heart, and I think…

You want to douse that flame?

You want to reach back in time and wrench those stories from the child I was?

You’d rather I grow up isolated, confused, lonely, and scared, than have my straight, cisgender parents in the queer community? You want me to be isolated now, you want my brother to abandon me?

Really?

Identity and community are intertwined, but they are not rigid, nor should they be.

Community being broader is good.

[everythinghughes]

secret relationship w eddy?

ETHAN EDWARDS | SECRET LOVER

pairing: ethan edwards x fem!reader, jealous!ethan edwards x fem!reader

word count: 1.56K

summary: you and ethan are in a secret relationship to keep both of your positions with the umich hockey team and thomas tests ethan’s patience.  

warnings: swearing

note: thank you so much for requesting anon and i hope you enjoy!!

you and ethan had been together for about five months and somehow had managed to keep it from the rest of the boys.  with you running the teams social media accounts and taking photos and videos for the account and ethan being on the team, you weren’t exactly sure how it would blow over with the staff.  so to save your job, you’ve kept your relationship a secret from everyone.

you walk into the yost arena with all of your bags in hand and down the hall where the boys dressing room is.  you knock on the door and yell “is everybody decent?!” 

when you started working for the team you quickly learned to knock and yell before entering the dressing room.  

you hear multiple yells of confirmation before walking in.  “are you guys almost ready to start warm ups? the people in the comment section are dying from some content of you guys.”

“who specifically y/n?” luke asks.  

“bords is real popular with the people right now.  his tiktok account and the fact that he got a mullet has made people go absolutely wild.  as usual everyone wants to see pow and hughesy.  but a lot of people want to see owen and kent together for some reason.  and blanks i want some more shots of you, since you were nominated for the senior award and i want you to win.”

“thanks y/n and that sounds good.” nick nods before leading the team out of the dressing room and into the hallway.  

ethan hangs back, pretending to ruffle through his hockey bag until everyone’s gone when he walks over and presses a kiss to your lips.  “nobody wants any shots of me?”

“no they do.  i’m just too selfish to share them.” you grin, before making your way out of the dressing room.  

“hey! you can’t just gatekeep me because i’m your boyfriend.” he says the last part a bit quieter, so nobody hears.  

“i can and i will.”

ethan rolls his eyes before making his way over to mark, giving your bum a quick squeeze when he passes, making you gasp.  

“ethan!” you yell in shock.  

he looks at you and blinks innocently “what?”

you shake your head at him as you make your way over to luke and take the shots of him that you need before making your way over to nick, then owen and kent.  

finally you make your way over to thomas who’s screwing around with brendan and that’s when you realize your mistake “fucking hell” you groan

thomas makes his way over to you and throws an arm over your shoulder “what the matter y/n/n?”

“i forgot to get the most important thing on video! how could i forget? i’ve been getting comment after comment about it.”

“what is it?”

“your game day fit!”

thomas laughs “that’s the most important shot you need?”

you sigh “yes thomas, tiktok and every teenage girl that follows the umich socials is in desperate need of your game day fits.”

“well how about after the game you can take my exit shot instead of my intro.  switch it up a little?” 

“you’d do that?”

he shrugs “why not? give the people what they want, you know?”

your face splits into a grin and hug thomas tightly “thank you! thank you! thank you!” 

thomas hugs you back and laughs at your excitement.  

“bordeleau! let’s go, we’re going on the ice to practice and y/n has work to do.” ethan yells, you hold back a laugh ethan’s jealous tone as thomas gives ethan a weird look.  

“i’ll be there in a sec bud.”

“blanks said now.  so let go of y/n and get your ass on the ice.” he snaps.

when ethan doesn’t move from the door thomas raises an eyebrow “are you just gonna stand there until i move?”

“let go of y/n.” ethan repeats, his eyes narrowed.  

now that get’s thomas curious

why was ethan so set on getting him away from you?

“and if i don’t?” he tests.  

“thomas, let go.” you whisper, trying to wiggle out of his grasp.  

thomas leans down to your ear, tucking a piece of it behind your ear and whispering “in a second.”

oh he’s smooth

it’s then nick makes his way back yelling at thomas and ethan to get their asses on the ice, but not before giving you and thomas a weird look.  

the boys practice on the ice as you live stream it on instagram, reading all the comments asking about owen and luke, the boys mullets, a couple of bots until one viewer’s comments really grabs your attention

username: omg is that eddy?

username: eddy is so hot omg

username: tell eddy hi and that i love him 

you’re quick to end the live stream and save it to your camera to post as a reel later on.  

you’re setting up your camera when nick comes skating over and gives you a look.  

you raise an eyebrow at him “can i help you blanks?”

“no, i was just wondering if there was anything new going on in your life?”

you furrow your eyebrows in confusion “uh no, not really.  why?”

nick huffs “what’s going on between you and bords?”

now it’s your turn to give him a weird look “nothing.”

“look y/n, you know how flirty bords can be and i just don’t want you getting hurt.”

“that’s sweet, but i don’t like bords like that.”

“are you guys dating?”

“no”

“talking?”

“no.”

nick sighs, leaning in and whispering “hooking up?”

you jaw drops “oh my god! blanks no!” 

“are you sure? because-”

“i have a boyfriend nicholas!” you yell, drawing everyones attention to you and nick.  “oh so that you hear?!”

soon all of the boys are standing in front of you firing question after question

“you have a boyfriend?”

“who is he?”

“what’s his name?”

“how easy would it be to smash his face with my fist?

you drag your hands down your face and sigh “this is like having thirty older brothers.”

“well we know it’s not any of us because it would be so obvious if he was on the team.”  kent says.  

most of the boys nod in agreement but blanks swivels around on the ice and says “bords!”

thomas’ head snaps up “yeah?”

“oh my god nick for the last time i am not dating thomas!” you say making thomas’ eyes bug out of his head.  

“when did i even become an option?!”

“when i walked into the hallway and say you and y/n all cozy.” nick says making all of the boys look at thomas.

thomas raises his arms in defence “i was only doing it to piss of eddy!”

shit.

everybody turns to look at ethan who’s looking extremely guilty.  

“seriously eddy?” mark groans.  

ethan is quick to jump over the boards and hide behind you.  “it’s not my fault! okay! it was not my fault!”

“you kissed me first, edwards!”

ethan grins sliding his hands completely around your waist “well yeah but how can you blame me? you looked so h-”

“do not finish that sentence!” owen yells.  

“what is going on out here?!” coach pearson yells.

oh no. 

nobody answers so he asks a new question “edwards! what do you think you’re doing?”

“would you believe me if i said that y/n’s back hurt and i was just cracking it?”

“no.”

“yeah i thought so.” he mumbles.  “i’m just giving y/n a hug.”

pearson gives him a look “i wasn’t born yesterday edwards.  spit it out.”

ethan looks down at you and sees you looking at your shoes.  you’re both thinking the same thing

you’re about to loose your job.

“y/n and i are dating coach.” ethan says quietly.  

this is not the way he wanted to say that for the first time.  he wanted to say it loud and proud.  shout it from the fucking rooftops of the school.

you turn around in ethan’s arms and bury your face in his chest as your shoulders shake with silent sobs.  

“are you now?”  

ethan tightens his hold on you, growing more and more angrier the more he hears your quiet sobs “yes coach we are and we have been for the past five months.”

“FIVE MONTHS?!” the boys yell.  

“yes five months and during those five months neither of us have slacked off.  in fact, i think i’ve been playing even better since i got my own personal cheerleader and pre-game nap partner.”

pearson sighs “edwards-”

“coach please.”

he pauses, mulling it over before saying “fine but the second either of you start to slack off-”

you take your head out of ethan’s chest and wipe your tears away “it won’t happen sir.  you have nothing to worry about.”

“you two are lucky you’re good kids and i’m a sucker for a good love story.”

you and ethan laugh before pearson is yelling again “now back on the ice boys! we’ve got a game to win!”

the boys skate back out onto the ice and ethan tilts your chin up “you okay?”

you smile “i’m great, now get your ass on the ice eddy.”

ethan grins and leans down to kiss you which is met with lots of disapproving yells and groans from the boys.  

they’re gonna have to get used to this, you think to yourself.  

[hongnanglen-arina]

Forget me not | Hong Joshua

Genre: Angst

Pairing: Joshua x fem reader

Warnings: sick!reader, dementia

Words: 3k

A/N: Hey there! So here it is, my first angsty fic on here. I’m currently going through this myself but writing it down helped me cope with it a bit. Of course having to deal with this syndrome/disease is anything but romantic or nice but i tried to make it less bad if you know what i mean... anyways, i really hope you don’t have to deal with this in rl. Please be healthy!! Love you ♡

Tagged: @love-dreams​ @seokcalibur​ 

⋅𖥔⋅ ━━ ⋅𖥔⋅ ━━ ⋅𖥔⋅ ━━ ⋅𖥔⋅ ━━ ⋅𖥔⋅

The first time Joshua knew that something was off was at your birthday party 5 years ago. When you talked too fast, often times you mixed up the names especially the similar ones. You nearly forgot the cake in the oven. Luckily your cousin noticed it. During the party, he thought you were just too excited or too stressed because you wanted it to be perfect. You’ve always been like this.

But when you were alone in the kitchen after everyone had left, you asked him about the special occasion of the party. You couldn’t remember it was your birthday.

He had laughed and thought it was a joke. But it wasn’t. 

The questions increased, more and more random reactions happened until he couldn’t leave you alone anymore. 

Once he was at a market with you. It was a lovely saturday afternoon. You two enjoyed those short getaways a lot. You would randomly choose a place up to 3 hours away from your home and would drive there, spent the day or even the whole weekend there and would go back happily as if you had a little vacation. That day you had decided to split up so he could secretly get the little bouquet of roses for you before joining you at the grocery store to help with the bags. The bouquet was placed securely on the backseat of your car when he stepped into the grocery store, looking for you. The store wasn’t too big so he was sure that it wouldn’t take long to find you. No sign of you at the fruit corner, the pastries, alcohol nor the snacks corner. He just couldn’t find you. He even asked the workers to call your name through the speakers because he started to get worried. 5 minutes passed. 10. 15. Still no sign. He didn’t want to bother the busy workers a second time so he made his way back to your rented apartment for the weekend. Maybe you wanted to start preparing dinner because you’ve been always like this. You never wanted to get help if it wasn’t really necessary. This was one of the reasons you two would get into an argument but those never lasted for long. 

When Joshua got into the car and drove down the street in the direction of your apartment, he saw you sitting at the bus stop, crying. He immediately stopped the car and ran to you, he thought his heart had stopped beating the second he saw in what kind of state you were.

“Y/n, what’s wrong? Why are you crying?” He tried his best to speak in a calming tone but it was very difficult. Joshua didn’t know what was wrong. What happened. What he missed out on. He was mad at himself that he left you alone, no matter what the reason for your tears was.

Your eyes lightened up a bit when you recognized him beside you on the bench, looking down at his hands which were holding yours, thumbs rubbing soothingly over your cold skin.

“I’m such a bad mother! I forgot to prepare dinner for our kids! I have to go back and cook. They must be hungry and waiting!”

It wasn’t what Joshua was expecting to hear. 

Especially because your two children were already living in other cities for work and university. He didn’t understand right away. Again, he thought you made a joke but when his eyes met your glossy ones and he tried to find the right words.

“Love, they aren’t with us anymore. You don’t have to prepare dinner for them.”

This was the wrong choice of words. You started to cry uncontrollably, worse than before. Because you thought they had passed away.

Later on he learned that he had to “play along”. That this would resolve almost every situation with people who were suffering with this syndrome.

The other time you just wanted to throw away the trash. It was just right outside the apartment complex so he thought it would be okay. The big bins were just beside the entrance, in a separate place only residents could enter since the gatekeeper was always around. You didn’t have to go that far, it was still the same building. But what was a task for 10 minutes maximum under normal circumstances became a horrible memory for Joshua and probably you too. 

Because you got lost somewhere between leaving and closing the apartment door and the moment Joshua found you. In the hospital.

Until now, he didn’t know what exactly happened on that day. But you got hit by a car when you crossed the street at a red light he was told. Even after asking the gatekeeper, he couldn’t help you because after seeing you, he got a call and didn’t pay attention where you were going after exchanging greetings.

Joshua’s fingers slightly touched your knee, the scars from the accident still evident. He was mad at himself. He thought moving to this place would help you recover and made you happier. In some aspects it did. Living on the 23rd floor with a breathtaking view over the Hangang river and all the nice lights once it got dark outside was something you two had always dreamt of. Being able to take a walk at the park next to the building and having some slice of nature around was exactly what you two wanted in this huge city. Always joked about growing old and admiring the view together. 

He never thought it would become like this.

He didn’t know why God had chosen you.

He used to believe that everything happened for a reason. That you would only get good things if you do good.

He was raised to believe in God. 

But after everything, it was difficult.

He even caught himself hating God for making you suffer like this.

He just couldn’t help it.

“It’s cold.” Your words pulled Joshua back to reality and he quickly got up to get your favorite blanket. The fuzzy fabric that you fell in love with when you were at an amusement park together a month before you got married. You always took great care to everything and everyone around you so it was no surprise to him that the blanket still looked exactly like it did when he won it for you. Although it hasn’t gotten the same care anymore after you weren’t able to do chores by yourself again. Joshua asked you what your secret was in maintaining it but as much as he tried, he just wasn’t as talented as you. 

He wrapped you in your blanket and made sure that you felt warm and cozy before walking over to the open kitchen area to prepare tea. Your favorite organic herbal infusion. 

While he was waiting for the water to boil, is eyes traveled to the side and to the wall which was decorated by different photos. Every single one holding a deep meaning.

A selfie taken on a ferries wheel. The moment he confessed his feelings for you. He planned everything to the smallest detail and wanted it to be romantic. Throughout the evening you asked him several times why he was carrying a bigger backpack. The reason was a bouquet of red roses. That day he wasn’t fully himself because he was too nervous but it still worked out. He succeeded. Joshua smiled at the memory.

Beside that was a photo from your wedding. The beautiful dress that you wore was something he had never seen. He was speechless and had to swallow down the tears. He couldn’t believe that he was the lucky guy marrying this ethereal woman in front of him. In this photo your eyes were a little puffy and nose slightly red because you couldn’t help but to cry through half of the ceremony. He could still hear your whines when his best friend asked for a photo. The smile remained on Joshua’s lips while remembering the moment.

Then photos of your children. The first born, then your second 3 years later. Time really passed by too fast because now they weren’t living with you anymore. In fact, your first born would become a father himself in a couple of months. 

Joshua looked over to you, the smile changing to a painful expression. He wasn’t sure if you would understand who it is when your son would come over with his baby. 

Once the tea was ready, he put everything on a small tray with some fruits and walked back to you.

You were still at your favorite spot. At the table in the dining room which was right in front of a huge window, allowing you to have a beautiful view on the Hangang river and the Paldang bridge. Joshua would catch you smile from time to time, sometimes even getting an answer from you why you were smiling. When there wasn't a smile on your lips, your eyes would be watery as if you had remembered something sad. Every time he would ask you and often times he would be surprised what the cause was. The fact he would randomly learn new things about your past even after knowing you for over 40 years now was surprising to him. But the doctor once told him that those things could also be dreams or wishes that you would mix up with reality. Sadly it was common.

He helped you with the tea, blew over it and held the cup while you took a sip. Every time you would thank him but without saying his name. It was painful but he tried to hold his smile.

“They look like the flowers we have in our garden. They are so beautiful. My mother loves them. Me too.”

Joshua turned around to a painting on the wall. A painting of small flowers, little blue petals with white and yellow centers. Forget-me-nots. 

You painted it after getting the diagnosis. At that time, it wasn’t this severe. You were still able to do everything by yourself although you stopped from time to time because you weren’t able to remember what you wanted or why you were doing something. But the both of you were scared of the future.

It wouldn’t just go away after some time like a flu. There was nothing you could do, no antidote. Just medication which would temporarily improve the symptoms, distracting you from the real process. You knew that one day it would become so bad that you may hurt him.

The reason you painted the flowers was because you wanted to break up with him. You wanted a divorce. Not because you stopped loving him, it was because you loved him. You hated to ask for help. You hated to bother people, especially him. People who meant the world to you. You wanted him to live his life without you as a burden because dementia meant you would need help until the very end.

You wanted to give him the painting as a gift, like a symbol of your time together. That you were thankful for everything and hoped he would keep all the good memories in his heart. You didn’t want him to hate you and you really hoped he would understand. If not now, then later. The divorce would give him the freedom he deserved. He shouldn’t see you miserably and take care of you when you can’t recognize him anymore.

That was the biggest fight you two had. 

Joshua was more than hurt of the decision you had made alone. But he wasn’t the only one in pain and he saw it in the way you were shaking as you tried to explain everything. He knew that something was wrong with you some weeks prior to your fight where the bomb dropped. You didn’t eat normally, you denied his ideas for a night out, you didn’t smile as much as you used to. You just avoided his love and wanted to be alone more and more.

In the end he convinced you to stay. Joshua told you that he swore to care for you until his last breath. To be there for you in good but also in bad times. He would be understanding if the syndrome would mess with your brain or body again. It was his purpose to be there for you. He loved you. Just as much as you needed him, he needed you as well. Even if that meant to be in the situation he was in right now.

"You really sing so beautifully. You should become a singer!"

That's what you would say every day after he played the guitar or sang his favorite song for you. And his reply would be the same as well, every day.

"Believe me or not but I was a famous singer once.”

And you would always giggle and think that he made a joke. But it wasn’t.

Joshua was 2 years older than you but then again, healthy. Unlike you who was suffering from dementia. 

He knew you didn't do it on purpose but it always hurt him so much, he had no word to describe the pain. Knowing you weren't able to remember all the happy moments you two went through made his heart ache. No matter how often he told you about your adventures, your experiences and life lessons, you would forget about it right after. But he still did it again and again. At least he had a lot to tell you about and somehow it was a way of not forgetting it himself. Some kind of therapy for himself. But often times he struggled because he couldn't remember it clearly and it was always a lonely feeling as you couldn't help or correct him.

Joshua checked the secure on the wheels of your wheelchair, making sure it wouldn’t move. He slowly got up to his feet to turn on the heater on the other side of the room. It was getting cold inside and the tea was gone already.

When he first heard about dementia, he thought it was losing memory only. But as he educated himself more and more, he learned that it could also mean the loss of mobility and the loss of speech. 

Luckily the latter hasn’t happened yet and he prayed it would stay that way. 

That was one of the reasons he believed in God again.

He felt selfish but he had nowhere to go. No place to let everything out.

When he prayed to God again, he felt bad and pathetic at first but it gave him the strength he needed.

He prayed that you wouldn’t be in too much pain.

He mentioned his gratitude for still being with you.

He was thankful for the chance to be a good husband to you.

Absentmindedly, his fingers found his cross necklace. You weren’t in a good state and of course everything could be better without dementia but being there for each other must be the life lesson here. Even without a marriage, being with the person you love and supporting each other was one of the most important things in life. He didn’t know how it would be, if the tables were switched between the two of you. Maybe that was why Joshua understood your idea of the divorce although he decided against it. If he would have to choose again, his decision would be the same. 

He didn’t want a life without you.

After turning on the heater, he joined you again.

He was watching you smile with tears in your eyes.

He asked you what was wrong but you didn't react, instead your gaze was fixated on something outside the window. He wanted to help. He wanted to turn back time but he couldn't. His wish was impossible to become true. 

Joshua reached forward, grabbing two clementines from the tray he had brought earlier and started peeling them for you. You two used to do it for the other when everything was still okay. Before the drastic change had started. Now you've never done it for him again but it would never stop him from doing it for you.

Carefully taking your hand and placing the peeled fruits in it, you made a surprised noise, giving him a soft smile.

"How do you know I like them? Say, what's your name?"

He tried to smile back. The same question he would hear every day.

Leaning forward, he gently rubbed your arm through the blanket. "My name is Joshua." ...and I'm your husband, he added in his thoughts.

You pulled out your arm from under the blanket and carefully touched his hair, letting the fingertips graze his cheeks until he grabbed your hand and kept your hand like this, leaning in your palm and closing his eyes for a second before placing your hand back down in your lap. You still wore his bracelet. The one he made for you with pastel colored beads. 

Every day you would ask where you got it from but Joshua made sure to tell you about it every time he heard this question. At least you two would always have topics to talk about, he always told himself.

“You are so kind to me.” 

Your soft voice made him look up to you and then he saw it in your eyes. He saw that deep down you haven't completely forgotten about him and that was all he needed. That was what kept him going, day after day. You were and will always be the love of his life after all.

And that would never change. Never.

[lady-divine-writes]

ACITW AU one-shot “Hidden Talents” (Rated PG13)

Summary: After the stress and pressure of wedding planning drives them out of the city, Kurt and Sebastian hide out in Sebastian's old room. Kurt starts cleaning Sebastian's closet while Sebastian flips through old yearbooks, being of no help whatsoever. While weeding through Sebastian's collection of clothes and shoes, Kurt stumbles upon something he'd never thought he'd find in a million years - Sebastian's long lost violin. (4613 words)

Notes: So, we all remember that in ACITW Sebastian plays the violin, that Julian claimed he was really good at it, and could have probably done something with it? Then it just never gets mentioned, not even once by Sebastian's parents, which leads me to believe there's a reason. This one-shot explores that reason, and whether or not Sebastian is really as proficient as his brother claims.

Part of ACITW AU

Read on AO3

“Donate or keep?” Kurt asks, holding up a fitted Marc Jacobs polo, fashionable despite its age. Then again, polo shirts are the standard, and designer never goes out of style. Like a fine wine, it matures, even if the shirt’s owner - sitting cross-legged on his bed, chuckling over photos in an old yearbook - has managed to remain perpetually sixteen.

His sense of humor pinging at a solid age twelve.

“Jeff, you bastard!” Sebastian snorts, flipping off a photo that Kurt can’t see from where he’s standing. Sebastian finds a block of sloppy text at the bottom right corner and runs a fingertip over it. He reads the slanted script, his bottom lip trapped between his teeth, gatekeeper of another undignified snort. “Fuck, I miss you, man! See you at the wedding.”

Kurt clears his throat, aggravated by the amount he keeps losing Sebastian’s attention, but he can’t help smiling either. They don’t reminisce about high school often - too many mines left undetonated in those fields. But it’s nice to see Sebastian like this, especially considering the current stress they’re both under - a stress that’s driven them from their penthouse in the city back home to Westerville for the next few weeks.

Unfortunately, retreating to this sanctuary of family and nostalgia has caused that stress to amplify tenfold.

“Sebastian,” Kurt sings when even his most dramatic throat clearing doesn’t do the trick. “Oh, Sebastian. Eyes up here, please.”

Sebastian’s head snaps Kurt’s way, his brow pinched as if he only now remembered that Kurt is in the room with him, and that they have a job to do. “What?”

“Donate,” Kurt repeats in a syrupy tone (more like pine tar as opposed to maple - thicker, darker, more bitter), shaking the navy blue shirt on its hanger for emphasis, “or keep?”

“Keep,” Sebastian decides in an instant, then returns to his yearbook, snickering at another picture on the same page.

“Good,” Kurt murmurs, setting the polo aside. I intend on borrowing that one, he thinks, finding the silver lining since he’s the only one of the two of them taking this task seriously. He rifles through the closet and pulls out another shirt, one less style-savvy than the polo. That’s okay. At this point, it can be deemed retro. Regardless, Kurt has no intention of borrowing it. “How about this one? Donate or keep?”

Sebastian’s eyes flutter up from the page, barely focusing on the shirt before returning to the book in his lap. “Keep.”

Kurt rolls his eyes as he lays this shirt over the polo. He’d really hoped this one would end up in the donate box. If they hold on to it, there’s a chance Sebastian might actually decide to wear it, which puts the burden on Kurt to come up with something for himself that matches (provided they don’t want to run the risk of blinding anyone).

Kurt didn’t fall in love with Sebastian for his taste in clothes, which, to be fair, is decent - long lines; primary colors; simple, clean-cut elegance that pairs well with Kurt’s bolder, more adventurous choices. Sebastian can be quite the fashion plate himself when he has a mind to, one rogue t-shirt notwithstanding.

He lets Kurt style him more times than not so Kurt can’t complain.

Kurt goes back to the closet and selects a pair of shorts he knows don’t fit Sebastian anymore. They’re from Sebastian’s lacrosse days, when his thighs were bulkier, his glutes rounder. Not that Sebastian doesn’t have a gorgeous body now. His fitness regimen is impressive, even by Kurt’s standards. But spending hours on end running up and down a grass field does wonders for the buns and thighs.  

Kurt doesn’t want to banish everything from Sebastian’s Dalton days. Sebastian’s lacrosse uniforms were the first things Kurt slipped into the keep box without asking his say so. But these tan shorts are atrocious! He’s glad that after an hour of this, they’ll finally have a submission to the donate box, which has collected only dust so far along with one lonely copy of Mein Kampf - a relic from senior year AP European History.

“Donate or keep?” Kurt asks, dangling the garment presumptively over the donation box.

Sebastian glances at it, tilting his head and giving the matter a soupcon of thought. “Donate.”

Kurt removes the shorts from their clips with a sigh of relief. Finally! he thinks. Now we’re getting somewhere! But before he has the chance to drop them in, Sebastian recants (without looking up). “No, keep. Keep.”

“What!” Kurt stares at Sebastian, mouth agape. “Why? These don’t even fit you!”

“Are they too big or too small?”

“Too big! Plus, they’re cargo shorts, Sebastian! Cargo shorts!”

“They’ll be good for layering.”

Kurt’s eyes go buggy and wide. Sebastian hasn’t peeked, but he grins knowing what Kurt must look like right now, that vein in his head that throbs when he gets upset ready to burst. “When in the world would you need to layer shorts!?”

“I dunno,” Sebastian mumbles, eyes glued to a new page.  

Kurt growls, slamming the offensive item into the overflowing keep box, which might as well be labeled the Why are we wasting our time here? box. “Are you planning on getting rid of anything?”

“Uh …” Sebastian looks up and around. “Yes. That burrito wrapper over there.” He points to the corner of his desk where the trash from their lunch had been unceremoniously abandoned in favor of this. “That definitely needs to go.”

“Ha ha,” Kurt says, reluctantly cleaning up the mess. He objects to playing maid in his fiance’s old bedroom, but since he’s not currently doing anything of value, he grabs the stiff paper wrapper and crumples it in his hands - no, strangles it, using it as a stand-in for Sebastian’s neck. Sebastian turns to the next page, but looks up when he hears the wrapper succumb to Kurt’s crushing fingers.

“Oh, wait! I don’t think I finished …” Sebastian gestures repeatedly at the wadded wrapper, unable to think of a suitable end to his sentence, his brain sandwiched between curbing Kurt’s annoyance and processing the sentiments on the page without them bringing a tear to his eye. People say that if high school was one of the best times in your life, you were probably a privileged asshole. Well, he was. And it was … mostly. “I may want to hold on to that a little while longer.”

“Why!?”

“Dunno.”

“What the---!?” Kurt slams the balled up wrapper down with an irritated yawp. “Cleaning out your closet was your idea you know!”

“Oh contraire,” Sebastian retorts with maddening superiority. “All I said was that I may want to siphon out a few things while I’m here. You’re the one who came up with the brilliant idea of paring down my things and donating them to charity.”

“And why not? What good does any of this stuff do just sitting here in this closet? It’s not like you’re planning on moving any of it to our place and wearing it!”

“True, but if I get rid of it, what would my mother have in her later years to rummage through sentimentally, hold to her cheek and sigh when she misses me?”

Kurt shakes his head slowly, unamused on Charlotte’s behalf. “That’s just … horrible. Like the plot of a bad Hallmark Christmas movie.”

“There are good Hallmark Christmas movies? I sure as hell never seen one.”

“Hmph. And you say I watch too many cheesy chick flicks.”

“You do, but that’s entirely beside the point.”

“You’ve got tons of clothes here you don’t use,” Kurt presses with renewed vigor. “It wouldn’t hurt to get rid of some of it, make someone else’s day brighter by giving them the opportunity to purchase name brands for a bargain. I know that always cheers me up.”

“Weren’t you the one telling me that as much as you love Marie Kondo, closet purging is overwhelming the charity industry, and that most of the stuff we donate ends up on barges traveling the world, bouncing from port to port until they inevitably sink into the sea and devastate the aquatic ecosystem?”

“Yes, but at the time you were trying to get me to trim down my Jimmy Choo collection.”

“Because no one in their right mind needs eighty-six pairs of the same patent leather loafer, Kurt!”

Kurt tuts sharply. “It’s like you don’t even know me.”

“I do know you! That’s how I knew that if I came out against your plan, you’d get loud and yell-y! That’s what I was trying to avoid! I only went along with it because …“ Sebastian’s sentence cuts off when he clamps his jaw shut with a clack that shoots straight up Kurt’s spine. If Sebastian’s tongue had been anywhere near his teeth, part of it would have been chomped clean off.

“Because what?” Kurt asks, sore at being accused of acting ‘yell-y’ - a stone’s throw too close to ‘groomzilla’, which they’ve both accused one another of too many times in the last three months to count.

Sebastian sighs, rearranges his legs on the bed so that they’re spread and not twisted like a pretzel. “Asking you up here was an excuse to get you alone for five frickin’ minutes. We’ve been swamped since the second we got here! We left the city to escape your friends and my friends and the wedding planner’s incessant phone calls. But my mom and Olivia took over where everyone else left off.”

“They’re just excited for us,” Kurt says soothingly, not admitting yet that he knows exactly how Sebastian feels.

“I realize that. And I’m glad they’re excited but …” Sebastian thumbs the edges of the pages he has yet to read, watches them fall beneath his hand one by one “… who knew that deciding to get married would mean never getting a moment’s peace?”

“I guess they figure we’ll get enough of that after we’re married.”

“Then they don’t know us very well, do they?” Sebastian scoffs, venom lacing his words, so palpable it gives Kurt a rash.

Ever since Kurt moved up the ranks from Flying Monkey in the cast of Wicked to the more coveted role of Fiyero, he’s been in higher demand, and thus, less available. Even to Sebastian.

Kurt has dreamed of planning his own wedding for years. He’d started an idea book along the way, cutting out photographs from bridal magazines and gluing them into the pages, creating palettes and themes depending on current trends, potential venues, and time of year. But with both Kurt’s and Sebastian’s schedules so hectic, they had to weigh the importance of Kurt planning their wedding against the probability of them marrying before the turn of the century.

Getting married won, but only by a slim margin.

They hired the best wedding planner in the city, recommended by everyone in their tax bracket, whose artistic vision matched Kurt’s nearly beat by beat (according to the pictures on her website of ceremonies she’d helped bring to fruition). To Sebastian’s naive mind, that meant they would leave everything in her capable hands while they went on with their lives, drop in for the occasional consultation to check that the roses she chose suit Kurt’s vision or that the place settings have the right number of candles in them.

But Kurt literally hated everything their planner came up with.

So they’ve had to be present for every second of their wedding’s creation to ensure they’ll get the chance to celebrate the way they want.

They’re paying someone else thousands of dollars for Kurt to plan their wedding anyway.

The irony is staggering.

To that end, they’re having two weddings - one for their New York friends and associates, and a second intimate ceremony for their Ohio family.

Sebastian knew from go that Kurt’s pack of female friends from high school would descend upon them and monopolize Kurt’s time with the obligatory brunches and showers, which was understandable and therefore forgivable. What Sebastian didn’t factor in was the amount in which the theater company would use Kurt’s engagement as a PR instrument, slipping it into every interview, at every opportunity how one of their leading male cast members is months away from wedding his wealthy boyfriend, playing the whole thing up as some sort of fairy tale (with the term ‘fairy’ vaguely but constantly applied).

Broadway’s full of gays, remember! And this one’s gettin’ hitched!

Sebastian thought the whole thing vulgar but he didn’t sweat it … not until the side-effects of that exploitation began to bleed in to their every day lives.

Namely the celebrity.

Sebastian is accustomed to having eyes on him. He’s a handsome man and he knows it. He’s used his charm and his checkbook to open doors that weren’t already propped for his arrival his entire life. What he wasn’t used to was the sheer amount of eyes that would follow him everywhere. Letters addressed to Kurt showed up at his office. Paparazzi camped out on their doorstep. Admirers stopped him on the street to ask him every manner of question.

And Kurt’s fans knew no shame.

An unsolicited tide of attention chased them back home, along with an utter lack of privacy because everybody knows.

Everybody.

Even out here in backwater Ohio.

Checkers at the supermarket, cashiers at Target, the guy filling up the tanks at the gas station down the block, pretty much every single person they’ve come in contact with has congratulated them on their wedding.

How people found out Kurt and Sebastian had gone to Ohio, Sebastian has no idea. They left in the middle of the night and drove so they wouldn’t have to fuss with tickets. No one needed to be informed because time off for both of them had been arranged ahead of time. But someone found out they’d left early, and that person told because they’ve received everything from gift baskets to magnums of champagne at both the Smythe estate and Kurt’s father’s home.

The (now mildly - because that’s considered progress) homophobic country club that refused to let Kurt and Sebastian take dance lessons as a couple had the nerve to call and congratulate Greg and Charlotte on their son’s upcoming nuptials, offering them use of their main ballroom for the wedding, the reception, any accompanying shindigs they had planned - the same ballroom that hosted both Presidents Reagan and Carter during their administrations (they mentioned more than twice).

Olivia happened to be at the house the day they called, so Charlotte gave her the honor of the telling them where they could shove their offer.

It made Olivia’s day.

“If you’d told me from the beginning that you wanted to get me alone,” Kurt says, arching a suggestive eyebrow, “we’d be on your bed making out instead of doing mindless busywork on opposite ends of the room.”

“Ooo. Sounds like a plan,” Sebastian says, throwing Kurt a wink … then goes back to his yearbook, finger raised in a pause gesture. “Just … give me … one second.”

Kurt crosses his arms over his chest and huffs. “Wow. That’s just … that’s just … wow. Thanks a lump.” Ego bruised, he turns back to the closet. He pushes the clothes aside, giving up on that front for a while, and tackles the floor. He smirks when he sees Sebastian’s shoes, stored in their boxes, lined up in rows and stacked three deep. If he knows his fiance, the majority of them are boat shoes, each in the exact same style but different colors.

Make fun of me for my eighty-six pairs of loafers, will you?

He reaches for the topmost box but gets distracted when his hand brushes something hard and canvas leaning against the wall. Kurt steps aside to let more light in since the object blends in with the shadows. Kurt gets a good look at it, realizes what it is, and his heart stutters in his chest.

“Oh my …” He grabs hold of the handle and tugs it out gently. “So here it is. The fabled violin.”

That succeeds in getting Sebastian’s attention. His eyes light up when he sees Kurt approach carrying the case in his arms. Kurt hands the violin case over and Sebastian takes it, bringing it to him like a sacred artifact from his own past - one he thought he’d never lay eyes on again.

“It’s been forever,” Sebastian gasps. “I forgot I put it in this closet. I thought my mother had it.”

“Why did you give it up?” Kurt asks, watching Sebastian open the case to reveal the sublime instrument, wood polished and gleaming, appearing deceptively brand new with the exception of a few tells that speak to how much Sebastian played it - light-colored wear on the fretboard, a cloudiness to the finish on the chin rest, scratches here and there on the veneer.

“It’s just one of those things that faded from my life, stopped bringing me joy … about the same time everything else did.”

“Do you think you’d ever play it again?”

“Possibly.” Sebastian removes the violin from its case and holds it lengthwise in front of his eyes, examining it from end to end. “I mean, it’s been a dog’s age. I’m not sure I’d be any good at it.”

“Any chance it’s like riding a bike and you never forget?”

“Only one way to find out.” Sebastian plucks the strings in succession and smiles. It doesn’t sound too far off pitch to Kurt. Sebastian adjusts the strings, checking them against one another to make sure they’re in tune. Then he removes the bow from its resting place and tightens it. “Don’t rag on me too hard if I completely suck at this.”

“I won’t,” Kurt says. “I promise. I’ll just, you know, bring it up subtly at special occasions and bank holidays, maybe find a way to fit it into my toast at the wedding.”

“I’m holding you to that.” Sebastian rosins up his bow. He fits the violin underneath his chin. From the second it touches his skin, his attitude changes. He simultaneously tenses and relaxes, reminiscent of the way he behaved during their first sushi date, when he dropped eel and flecked soy sauce all over Kurt’s clothes. Kurt refrains from laughing at the memory. He doesn’t want Sebastian to think he’s laughing at him. But he can’t help smiling. Yes, their past is riddled with landmines, but the memories hidden in the flat, stable ground between never cease to make him glad.

Glad that he and Sebastian got together in the end.

Sebastian runs the bow experimentally over the strings, the sound it produces warm and rich, like hot Godiva cocoa on a cold, rainy day. Sebastian leans into that tone as he runs through scales, drawing end notes out a full four beats before launching into the next set. The quickness in which he picks it up takes Kurt’s breath away.

If Kurt was thinking of making fun of Sebastian for anything, he surely isn’t now.

“Why don’t we start with a classic, hmm?” Sebastian suggests, cheeks starting to pink from the look of open and unabashed awe on Kurt’s face.

“Where do you want to start? Bach? Beethoven?”

“I think …” Sebastian sits up taller, corrects his posture “… Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.”

“Are you sure?” Kurt teases, but with less snark than usual. “I wouldn’t want you to set yourself up to fail or anything.”

“It’s good to go back to the basics. Limber up the old chops, so to speak.”

“Are they still chops if you’re talking about your fingers?”

“Don’t know,” Sebastian says with a shrug. “I didn’t invent it.”

Kurt settles in comfortably on the bed as he waits for Sebastian to pull something mid-range from his bag of tricks, like Minuet in G, a piece that millions of children have hammered out on innocent instruments since learning the recorder in middle school became mandatory. But true to his word, Sebastian starts with Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star, picking the notes on the strings with his forefinger. But one verse in, he puts the bow to the strings, and starts a whole other story.

Kurt had expected Sebastian to be rusty, suffer a few false starts before he got into the swing of things. Scales are one thing. They follow a predictable pattern. It’s fairly simple to keep them smooth. But Sebastian sounds like he put his violin down for the last time yesterday. Kurt almost stops him to accuse him of having a secret violin hidden somewhere that he’s been practicing on this entire time, probably at his office where Kurt wouldn’t see. He considers pulling out his phone and texting Sebastian’s secretary, interrogating her to see if she’ll spill about any mid-afternoon practice sessions when the partners were out at lunch.

Though, in this particular instance, Kurt doesn’t know if Sebastian is more likely to hide his tremendous talent or rub it in his face.

Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star ends and Sebastian melds it into a classical melody, one Kurt can’t name off-hand though he knows he’s heard it before. It’s slow, romantic - the kind of piece a director would use to cap off the credits on a bittersweet rom-com, one where the tragic heroine, diagnosed with a withering variety of late-stage cancer, dies after the love of her life proposes.

It’s sad.

So incredibly sad.

That sadness lingers in the air after the notes dissolve, becomes stronger, more powerful with every sway of Sebastian’s body. He’d closed his eyelids when this piece started and he’s fallen into the sadness, let it envelope him.

It’s become a part of him. Maybe it’s always been a part of him and he’s just now letting it out for Kurt to see.

Or he never intended on Kurt seeing it, and this is simply an accident.

Whatever it is, Sebastian finally notices it because he switches, keeps the same key but changes the song, seamlessly transforming into something more contemporary, slightly more upbeat.

Kurt’s heart stops when he realizes the song Sebastian is playing is from Wicked. Not only that, it’s a song Kurt sings as Fiyero.

As Long as You’re Mine.

Sebastian has never, to Kurt’s knowledge, played that song on the violin or any instrument, has never sung that song himself, hasn’t seen the sheet music. He’s heard Kurt sing it over and over, practicing it in their bathroom until the tile could sing it back to him. But now he’s playing it on an instrument he hasn’t picked up in decades.

Kurt swallows hard, heart swollen with pride but his chest hollow with jealousy.

That’s talent. True talent.

Even Blaine might not be that talented.

Kurt would kill for that kind of talent.

Years they’ve been together, they’re about to get married, and Kurt thought he knew everything there is to know about this man. But Sebastian is still such an enigma. What is Kurt going to learn in another ten years? After twenty?

On the one hand, it’s daunting the way these secrets pop up out of nowhere.

But more than that, Kurt is excited to find out.

Sebastian plays through the first verse again when the song ends, a twinkle in his eyes trying to coax Kurt into singing it while he plays. Sebastian plays with such emotion that, even though Kurt would love to duet with him, he can’t bring himself to - too transfixed to make his mouth move, or even hum the tune. But he hears the words in his head, hears their meaning ring in his ears. He’s never paid too much attention to the words outside of what they mean in the musical. Now he’s hearing them, understanding them, for a different reason all together:

Kiss me too fiercely Hold me too tight I need help believing You're with me tonight My wildest dreamings Could not foresee Lying beside you With you wanting me

Sebastian ends not on a note of completion, but open-ended, with the promise of more.

Longing for more.

“Julian was right,” Kurt says, clearing his heart from his throat.

“He’ll be ecstatic to hear that,” Sebastian teases, casually shelving the emotions his violin brought to the surface.

“You do play beautifully. You should have gone to NYADA.”

“That’s … that’s very kind of you, babe,” Sebastian says, flashing a rare shy smile, knowing how great a compliment that is coming from Kurt, how much NYADA has meant to him. “But being good at the violin and being a musician are two completely different things. And I’m not a musician. Or a performer. Not like you. I enjoy it … I definitely enjoy that you enjoy it … but it’s not in my blood. I mean, obviously, seeing as I could put this violin down for so long and not even think about it, hmm?”

Kurt wonders about that after Sebastian says it. It’s easy to believe considering Kurt found out about Sebastian’s playing not from Sebastian but from Julian (the night he devised a plan to break the two of them out of dance lessons no less). Other than that, he can’t remember for the life of him either brother bringing it up again. Even Charlotte, who praises in excess everything her children have accomplished, has never brought it up, not even to say that she misses it. The way Sebastian holds the violin to his chest reminds Kurt of the way Blaine held his favorite guitar - as if it, and not Kurt, were his soulmate. As with so many things in Sebastian’s past, Kurt suspects there’s a bigger story surrounding this violin and why he stopped playing it than he’s putting on.

It had faded from his life, he’d said. Stop bringing him joy about the same time everything else did.

The same time things went south with Julian and Sebastian moved away, which would explain why it seems to have been erased from family history.

“So what do you think? Donate?” Sebastian asks with a surreptitious sniffle. He doesn’t let go of the violin, doesn’t return it to its case. On the contrary, he seems to hug it tighter. “Maybe to one of those inner city performing arts programs you love to volunteer for so much?”

“No! Keep! A definite keep!” Kurt gushes. “Maybe you can put it down and never play it again, but now that I’ve heard you, I don’t think I can exist without your playing in my life!”

“But I thought you said I was keeping too much stuff.”

“Meh,” Kurt dismisses with a wave, done with the whole concept of cleaning Sebastian’s closet anyhow. “What’s too much stuff when you can fit half of Central Park in your penthouse? Plus, I have to think of your mother, right? Wasting away in this run-down, rickety shack with nothing at all to remind her of her youngest son? Especially not the thousands of photos and videos she’s taken over the years.”

Sebastian looks at Kurt through long eyelashes, a wicked streak creeping into his smile, turning it into a full-fledged smirk. “I guess we could always switch out some of my old lacrosse uniforms for it.”

“What?” Kurt sits up straight, the color draining from his face. He knew Sebastian would find out about that eventually (on their honeymoon, if not sooner), but he didn’t think he’d caught him when he did it. “No! No, no, no reason to do that. Who says I even … uh … weren’t we going to make out?”

[red-stick-rambler]

Remembering Billy Joe Shaver.

Billy Joe Shaver was 81 years old when he died at the end of October 2020. It was a year with so much loss, particularly of great musicians- John Prine, Justin Townes Earle, Charley Pride, Little Richard, Kenny Rogers, and others. There were many obituaries written for Billy Joe after his passing that detail the rich stories of his life and reflect on his influence on music. (Suggested obit reading: Texas Monthly, Texas Highways, New York Times) I can’t do justice to his legacy but do wish to share some of the reasons why he was important to me.

Shaver’s music, often raucous, sometimes sweet, struck me with the right chords. I grew up listening to country music, mostly Willie and Waylon. By my teenage years I felt country music didn’t fit my persona of a die-hard skateboarder who listened to punk rock. When I moved to Kansas City to attend college I’d pretty much left the country, both musically and geographically. Discovering Billy Joe Shaver in the following years brought me back - to country music and to an appreciation for the rural surroundings of central Kansas where I was raised. He had a rock n’ roll attitude but the lyrics of poet, a honky tonk Hemmingway. In 1968, the way an artist, feeling in full possession of their powers, wants to be seen by their idols and proclaim their talents to the gatekeepers (Kris Kristofferson taking a military helicopter and landing it at Johnny Cash’s home to deliver songs hoping to meet the legend and have him record his material / Bruce Springsteen hopping the gates of Graceland to see Elvis while on his Born to Run tour shortly after he was on the cover of both Time and Newsweek) Billy Joe road a motorcycle onto the front porch of legendary songwriter Harlan Howard to announce himself as the greatest songwriter who ever lived. A few years later in 1973 Waylon Jennings recorded an album with all but one song written by Billy, “Honky-Tonk Heroes”. It was the beginning of a new sound in country music. The album remains one of my favorite records of all time. Finally, Billy Joe was on his way. Others recorded his songs too, a whose who of great artists that includes Kris Kristofferson, Willie Nelson, Bob Dylan, and Johnny Cash who said Billy Joe was his favorite song writer. Billy could sing and play too. A 2003 article from Texas Monthly captured his spirit in a profile before his death without the reverence an obituary demands.

“BILLY JOE SHAVER ACTS MORE like a Baptist preacher than a man in need of salvation. Performing at Austin’s KUT-FM studios, he waves his arms around as if he were trying to explain something. He pounds his chest and kicks his leg out. He clasps his hands like a minister, throws punches like a fighter. One minute he’s standing still, slightly tilted to the left, hands in his pockets, eyes slammed shut as he sings, deep worry lines between his brows. The next minute he’s so riled up his face burns bright red. He stretches out his long arms as wide as they can go, revealing that the index and middle fingers on his right hand are stubs and the ring finger is missing a joint. He can’t hold a pick, and when he plucks his guitar, he uses his thumb and pinkie. Billy Joe, who is 64, is wearing blue jeans, a blue denim shirt, brown boots, and a brown cowboy hat, which, when he takes it off to wave in the air, sets his longish gray hair loose.” - https://www.texasmonthly.com/articles/the-ballad-of-billy-joe-shaver/

I’d seen him play a number of times and this description is just how I remember him. Billy was a man of the people, and though he always possessed a wild streak, he was humble by the time I first saw him play. His song writing and his stage presence exercised the depth of the human condition; he was joyful and melancholia, tough and tender, devilish and devout, often ending shows on one knee in praise, head bowed down. Following concerts he often mingled with fans. (The photograph with me is from a 2005 show in New York City.) He exchanged phone numbers with a friend of mine from Texas and his girlfriend and occasionally, out of the blue, Billy would call them up.

Billy wrote songs from his personal experience and unlike most artists, lived like the songs he wrote. His grandma raised him, and when she died he went to live with his mom who was working in a honky-tonk called Green Gables. As a young boy, he would sing at the bar. He married two women, five times between them. His son Eddie, who he played and toured with, died of a drug overdose on New Years Eve, 2000. Billy Joe outlived the people he loved then nearly died of a heart attack on stage at Gruene Hall, the oldest honky-tonk in Texas. In 2007 I was looking forward to seeing him play at Chelsea’s in Baton Rouge but a few days prior to the show Billy was arrested for shooting a man outside of a bar in Waco, TX. I never learned the facts of the case though I heard them interpreted by several musicians in the years that followed, most notably by Dale Watson who wrote the song, “Where Do You Want It?” The man lived, Shaver was found not guilty in a Texas courthouse, and I had several more opportunities to hear him play in the years that followed.    

You can hear Billy Joe talk about his life in two interviews with Terry Gross he recorded for Fresh Air – though I kind of get the feeling he would have been more comfortable talking at a bar over beers than over the NPR radio waves. There was a documentary made with him, A Portrait of Billy Joe. It’s more than Billy Joe’s songs that have influenced me, it’s his presence. In the winter of 2004 I was camping at Joshua Tree in the California desert. One night Billy came to me in a vivid dream as a hillbilly angel / father figure. It was a visceral experience in which he offered me guidance during a particularly difficult time in my life. When I woke up, I felt his presence and had a better understanding of what I needed to do. At a shop the following day I found a brown leather belt with a brass ring for a buckle similar to the one I’d always seen Billy wear. He wore the same thing every time I saw him play in concert and in every photograph I’d seen him in for 50 years, a denim western pearl snap shirt and faded blue jeans with that brown leather belt with an oversized brass ring. The leather of his belt doubled-backed further across his chest in later years when his health declined and he became thinner.

I bought the belt that day in California and wear it regularly still. Billy’s songs, that I have listened to on vinyl, cassette tape, and digital files, remain in regular rotation on my stereo where he’ll live forever.

“Just like the songs I leave behind me I'm gonna live forever now” – Live Forever, Billy Joe Shaver

Photo of Billy Joe in Chicago, 1980 (top) by Kirk West.

[artificialqueens]

Galactica, Chapter 3 (Group Fic) - TheDane/Veronica

A/N: Hey darlings. Thanks for coming with us on this journey! (Again, for some of you. We are so grateful for your comments and feedback.) Click here for previous chapters. 💫

Last Chapter: We met Galactica’s senior creative team.

This Chapter: After a near disaster, Violet receives even more good news from Miss Fame.

***

Violet’s heels went clack, clack, clack as she ran down the corridor towards the design department of Galactica, her phone pressed to her ear.

It was Thursday morning, and Violet had once again barely gotten any sleep, and it was beyond unfair that she had to start the day with a shitshow.

One of their newer employees, brought on to help with their spring collection, had not shown up for her run through with Fame and Raja. Their spring collection show at New York Fashion Week was just under two months away, and while it seemed like a long time, it was close enough that Fame had started to get ansty over any and all delays.

The only reason Violet hadn’t been scalped was the fact that Trixie had been there to calm Fame down, Ivy sending her a long look of sympathy as she had practically sprinted out the door.

Violet turned the corner, finally reaching the design department and she grabbed the door, throwing it open with so much force it slammed into the wall.

An avalanche of sound hit her, designers working on prototypes left and right, the chatter of the men and women who worked in Trixie’s team washing over her.

“Where’s Gia?!”

Violet never raised her voice, yelling such an unfamiliar feeling, but it gave her the intended reaction. Everyone paused, sewing machines stopping, the floor falling completely silent.

She could feel the eyes of April on her, Blu sitting by Jovan’s desk. She saw Alexis stand by a dress form, and she felt her stomach clench when she realized that these would be her new coworkers, that she had essentially just kicked the door in to her new place of work, but then, at the back of the room, Gia raised her hand, and Violet zoomed in.

Violet walked through the department, men and women parting for her like she was crossing the Red Sea. Gia was standing with her hand on a clothing rack, Aiden so close to her it was clear the two had been caught up in conversation.

“Do you realize-” Violet hissed, “that you were supposed to be in Fame’s office 10 minutes ago?”

“I’m-” Gia’s eyes widened, all color disappearing from her face. “Isn’t the meeting at-”

“No.” Violet cut her off, not giving Gia any chance to explain. “No it’s not.”

“Shit-” Blu muttered, and Violet knew that she had to look terrifying. She felt terrifying, and powerful, and like she was ready to tear out Gia’s earring.

“Do you know what happens when Fame is disappointed in you?”

It wasn’t often that she took on this role, but as an assistant, as Fame’s assistant, she wasn’t just the gatekeeper of her boss’ office, wasn’t just the one who decided who got Fame’s time and who didn’t, she was also the executioner when someone failed, and Gia had done exactly that.

“Violet-” Gia choked out, the woman looking like she was genuinely about to cry, “I’m so sorry-”

Violet made a ‘zip it’ gesture, effectively shutting Gia up. “Run right now-” Violet pointed at the door, “if you want to have any chance at not getting fired.”

“Do you think she’s going to fire me?!” Gia’s voice went up, her tone nearing hysterics, and while Violet was still furious about what Gia’s misstep would mean for her entire day, she couldn’t help but feel compassion towards the woman who had only made a mistake.

“I don’t know,” Violet sighed, gently touching Gia’s arm. “She’s not happy-” Gia bit her lip, her eyes wide and frightened. “Now run!”

Gia pushed past her, disappearing at lightning speed towards the elevator, the rack behind her rolling so fast Violet could hear the wheels squeak.

The door closed, and after a few seconds the first buzz of a sewing machine pierced through the stunned silence. Before Violet had time to blink, the department was back in full swing, everyone talking as if nothing had happened at all.

Violet felt hot, the perfectly steamed dress she had put on this morning no longer crease-free, and if she was truly lucky her carefully applied eyeliner hadn’t run while she’d taken the stairs two at a time.

Gia’s fuck-up meant that Fame would be behind on her schedule all day and therefore in a terrible mood which Violet would have to deal with, on top of her meeting with HR since the posting for her replacement was finally ready to go online.

Violet looked at the clock on the wall, time ticking by. She did a quick calculation in her head, her lip between her teeth. Gia would have to take the long way around with the rack, and if Violet took a shortcut through marketing, she still had five minutes before she needed to get back to work.

The rest of her morning would most likely be spent being invisible in Fame’s office, her and Ivy standing side by side as they did whatever their bosses needed of them.

Violet felt something cold press against her cheek, and she jumped, a loud, happy laugh surprising her.

She turned towards the sensation, and there, right in front of her, was a blonde woman with a brilliant smile and some of the whitest teeth Violet had ever seen, a bottle of water in hand.

“Here.” The woman held it out, and Violet hadn’t even realized she was thirsty, her body still hot from all the anxiety it had been through.

Violet had gotten better about people yelling at her, but it could still shake her to the core if she was caught on the wrong foot.

“Thank you…” Violet took the bottle, the woman vaguely familiar to her, and then, it clicked. “Oh! You’re, you’re Katya Zama- Zamol-” Violet realized that she had no idea how to actually pronounce the last name she had cursed at every single time she had been made to add it to a guest list. “You’re Trixie’s girlfriend.”

“I am.” Katya nodded, her blue eyes shining with mischief. “Drink.”

Violet quickly did as Katya asked, the cold water beyond delicious.

“Are you feeling okay?”

“I-” Violet paused. She had never been asked that after yelling at someone, most employees at Galactica absolutely preferring to ignore it as best they could when they got chewed out by an assistant who was below them in every other way. “Umh.”

“I’ve been where you are,” Katya leaned against the table. “Believe it or not, but I was Fame’s assistant for about four months once.

Violet didn’t, in fact, believe her. “You’ve worked for Fame?”

Katya was wearing a fuzzy brown skirt and a blue cardigan that Violet was pretty sure had little cloud buttons holding it together. Her blonde hair was collected in a messy bun, the sides decorated with small hair clips of various animals in gold.

“Worst time of my life.” Katya smiled. “I teach first grade now.” She pointed at Violet. “You have a little-”

Shit. Violet had completely forgotten about her eyeliner. She was about to apologize, when Katya clicked open a bag that was sitting on the table. It was a giant glitter hand, the nails all painted red.

“Here.” Katya handed Violet an eyeliner, and while she would never normally take cosmetics from someone who was essentially a stranger, time was ticking away. Katya handed her a mirror too, the back of it a teddy bear in bright blue.

“Thank you.” Violet bit her lip as she freshened up her eyes.

“No problem.” Katya smiled, her white teeth shining. “Just tell Trix I’m waiting for him, and that he better be ready for some serious slushie time.”

***

Violet was, of course, back at her desk by the time Fame’s meeting with Gia ended, giving the designer a glare as she slunk from Fame’s office, then changing her expression instantly once Trixie and Raja stepped through the door, giving them both polite smiles.

“Violet!”

Violet paused. Had Fame seen the stink eye she had thrown in Gia’s direction? While Fame had shown her pleasure with Violet’s work when she had offered her the promotion to design, that didn’t mean that she wasn’t going to blame her for Gia being late and tear her a new one. Violet quickly collected  her things, cursing under her breath as she hurried into Fame’s office.

“Yes, Miss?” Violet asked, notebook in hand, pen out to write down whatever information she hoped would be thrown her way.

“Sit down,” Fame ordered, pointing to the chair opposite her desk, her expression inscrutable, hands folded.

Violet obeyed instantly, a chill running down her spine. Fame looked serious, really serious, and Violet wondered for a moment if the Gia debacle would be enough to pull her transfer off the table. It was only her years as a teenage working professional that kept her face passive, her body shifting into it’s on stage position as she took a deep breath through her nose, masking any worry in her expression.

“Are you aware that Patrick and I own property in Kips Bay?”

Confused by the question, Violet nodded her head slowly. What did that have to do with Gia?

“Yes, has there been some sort of prob-”

“It’s a lovely little building, a restored 20-unit walk-up,” Fame continued like Violet hadn’t spoken at all. “I reserve a portion of the units for Galactica employees whom I consider to be very promising. At reduced rents, of course.”

“Oh.” Were they moving someone in? Fame had never asked her for help with anything like this before, but Violet was sure she could manage a cleaning crew or hiring a builder or finding an interior designer if that was what Fame needed.

She moved her pen towards her paper, when Fame dropped the bomb.

“A one-bedroom unit on the top floor has just become vacant, and I’d like to offer it to you.”

Violet���s eyes widened. Was Fame seriously offering her an apartment?

“The building manager can show you photos and answer any questions you might have. I expect an answer by the end of the day. These apartments don’t remain vacant for long.”

“Yes, Miss, I- of course, I-” Violet wanted to ask about rent, her gut swirling with emotions.

“If you accept, she can arrange the movers for you as well, likely as early as this weekend if you so choose.”

Fame slid a card over the table, the name of the building and a phone number on it, and Violet took it. “I-”

“That’s all.”

Fame’s tone clearly dismissed her, and while Violet had no idea what to do about Fame’s offer, she knew that she had been excused from the office.

She stood up, clutching the card in her hand, the piece of paper feeling like a golden ticket.  Violet raced to her desk, grabbing her phone and dialing the number before the door to Fame’s office had fully closed, Fame watching her with a satisfied smirk on her face.  

***

Pearl was sitting with her computer on her lap, one of her legs up on her desk. Her office had a giant glass panel, but Pearl didn’t mind if her coworkers and employees saw her in positions like this.

She had nothing to hide from them, and Pearl liked that they could see when she was in, even if it wasn’t always in the most flattering positions.

It was part of her management style since she didn’t care how her people got their job done, it just had to be finished on time.

Pearl was making a note, when she heard a quiet clack of heels, the faint scent of lavender hitting her nose.

“Hello Violet.” Pearl looked over her shoulder, and she was exactly right. Fame’s assistant was standing in the door, looking as stunning as ever.

“What are you watching?”

Violet was wearing a tailored knee length silk dress, small embroidered flowers in light purple  sneaking up the skirt. She was holding a thick folder, and Pearl was pretty sure it would contain the show decisions Fame, Raja and Trixie had made earlier in the day.

“Last year’s ready to wear.” Pearl smiled, holding her hand out so Violet could give her the folder. Their fingers touched briefly, the smallest blush of pink dusting itself over Violet’s cheeks. “Order from the big boss herself.”

Fame had called Pearl, a hint of unease in her voice when she had asked her to comb through the back catalog. Pearl hadn’t seen any reason to, what little she had seen on stage design, music choices and modeling profiles not a direct replica of anything they had done before, but as she was going through their footage, she guessed she could see where Fame’s concern came from, their newest collection fitting almost too perfectly in with their company profile.

“Ah.” Violet bit her lip. “It was a good one. Last year I mean. The use of wool really fit the tailoring.”

Pearl loved listening to Violet talk, although if the black-haired girl was blabbering, it was almost certainly related to fashion. She liked how Violet never raised her voice, how you had to concentrate, look at her, actively pay attention if you wanted to catch everything she was saying.

“I still need to watch the rest of this, and resort.” Pearl smirked, hoping she could win Violet over with her charm. It wasn’t the worst task she’d had, to watch the old shows, but it would be a whole lot more fun with Violet by her side. “There’s champagne in the fridge? If you want to join me?”

“Me?” Violet looked surprised for a moment, and Pearl wondered if she had imagined all the times she could have sworn she had caught Violet blushing when their fingers brushed together.

“I-” Violet bit her lip, twisting her wrist to look at her watch.

Pearl was actually worried if she would be rejected, when Violet opened her mouth.

“I actually have to pack.”

Jackpot. No one said no like that unless they were actually interested.

“I’m sure it can wait for 30 minutes. This is work as well.”

“It’s private, not work.”

“You’re moving?” Pearl stood up, walking towards her mini fridge. “Where to?”

“A new apartment.”

Pearl waited for Violet to say more, but when nothing came, she couldn’t keep back a laugh, Violet startling at the sudden sound. It was painfully typical of Violet not to offer up any information in casual conversation, but it was also endearingly hilarious.

“Oh Vivi.” Pearl smiled, taking a bottle. “You’re truly one of a kind.”

“Don't call me Vivi.”

Pearl turned around, and she noticed with deep satisfaction that Violet’s cheeks were the loveliest red.

“Let’s toast to your move.”

“That won’t be necessary-”

“I insist.” Pearl smiled. “Besides, it’d be sad if I drank this bottle alone, and you wouldn’t want me to be sad, would you?”

“I suppose not.” Violet was twisting a strand of her hair, an unsure but happy look in her eyes. It was adorable to see a crack in the normally stoic woman, and Pearl wanted to melt her away. She quickly poured two glasses, handing one to Violet, their fingers touching again.

She knew she was standing unnecessarily close, but she clinked their glasses together, the scent of lavender strong in her nose.

“To new beginnings, Vivi!”

[myevilmouse]

In Defense of The Rise of Skywalker

Or...how I learned to stop hating and enjoy a movie

Spoilers and random thoughts below the cut.

I hate the abomination that was/is The Last Jedi.  Let’s get that out of the way.  I’ve already explained the hundreds of reasons why, the biggest and most unforgivable being the character assassination of Luke “I call him Jake” Skywalker and the invalidation of every victory of the OT.  I resent this making people lump me into a “gatekeeper” sect, or accuse me of racism (Rose was annoying and ruined Finn’s heroism, jeopardizing hundreds of lives for her own selfish reasons without building up a convincing romance and blah blah etc).  It has nothing to do with her gender, race, or anything.  It has to do with poor character development and inconsistent motivations/messages. 

I’m also not a huge fan of The Force Awakens, mainly for its lack of originality and the treatment of Han/Leia, but otherwise I thought it was OK.  I liked Finn, wanted him to become a Jedi, found Poe to be a worthy heir to our antihero mold.  Rey left me indifferent and Kylo Ren was a temper-tantrum throwing teenager, but anyway...

Let’s keep that as background/context and not get bogged down.

Since they announced the title of this movie, I have been livid with rage. How dare they use my man’s name to sell their disgusting imitation of a beloved universe?  I was certain, ever since it was announced, that Rey would take Luke’s surname, despite having treated him so horribly in TLJ, despite having done nothing to earn it, despite having spent far more time with Leia, so if anything a Solo/Organa family name would make more sense.  It was just to sell tickets and I was furious.

I read all the spoilers.  Worst fears:  confirmed.  I looked at leaked photos.  I raged over the inanity of the plot and the sad conclusion to the Skywalker Saga, which in my mind will always end with ROTJ.

Still, I love Mark Hamill, and I decided to treat this film as a MH film. The completist in me required theatrical viewing.  Rare to get our man in a cinematic release.  So I went, ready to hate watch, prepared to dull the bitterness and betrayal with wine.

But….JJ Abrams directed a fix it fic.  And it’s good.  This film not just address the real injustices and horrible story decisions of TLJ, but also addresses some of the major problems of TFA too. 

I tried to go in with an open mind, but obviously I had many preconceived notions, and already knew almost every single story point and character beat.  I was ready to roll around in my hate and slam the abomination.  I want to emphasize that I am one of those people that was COMPLETELY prepared to hate EVERYTHING about this.

There are flaws. 

But there is so much that is great. 

I really really liked it. 

No one is more shocked than I at my own reaction.  I was ready/willing/wanting/primed to hate everything about this.  Please keep that in mind.  Hahah and no one is paying me to write this post 😉

I decided to write this because I also read all the negative critical reviews online from the pro critics yelling FAN SERVICE.  And I’m like…damn straight?  Ever since George Lucas made Han shoot second, fandom has understood that we understand this franchise better than film executives.  We aren’t concerned with adding an extra dewback or improving special effects.  We love these films the way we first experienced them, and they cannot and should not be “improved” to the ultimate detriment of the brand.

I’m here to tell you that the critics are not being fair.  The spoilers on reddit were true, but the movie works. Let’s accept, before we go further, that Abrams couldn’t entirely rewrite the mess that he stepped into/helped create. So I can’t defend the fact that Finn isn’t a Jedi yet or the mess that is the new Rebellion/failure of the old. I, like many fans, wish we had been given a different/better story from the beginning.  Sadly, we were not.

That is something we don’t have to accept (I certainly don’t consider these films “canon” in my mind—Mara Jade forever!) but let’s approach this film in the spirit it seems to be intended:  An attempt to address the very valid criticisms loudly voiced about the others in the trilogy, with the caveat that we are stuck with TFA and TLJ no matter how much we hate them.

First, the music is amazing, as we all knew it would be.  The acting is stellar.

Some of the things Abrams “fixed:”

“Rey is perfect/Mary Sue/good at everything”.  There is a conscious effort in this film to show her training, with Leia as her Master.  There is a good scene foreshadowing her final struggle, where she strains to hear the voices of Jedi past and fails.  There are several signs that she is not a Jedi yet, including how Palpatine talks about her, and perhaps my favorite, when she tells Leia she hasn’t earned Luke’s lightsaber.

Me: Damn straight you haven’t.

And Leia AGREES, keeping Luke’s weapon because Rey isn’t ready for it. She’s still learning.

Further proof of her non-Jedi status, when Rey is killed, she doesn’t join the Force.  She is a corpse.  On the other hand, Ben Solo, once redeemed, disappears as we would expect a good Jedi to do.  A clear distinction between the two of them.

And speaking of Leia:

Leia’s character:  TFA and TLJ Leia is weak and sends other people to fight, whereas our brave Princess from the OT is volunteering for suicide missions, grabbing weapons from the hands of her rescuers, and running into danger for a good cause.  It always bothered me that she didn’t go after Kylo herself (or with Han).  In this, we see her as a Jedi Master, training Rey, with her own lightsaber.  Leia is once more a badass, true to her character.  A legitimate Jedi who also joins the Force (although not sure why it took her so long post-mortem, that was weird).

Luke’s character:  Hello, I am A LUKE FANATIC.  The biggest sin of TFA and especially TLJ was this idea of Luke hiding out and becoming the disgusting, pessimistic coward he was shown to be.  Abrams ignores this pretty much entirely, starting with the revelation that Luke was actually going on missions with Lando to hunt for a Sith artifact to help the Rebellion.  Luke kept notes, he was busy and ACTIVE.  He wasn’t giving up; he was leaving a trail to help anyone who followed.  The best ‘fuck you’ in the whole movie was Luke catching Anakin’s lightsaber when Rey throws it away.  The ultimate rejection of his TLJ characterization.  

Luke’s conversation with Rey echoes very much the ROTJ “you must confront Vader” conversation.  There are many echoes of ROTJ but given the restrictions on what we are working with, I accepted this parallel.  Much like Luke had to face his unfortunate inheritance, so must Rey.  It’s not terribly original, but these films aren’t.

I also loved the simple line “I was wrong” when Rey asks why he did what he did in TLJ.  This to me is simply “Rian Johnson was wrong/The Last Jedi was wrong.”  There is no excuse that is acceptable, but this is a filmmaker acknowledging an injustice, and I appreciated it.  (Did I mention these films are not canon for me? They aren’t, just giving credit for this attempt.)

Han’s character:  I hated SO MUCH how they turned Han into a failure in TFA.  A buffoon, not even a good smuggler anymore, a failure as a father, a husband.  When I heard he was going to be in this I was like HUH?  But this “memory” of his father that Kylo Ren sees after Rey heals him and departs, after he’s lost his mother, is another attempt to redeem the injustice to Han’s character.  Han is the one in the movie who brings Kylo Ren back to the Light, not Rey.  It is a very short scene, but effective.  The acting is poignant, with the “Dad” working for me.  Maybe I’m a softie.  But I appreciated this brief proof that Han Solo, in the end, didn’t suck as a father, and ultimately, even as a hallucination, inspired the love that saved his son.

Chewbacca got a medal:  I said Abrams was fixing things in the sequels, but I admit I was choked up to see this fixit from A New Hope.  Finally Chewie gets the medal he is LONG overdue.

Team dynamic with the new characters:  Finally we understand why these people care about each other.  They go on shared adventures, they have banter (and some good jokes, not the stupid bathos of TLJ), and there is finally some sense of camaraderie that was discarded in TLJ.  There are several references to Rey’s “new family,” clearly referring to this band of Rebels, and it was far more compelling than in earlier films.

Finn’s Force Sensitivity:  I, like many, desperately wanted Finn to be a Jedi.  Since TFA, it seemed inevitable!  I loved how he used the lightsaber, how he seemed to have Force abilities (that were never really explored).  TLJ ignored that potential completely, sidelining him on that stupid Canto Bight quest and pulling him away from Rey.  There are so many signs that he is destined to be a Jedi in this film, I was thrilled to see them.  Knowing things without explanation, doing amazing things, sensing things, trusting his feelings, it’s another ‘fuck you’ in my opinion, to RJ for ignoring this former stormtrooper’s destiny in favor of overblown set pieces and pointless CGI theatrics.  When he says, towards the end “I can feel it,” I wanted to fist pump.  YOU GO BE A JEDI FINN!  THE FORCE IS WITH YOU.  Personally, I would have loved for Finn to be the main protagonist of all three films, but I appreciate us getting what we got, since we can’t get what we want.

Stuff that worked:

The Wedge cameo:  Yeah.

Lando:  Wonderful. His dialogue, especially at the beginning, does a lot to fix our view of Luke.

Kylo’s redemption:  See above re: Han.  I’ve seen a lot of criticism about the kiss.  I get the whole “female character’s purpose is to validate the evolution of the male” criticism, but I want to point out a couple things about this. First of all, it’s not a “Reylo” kiss. Kylo is gone.  This is well after Kylo is redeemed.  He’s been of the Light for a while before this, it’s clearly Ben at this point.  It’s also obvious Rey knows that, and like Luke forgave Vader for his abuse, she forgives Ben Solo for his.  So I understand also the criticism that is making people puke about Rey kissing her abuser, but again, Luke sheds tears for the father he loves, who maimed and traumatized him.  Star Wars is about redemption and forgiveness that accompanies it, and I don’t have the same issue with this.  If she kissed KYLO without him being redeemed before he died, for example, I would be disgusted.  This is not that.

The cinematography/pacing/story:  So many critics and the spoilers made it sound like this was a convoluted mess.  I went to see it with a non-native English speaker and neither of us had any trouble following the plot.  Yeah, a lot happens, but it all is linear and consistent within the film.

The humor/dialogue:  Felt way more Star Wars-y and better placed than the last two films.

The Jedi Helping Rey:  As much as I thought I would hate this, it was really well done, largely, I think, due to the foreshadowing during her earlier training.  When Palpatine says all the Sith live in him and we know what she’s gonna say but it still works SO WELL.  I was rooting for her and I’ve never been a huge fan.  But at that climactic moment, I was a believer.

Major flaws

Of course there are some.  For me the most major:

A Jedi Strikes Not In Anger: In every single lightsaber battle (pretty sure, I only saw the film once), Rey is the first to strike.  She always seems to be fighting from anger and with negative emotion.  This is not at all Jedi-esque and I found it particularly jarring in her duels with Kylo Ren.  This bothered me more than almost anything else in the film because it is never addressed.  She fights ANGRY and she fights FEARFUL and then somehow when she’s supposed to strike down Palpatine, she has it in her to resist.  This, above all else, makes me not like her as the “heir to the Jedi”.  I thought it was a real problem, and makes her ultimate evolution at the finale less convincing.

Rey Skywalker:  I get why they did it, but I stand by my earlier thoughts regarding taking the Solo or Organa name.  I have nothing against adopted families.  And I found it SLIGHTLY more palpable because since the Emperor refers to Ben as “the last Skywalker” and then since he transfers his entire life force into her, you can argue that she has “Skywalker” literally in her spirit now.  OK fine.  But I still don’t really think she earned it.  She came CLOSER than I thought she would and I didn’t ultimately want to burn down the cinema as I expected I would want to.

Force Resurrection:  No. Just no.  This changes so much and makes so much of the earlier films moot. Why wouldn’t Anakin just resurrect Padme?  Don’t get me started.

Other random new Force things:  Like Force Ghosts touching shit.  Yeah I know Obi Wan sat on the tree in Dagobah, I know, but we keep learning new and more powerful Force shit each film.  Teleportation of objects (that lightsaber?!), astral projection, rapid healing, and now playing catch with your ghost friends.  I get they are important to the story but it feels lazy.  But my exception here was Luke catching the saber because FUCK YOU RJ. 😊

Redemption=Death:  I wanted Kylo Ren to die for his sins too, but I recognize this strange thing we have going on in the GFFA that if a baddie goes good they die.  It’s the equivalent of the horror movie “fuck and the killer gets you” trope.  I didn’t necessarily mind Ben dying, but it seemed … lazy.

The final shot:  It was a mistake to even touch this iconic moment.  It wasn’t earned.  Make your own legend/iconic moment and leave my farmboy his.

Something no one can fix:  The sucky destinies of Luke Jake, Han, and Leia.  They didn’t live happy lives, they didn’t see the end of tyranny, they all died with only the hope of success.  I will never forgive the attempted destruction of the legacy of the OT (attempted cause it’s still how it all ends in my world), this disregard of the triumph of the Rebellion over the Empire, and I will never believe that the New Republic failed so completely and miserably.  Bring on the EU/Legends and forget this shit.

Final thought:  I went to this expecting the cinematic equivalent of a back alley abortion and instead I got what felt like an apology.  An entertaining and polished and sincere apology.  We deserved better, and I think the people who made this film realized that and did their best.  TROS had to wrap up something that was divisive and imperfect and misguided, and tried as hard as it could, in my opinion, given what they were working with.

It was a good movie.  Ambitious, with flaws, but I am glad I saw it, and I hope you will be too. <3  May the Force be with you.

[gaytonystark]

In The Light Part 2

Pairing: Loki x Reader Words: 2,144 A/N: Sooooo part 3 is already underway and I hope you all like this part!

Part 1

“Are you insane?” Tony couldn’t believe what he was hearing when Thor suggested sending you to Asgard to finish your training and rightfully so. “We can’t just ship her off to your demented brother!”

“Loki is not as he was when you last saw him. He’s changed and I wouldn’t trust him with this if I thought he would betray me.” Thor looked at you warmly and you flashed an encouraging smile at him. “This may be our-her only opportunity to make the best of her abilities.”

“Thor, I know he’s your brother, but this can’t possibly be the best option.” Natasha said, trying to reason with the god. “We’ve got state of the art facilities here that we can reinforce-”

“So that she can destroy it a bit slower? Y/N has powers that you here on Midgard are unable to accommodate. We cannot punish her for something she has not yet learned to control.” Thor tried to reason with them but it felt like it was all falling on deaf ears.

“She’s not being punished!” Tony snapped as he squared his shoulders immediately taking offense to what he said. “We have given her everything to keep her safe which is something you seem to have forgotten about.”

“There is nowhere safer in the Nine Realms than my home world. I can guarantee her safety and she’ll finally be able to understand the full extent of her powers.”

It seemed as though the whole team had their own opinions about your future. You had stayed quiet throughout the whole argument, but the time had come for you to finally say something. Your attempts to interject were ignored while everyone argued their point so it was time to make them listen to you. A flash of light emanated from your hands and stopped everyone in the middle of their rants.

“Hey! Has anyone bothered to ask me what I want to do?” You shouted over Earth’s Mightiest Heroes as they blinked repeatedly trying to get rid of the temporary blindness. “Because the only person who has even tried to hear me out is Thor.” You had their attention and after letting out a shaky breath, you continued. “Yeah my reaction was very similar when he said Loki would essentially be looking after me, but that sounds better than wrecking whatever’s left of the compound.”

“Y/N, we can cover the damage, it’s not a problem.” Tony said, rubbing his eyes profusely.

“Tony, you can’t keep cleaning up my mess. I know you’ll just keep rebuilding and I won’t get any better. Not to mention that one of these days someone’s gonna get hurt.” They all looked at you with brand new eyes and you were relieved that they had at least stop shouting at each other. “I appreciate everything that you have all done, I really do, but I honestly believe this is what’s best for me and the team.” Nobody said anything and you were scared you had taken it too far with the blinding light.

“But we’ll miss you.” Steve’s voice cut through the pregnant silence after your mini speech and you breathed a sigh of relief.

“I”ll miss you too, Spangles.” Your heart melted and it felt as though a huge weight had lifted off your shoulders. Steve stepped forward into your outstretched arms and squeezed you tight. The rest of the team joined in and pretty soon you were in the middle of a super group hug. “I’ll miss all of you. This won’t be easy for me either, having to leave the first place that’s actually felt like home.”

“It’s not like we won’t be here when you get back.” Said Clint as they began to pull away and you could have sworn you saw a tear escape his left eye before he quickly wiped it away. “If you want to come back at all.”

“Of course I'll come back, like I said-this is my home. As soon as I trust myself enough to use my powers properly Thor will open up the rainbow bridge so I can come home, right Point Break?”

“Absolutely. The moment you are ready, I'll be honored to lead you back.” Thor bowed his head respectfully and everyone breathed a little easier.

“So, when do you leave?” Wanda asked the question no one wanted an answer to.

“I've made the necessary accommodations back in Asgard so we can have Heimdall open the Bifrost to grant us passage whenever Y/N is ready to leave.” Thor gave you a reassuring look and squeezed your shoulder.

“Well then I think we should go sooner rather than later.” You said decisively, not realizing just how fast this all was happening. “Do I need to pack anything?”

“The necessities and more will be provided to you so you can ‘fit in’ as you say.” Thor put the words in air quotes and you stifled a giggle. “But you're welcome to bring anything you'd like.”

“Yeah I'll just pack a bag and we can go.” You turned to look at the rest of the team with slightly solemn eyes. “I guess this is goodbye.”

“You're not even gonna let me throw you a going away party?” Tony scoffed as he engulfed you in another hug.

Flashes of the last Tony Stark party you attended almost made you sick to your stomach all over again. “No because I'd like to go to Asgard with a healthy liver.”

“Your loss.” Said Natasha as she pushed him aside to hug you too. “It's not gonna be the same without you.”

“You guys won't even remember me by the time I get back.” You said jokingly but truthfully you already couldn't wait to come back and be totally in control of your powers.

The rest of the goodbyes were as heart wrenching as you had anticipated. You went back to your room to stuff your backpack with a few mementos and some other stuff to get you by. Something told you Asgard wouldn't have your favorite shade of liquid lipstick so you threw it in with everything else. Along with that, were photos of you and the team and a necklace with a quartz gem hanging on the chain that Steve had given you. In no time you had your bag packed with the important stuff and met Thor outside where he was waiting for you.

“Are you ready, Y/N?”

“Ready as I'll ever be.” You said and the nerves must have been all over your face because Thor laid a reassuring hand on your shoulder.

“There's no need to be nervous, Y/N, you have my word that no harm will come to you and Loki will be an excellent teacher.”

“You're right, this will be fine. Everything will be fine.” You said more to convince yourself than anything else.

He wrapped a meaty arm around your small shoulders and thrusted Mjolnir into the air to signal the Bifrost. The portal opened and you were sucked into the stars. It felt like your body was being stretched all over the galaxy and your brain was being pulled apart. The trip may have only been seconds but it felt like much longer. Thor stepped into the entrance to Asgard with his arm still firmly wrapped around you and you gasped at the view.

Glistening towers shone on the horizon and the crystal clear water waved calmly beneath you. The setting sun only added to the majesty of everything you were seeing. The trip and the sight before you left you absolutely breathless.

“Greetings, Odinson.” Heimdall, the legendary gatekeeper of Asgard who you had heard about from Thor, greeted his friend warmly.

“Heimdall, thank you for granting us passage.” Thor said as he let go so you could get your bearings. “Y/N, are you alright?” He asked because you were still staring slack jawed at the amazing city.

“Totally.” You said breathlessly.

“Excellent and welcome to Asgard. This will be your home until you decide you are ready to return and please, take as much time as you need.” He led you out farther onto the bridge leading to the city where a pair of horses were waiting for you. “I will take you to where you are staying then on to the feast!”

“Feast? Thor there’s really no need-”

“Nonsense! You being here is cause for celebration!” He said as he helped you onto your horse. “And you will finally meet Sif and The Warriors Three. It'll be a grand event!” Thor mounted his horse and led yours to your new home before you had a chance to protest further.

Asgard was so much more breathtaking up close. Everywhere you looked was another wonder to behold and you couldn't tear your eyes away. If Thor hadn't been leading your horse you might have gotten lost just looking at all the amazing things. Finally you arrived at the palace that would be your home and it towered intimidatingly above you. People all around looked up at you upon your arrival, or rather they looked at your friend then gave you a slightly confused look before turning their attention back. However, their strange looks couldn't possibly deflate your giddy mood.

“Thor, this is incredible!” You dismounted your horse with only minimal difficulty, but your eyes couldn't leave the gorgeous castle.

“I'm glad you like it,” Thor said, a pleased smile on his face, “I know it's not the compound but I hope you'll be happy here for the time being. Come along, I'll show you to your room.”

Thor led you down a myriad of hallways and it seemed like there were people everywhere. They all walked with such purpose and confidence that made you want to be just like them. You squared your shoulders and walked with a little more umph in your step because this was where you belonged now. Thor walked you down another grand hallway until he stopped at an ornate door and threw it open. Your new room was floor to ceiling gold and even more ornate decor was all over the walls.

“I asked that they make it fit for a warrior of Asgard.” Thor broke you out of your trance and you picked your jaw up off the floor.

“It's-I can't-you didn't-I mean thank you so much, Thor.” You were at a loss for words, which you figured would be happening often, and struggled to find the right words to show your appreciation.

“There is nothing to thank me for, Y/N, I only ask for your happiness in return.”

“You definitely got it because this is amazing!” You walked around the incredibly done up room, still in complete awe. “Honestly, Thor, I still can't believe this is happening.”

“Neither can I and yet here we all are.” Loki, the legendary god of mischief was leaning against the doorframe, eyeing you disinterestedly.

“Brother! You made it!” Thor wrapped his huge arms around his brother and Loki squirmed out of his intense grasp.

“Of course I made it, you had three guards follow me to make sure I didn't abandon you and your new pet.” He looked at you slightly disdainfully before returning his brooding gaze to Thor.

“All the same I'm happy to see you!” Said Thor, completely blinded by his love for his brother to see his sour attitude. “And so is Y/N, aren't you?”

“You could say that.” You said, eyeing the God of Mischief and sizing him up as best you could.

“Come now, you'll be better acquainted at the feast in honor of Y/N’s arrival!” Thor ushered Loki out of your doorway and he looked over his shoulder at you for longer than you were comfortable with. “Y/N, garments for tonight's festivities have been left for you! Lady Sif will accompany you to the Grand Hall when you're ready!”

He shut the door to give you some privacy and you found the clothes he mentioned. They were nothing like what you were used to, but you somehow managed to figure how everything was supposed to fit. You looked in one of the many reflective surfaces and saw a goddess. It was the first time you looked in a mirror saw yourself as something other than a destructive little girl. This was your chance to start new and be more than you ever thought possible. You already looked the part, now you just had to prove it to yourself that it could be done.

“Y/N, it’s time, are you ready?” Sif’s kind voice came from the door after a gentle knock.

“Yeah, I’m ready!” You tore your eyes away from your reflection and you saw the bright light that had left your eyes so long ago. “Let’s go.”

It was finally gonna be your time in the light.

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Just For This Fic:

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[hamleftme]

Gatekeeper

Comments: This fic got really hard to write at some points but I think that a story of hope needs to be spread. Before you read this you should go watch this to get how I got the idea for this fic and really where most of this fic ends up. The song that you sing is this.

Pairing:LafayettexReader

Warnings: rape noncon and cursing.

Song inspiration?: Gatekeeper-Jessie Reyez

Words :2163

You had just finished you're shift at the bar when a friend of a friend invited you out.

“Y/N sweetie how are you?” Maria asked you as you pulled you're jacket on.

“I’m fine everything's going great” You said smiling

“Look I know this guy real big in music and he’s throwing a party tonight I think you should come” She said as she linked you're arm.

“I dunno I’m not really big on parties.” You said sighing “and plus I have nothing to wear I’m not going to a party looking like this.”

“I have a dress in the car come on please” She said pulling you in the direction of where her car was parked. “And think of the music this guy Ozzy is real big in music come on” she said practically pushing you into the car. You changed halfway to Ozzy’s party into the tight fitting grey dress. As she pulled up to the party you noticed how low key this party was besides Maria’s car there were only two more. As you ran up the stairs you were met by Ozzy.

“Sweetheart this is Y/N she’s an artist she’s my plus one” Maria said planting a kiss on his cheek.

“Y/N come on in” Ozzy said as he wrapped his arm around you're waist.

“Ozzy you're big in music but please watch you're arm.” You said brushing his arm off of you're waist.

“Ok shordy I respect dat’ but please Maria says you're an artist lemme hear sum” He said smirking.

“I dunno I’m not really- I can’t really think of anything” You said blushing.

“Do figures love” Maria said as she hung off some guy.

“Yea love do figures” Ozzy said smirking.

You sighed “Figures I gave you ride or die and you gave me games Love figures I know I'm crying 'cause you just won't change. Love figures. I gave it all and you gave me shit. Love figures. I wish I could do exactly what you did” You sang as you finished you heard one set of claps.

Clap

Clap

Clap

“Let’s go Y/N were skipping this spot” Ozzy said wrapping his arm around you're waist and this time you didn’t push him off as he walked you back to the car you asked him a question.

“Are you taking me to the studio?” You asked smiling as you got into the car.

“I’m taking you to my house” he said his hand sliding up you skirt. You tired to move it but his hand was stuck to you're thigh.

“Come on Ozzy let go” you said pulling his hand off which he finally let go.

“Don’t you fuckin get it! Do you know that 30 million people want a shot at what you're getting right now, think of me as a gatekeeper ad think of me getting you as me giving you the key. So just cool it and let me” Ozzy said putting his hand back on your thigh.

“Ozzy ple-”

“The keys shorty don’t forget ” He said.

One year later. You and Ozzy had become a big ticket item and as he promised he got you fame but not without consequence for you at home. You two had moved in together and got engaged.

8:00 pm after a performance:

“Y/N baby we looked so good out there and that performance it was great” Ozzy said smiling as you got out of the car, flooded by paparazzi as you entered your shared house. Moments like this you liked when Ozzy wasn’t being a mean an abusive fiance that you cherished the most and that convinced you to stay with him. As you closed the door behind you and closed all of the blinds so the paparazzi couldn’t get a view into you're personal life. You heard Ozzy plop down onto the couch.

“Y/N get you're successful ass over here I want to chill with my soon to be wife” Ozzy said

“Who says I’m going to be you're wife?” You asked taking a seat next to him. He put his arm around you neck and kissed you're cheek.

“Now to finish the night off” He smirked as he grabbed the bottle of vodka off a table next to you and started chugging it. You knew tonight wouldn’t be good, when Ozzy started drinking he couldn’t be controlled he was drinking the night you met him, soon after he first proposed and now today.

“Oz please cut it with the drinks. You can’t really hold alcohol that well” You said trying to grab the bottle from him. That when you felt it the first punch right to you're cheek which knocked you over then another one to you're eye then another to you're mouth after about 5 more punches you  couldn’t feel anything you were still conscious but you couldn’t feel anything. He finally got off of you and walked back over to the couch. You laid there sobbing for about 5 minutes before Ozzy yelled

“Cut you're whining slut I’m trying to watch the game” He took another sip of vodka that’s when you knew you had to get out of there you knew it would get much worse from there. As you pulled yourself together you grabbed you're phone from right next to you t must of fallen out of you're hand when he- you couldn’t bring yourself to even think of it. As you stumbled down the stairs and opened you're door you thought of who to call when suddenly you saw a flash and look over. One of the paparazzi always staked out you're house hoping to get a glimpse of you or Ozzy. But as soon as he saw you he put his camera down and rushed over to you.

“Mademoiselle what has happened?” He asked walking over to you.

“Don’t post that photo” You said just before you fainted back into his arms.

Five days later. Ozzy’s hit had given you a brain bleed after the doctors went in and did surgery on it you fell into a coma for a little under a week.

“Ozzy?” You're voice sounded weak fralish. You heard someone yell for a doctor and before you knew it a swarm of doctors came in asking you to squeeze their hand or breathe into something, it was a little over 30 minutes before they let you have some peace.

“Ozzy? Where is my fiance?” You asked as you were sat up by a nurse.

“Look I don’t know anything about you but you're music so I’m not the person to ask try asking the man pacing the room” The nurse said as she walked out leaving you and the stranger in the room alone.

“Who are you?” You asked

“My name is Gilbert” The voice said “But I am known to friends as Lafayette” He said stepping into the light his hair was up in a bun and he was wearing a turtleneck jeans and a little pin of the american flag on his shirt.

“Where is Ozzy I need him?” You asked

“Why do you need Ozzy?” Lafayette asked as he stepped closer to you.

“He’s my almost husband and I love him” You said touching you're cheek the exact spot where he kissed you and then punched you.

“You still love the man that did this to you?” He asked handing you a mirror. You're eyes were puffy you're lips were busted and you're cheeks looked swollen.

“Where is Ozzy?” You asked pushing the mirror down.

“How can you be with a man who has done such vile things to you?”

“He holds my career in his hands. Can’t you see it? Without him I’d be nothing I owe it to him to stay!”

“With you're fame being so high another record company would surely take you”

“If I even try it Ozzy would erase me he owns basically all of the company’s in this business”

“We could find someone please just don’t go back to him” Lafayette pleaded.

You felt a single tear run down you're cheek “I- can you please just get Ozzy for me” You said

sighing.

“Fine” Lafayette said as he grabbed his stuff including his camera, right before he left he snapped a photo of you you're head leaned back on the bed the bandage covering you're incision and you're face in all it’s beat up glory.

“Baby girl” Ozzy said as he ran in through the door.

“Oz” you forced a smile on you're face.

“I’m so sorry I don’t know what got into me I just hate when you touch my liquor” He said touching you're face

“I know Oz it’s my fault I shouldn’t of touched it” you said looking away from him gazing out the window.

“Oh thank god. Now I’ve arranged to get you sent home today but only so that the paparazzi don’t see you looking like this” He said.

“Oz do I still have to perform tomorrow with you?” You asked somberly.

“What did I tell you? You have the keys to the gate now there is no closing it once it opens. Now come on where getting you sent through the back entrance” He said helping you into a wheelchair.

“Ozzy have you been with other women since I’ve been gone?” You asked as he pushed you onto the elevator.

“The gates have to open somehow right?” He responded simply. That night went like most did Ozzy through some party and since you're condition/ face hadn’t improved he locked you in the guest bedroom. But even from there you could hear the women come in and out of his room.

The night of the performance:

“Does she look normal?” Ozzy asked you're makeup artist as he walked into you're dressing room.

“She looks fine,basic,bland” She said

“So she looks normal?”

“Pretty much” The makeup artist said as she left.

“So we're changing our routine up a bit” Ozzy said sitting in a chair next to you.

“In the end instead of walking off the stage where gonna give them a nice long kiss alright?” He asked placing his hand on you're thigh. You flinched

“Are you sure?” You asked swallowing

“Yea shorty we needa show them that if anything were together.” He said

“One minute till show!” Someone yelled into you're room. As you got out of you're chair you hoped and prayed that everything would go fine and that t would work out. From the wings you heard the music play and someone shoved you onto stage, you found you're spot and then started singing.

“Twenty million dollars in a car.Girl, tie your hair up if you wanna be a star.Thirty million people want a shot. How much would it take for you to spread those legs apart?” You sang as the crowd erupted into cheering. And then Ozzy came on with his rap verse.

“Oh I'm the gatekeeper. Spread your legs.Open up.You could be famous.If you come up anywhere else, I'll erase you. Drink up, bitch, we got champagne by the cases Don't you know? Don't you know?We are the gatekeepers. Spread your legs. Open up. You could be famous.You know we're holding the dreams that you're chasing You know you're supposed to get drunk and get naked.” You sang you're part again and Ozzy rapped and soon enough the song was over and it was time for the dreaded kiss. You wanted to avoid it so naturally you walked over and took you're ending pose next to each other but instead of staying and doing the kiss you walked away. Or at least you tried to but he grabbed you're hand and pulled you back to him putting his hand on you're chin and lifting so he had a better angle to basically shove his tongue down you're throat on live tv. As the lights faded out you two walked off of stage and back to you're dressing room he was quiet which scared you because he tasted like alcohol when he kissed you. As you walked in he closed the door behind himself.

“So you think that was funny don’t you?” He asked taking his belt off.

“I don’t think anything is funny” You said backing yourself up against a wall. He came at you he wrapped his hand around you're throat and started choking you, he probably could've killed you if his phone and you're phone didn’t start blowing up. With his free hand he grabbed his phone and looked at the messages. He let you go and you collapsed onto the ground gasping for air.

“They have pictures” Ozzy said.

“Pictures of what?” You asked between gasps

“You're face. Somehow they know what I did”

[mostfacinorous]

stoki, arranged marriage/secret relationship au

“No.” 

“You can’t just say no and figure that’s the end of it, Rogers. We need this, and you’re the only one who fits the bill.” 

“This is America, isn’t it? We don’t have arranged marriages. And even if we did– isn’t this the job of a prince or a dignitary of some sort? I was raised in Brooklyn, flat broke. I’m not–”

“What you are is the leader of the Avengers, Earth’s Mightiest Heroes. And as such, the only ‘warrior’ we have that’s a fitting match for the prince of Asgard.” 

“Woah. Hold up– Prince?”  Steve felt his heart rate tick upwards, and he wondered if Fury knew, or guessed, or who else might have realized he wasn’t wholly straight. 

“The Prince apparently isn’t always a guy, but I leave that between the two of you to figure out. Asgard requested a man, our greatest warrior, and that’s you. We have an interstellar threat coming the likes of which we are laughably unprepared to match, and the best way for us to team up with the big guns out in space is for you to marry the king’s kid. Look at it as a marriage of necessity, if you must. Negotiate it so that it’s a mariage in name only– I don’t care. But for god’s sake, Rogers, please, just marry the damn prince.”

Steve had to suppress a shudder when Nick referred to the prince as a kid– they knew next to nothing about him, but apparently he was a thousand years old, give or take. And what that meant, developmentally, for an Asgardian remained to be seen. 

“Look, you and I both know that America is better than it was when I was growing up, but it sure as hell isn’t ready for a gay Captain America. And I’m not–” not ready to even talk about his orientation, let alone his sex life. There was speculation– he couldn’t help that, but he’d never done anything to engage with it. What they were talking about here…

“We just say you married into the Asgardian royal family. Like I said, the prince isn’t always a man, get him to be a her for photos, problem solved.” 

Steve shook his head. 

“I don’t want news of an arranged marriage for me getting out. I’m still used as a symbol. I don’t want to give anyone an excuse to pressure their kids.” 

“Fine. We’ll figure that part out. Maybe we just won’t publicize the marriage– you move there, we call you an emissary. He moves here, we say he’s a new Avenger. It will work out. But you’ll do it?” 

“I’ll go. I’ll meet him. I’m not marrying a child, or anything, alright, I’m not– this is really messed up, Nick.” 

Fury at least had the good grace to nod somberly. “It is. But it’s worth it, or you know I wouldn’t ask.” 

Steve sighed. “I’ll go pack. Tell the scientists to get their bridge ready.” 

“I’ll have Nat drop off the intel we do have. Study up; you want to make a good impression.” 

Steve’s stomach did a little flip. All this hiding, all this working to stay away from any sort of romantic entanglement, all this waiting for the right person, and there was every chance he was about to marry someone he didn’t even know. Someone who wasn’t even human. 

He couldn’t claim to be pleased.

—

��So you have bargained me away, and for what?” Loki asked, pacing back and forth before Hlidskjalf and its occupant, his anger and fear translating into a raised voice and nervous energy. 

“Loki, please.” Frigga spoke, standing beside his father, clearly trying to disarm the argument. 

Loki had done his best, silently acquiescing to his father’s decision when it was presented to the court and waiting until they were alone to address this decision, made without so much as a ‘by-your-leave’. He stopped his pacing, fury spiking as he leveled a glare from one parent to the other.

“It is a ridiculous backwater planet and the creatures who live on it share a lifespan with some of our insects. What could they possibly have that you would be willing to throw me away for?” 

“You speak truth, my son. But it is not abandonment, nor are you being banished.” Odin said, reacting at last. “Their lives are short, and once your husband dies, you need have no further ties to their people. But they have developed, since last you were there. Even now, their great minds are readying a device to send the man here, to meet you. That they are capable of such travel after so short a time is worrisome. I wish you to go, as our eyes. Gather intelligence, that we may know of their abilities. Learn what they are capable of. And in the meantime– I have arranged for you the best of their species to wed. Any child you may bear would be well positioned for kingship. And then it would be natural for Midgard to fall back under the rule of Asgard.”

Loki felt his mouth open in shock and tried not to heave. 

Odin’s disdain for mortals was well marked, well recorded. And now he was being thrown away, not only as a wasted union, but to serve as some sort of broodmare for a halfblooded line, all to earn back a realm which they had never truly lost in the first place.

And no doubt this was why a better match had not been found for him, nor even searched for: he’d been branded argr, his seidhr marking him as unworthy of taking a wife. And so he was to take a Midgardian husband, and expected to lay down for him. Bear his children. This was punishment. For who he was– what he could do. He did not look to his mother again. He could not stomach it.

“My father– my king, please– I can be worthy of a much greater post. I am capable, wise, my abilities in bargaining and diplomacy have no equal. And in strategy– could we not merely take Midgard back by force? Show them the might of Asgard, as they once knew?” 

Odin stood, leaning some of his weight on Gungnir, his great spear, and seeming no less commanding for it. Huginn and Muninn flew through the window, settling themselves on either side of the seat he had just left.

“I am your king, and I have spoken. Asgard demands this of you, and you will do as you are bid. Heimdall welcomes your betrothed as we speak. Go, greet him, and remember: all that you do is in service of your realm. Go and make us proud. Go, and prove that you are all that I have trained you to be. And when you return, when your ties on Midgard are severed, you will be rewarded for your loyalty. I have in mind to name you Advisor when your brother is King. But it will be some time before either of you are ready. And I believe there is much you can learn, not only for Asgard, but for yourself, while you are on Midgard. And of course, you may visit. We’d encourage it, in fact.” Odin reached for Frigga’s hand and received it– she stood by him. And his decision. 

Suddenly, Loki could not stand to be in the same room, to be sharing air with them. His stomach felt cold, frozen through by this betrayal. He should have expected it. He hadn’t. 

He bowed. “I will go to receive him.” He said stiffly. He kept his eyes averted as he bowed again. “Your majesties.” 

He turned his back on them and fled the throne room, as he hadn’t done since he was a child, first taken to task for his gifts with words, and lies, and magic.

—

Steve looked around the golden dome of the bifrost, everything clamoring for attention all at once. 

He was on another planet. The architecture pulled at his eyes, the great interlocking circles above his head that led gracefully down to a dark polished stone flooring, which led in turn to a golden pedestal, and beyond it, a bridge that looked like it was made of crystal, shot through with every color he’d ever seen, and some he hadn’t. 

The rainbow bridge, the books had called it. He felt a smile pulling at his mouth, stricken by the impossibility of all of this, when a voice sounded from behind him. 

“So you are Captain Steven Grant Rogers of Midgard.” 

The voice was low and pitched so that it echoed. 

Natasha had come by the night before and given him the rundown on how to act, how to introduce himself. He dropped to one knee. 

“I am. Pleased to meet you, You Majesty.” 

From the pictures they had on file of Thor, he’d expected someone who looked like an older version of him, but then again, they knew so little about the people here. Maybe he was adopted. 

His thoughts were interrupted by a chuckle from the man, and he looked up, surprised by that reaction. 

“Rise, Steven. It has been some time since I was mistaken for the King of Asgard. I am Heimdall the Gatekeeper– and you would not wish to be on your knees when your betrothed arrives.” 

He nodded over Steve’s shoulder and he stood, turning to look. 

Racing down the crystal and rainbow bridge was a horse and rider, green cape whipping out behind them, a second horse trailing off to the side and a little behind, and even from here, he could see the white circles that rippled outwards from each hoof fall.

“He is not an easy man, your intended. But he is obedient, and will do as his King asks. You would be wise to consider his willingness, when you speak to him.” 

The Gatekeeper’s voice was hushed, as though he feared Loki would hear, and Steve took a deep breath, eyes picking out details as he got closer. 

He could see the helmet he wore, the horns coming off of it that made him worry about whether or not there would be horns there when he took it off. He had a pale, narrow face with a mouth set into a straight line, and Steve found himself standing straighter in response. 

It was… comforting, somehow, knowing that Loki probably didn’t want this, or like the arrangement any more than Steve did. But they both had their roles to play and their reasons to do it. 

Loki stopped a few feet back and dismounted, letting go of the reins. His horse was apparently well trained enough not to run off without him. 

When he pulled his helmet off and stopped just outside of the doorway, he looked exactly like the cover of a pulpy novel, and Steve found himself swallowing. 

Long black hair and cape shifted in the slight breeze, his gold helmet tucked under his arm, leather and metal arranged over his front– he could be riding off into war, instead of coming to pick Steve up from some sort of interplanetary train station. 

He didn’t say anything at first, and Steve got the feeling he was being judged, measured. He also got the feeling that Loki wasn’t impressed. 

He’d come in his dress uniform from World War II, and he supposed next to all the grandeur of Asgard, he must look pretty drab. Plain. He hadn’t thought about that. But it was too late now. 

“Captain Steven Rogers.” Loki said, inclining his head. “Welcome to Asgard.” 

It wasn’t exactly the warmest of greetings. Steve pulled on a smile. 

“It’s good to be here. And good to meet you– Prince Loki.” 

Loki nodded, apparently satisfied, and looked to the Gatekeeper. 

“Thank you, Heimdall. I will take him from here.”

The Gatekeeper nodded and returned to his pedestal, and Steve watched him for maybe a moment longer than he normally would have, nervous about being left alone with the Prince. 

“You can ride a horse, can you not?” Loki asked, and it came off a little sharp, making Steve turn toward him in surprise. 

“I’ve done it a few times. I think I should be able to manage alright.” He wished he’d though to bring a backpack, though, instead of a duffle bag. 

“If you are uncertain, you could ride with me on mine.” Loki offered, and Steve saw the way his brows rose, the almost drawl that was only half buried under the words. 

It made him square his jaw and shake his head. 

“I’m good. Give me just a minute to get used to it, but…” He shuffled the bag into one hand, then the other, debating how best to mount the horse, while Loki vaulted into his saddle easily, gracefully– Steve tried not to stare. 

“Allow me to take that for you. At least until you have gained your seat.” Loki spoke the way he moved, smooth and graceful, but Steve still felt like he was being judged. 

At least Loki was trying to be nice though, he figured, so he passed the bag off.“Alright. Thanks.” 

He then promptly embarrassed himself further, nearly tugging the horse over on top of him with his efforts. Finally he stepped back and just jumped, managing to make it, that time. 

Loki’s face was frozen, trying to remain bland, but he clearly could not keep the amusement hidden all the way– his mouth turned up at the edges. 

“Oh, father is going to love you.” He murmured, and Steve felt his ears reddening. 

“Why? Is he fond of clowns?” He asked, and Loki snorted. 

“No. And he is equally unfond of Midgardians, and their lack of decorum. As much as possible, allow me to speak for us. And if in doubt, be polite. It should not be difficult.” 

Steve nearly groaned. The Gatekeeper warned him about the prince. The Prince warned him about the king. All that was missing was the shotgun, and this marriage arrangement would feel about as awkward as possible. 

Loki nudged his horse into a walk, and waited for Steve to follow suit. 

“So.” Steve said, finally, trying to break the ice. “I guess… we’re going to get married. Do you have any… thoughts, on the subject? Do you want this?”It felt like a stupid question, but he didn’t want to… to tear apart true love or force the guy into it, or something. He knew so little– next to nothing about him.

Loki glanced sharply at him, holding his face still and calm. “It’s my duty. I cannot say I am pleased with the idea of living on Midgard, among the mortals, nor am I certain I understand why my King has chosen this course, but I am bound to obey, and I will fill my role properly, as I have been ordered.”

Steve didn’t miss the way it went from ‘father’ to ‘my king’, and he found himself frowning. He understood the idea of duty and orders. He just wasn’t sure how similar the concepts– and the weights of them– were, here.

“And if you refused? What would happen to you?” He asked. 

Loki might have laughed– or at least, that might have been what that noise was. “Likely I would be exiled to Midgard, my powers stripped away, my strength taken from me… much the state Thor was left in, when father wished to teach him some humility. Your people cannot fully appreciate the depths of that punishment, but. I would go to your realm just the same, only alone and unable to help myself. This is better.” 

Steve saw the way Loki’s eyes skated over his face. 

“And if you refused?” He asked at last. 

Steve shrugged. “Nothing, probably. Extra paperwork, if Nick was feeling petty. They’d have to find someone else.”He watched Loki’s face, trying to guess if that was preferable. 

Loki was silent a long moment. 

“So then why did you agree?” he asked, finally, and Steve realized he didn’t have a great answer, other than the truth. 

“Earth needs your help– your peoples’ help. And if the duty of being bound to your people has to be carried out by someone, I’d rather it be me than someone who…” He paused. “On Earth, it’s still not– a union between two guys isn’t fully accepted, yet. So when you come back with me, it could be ugly. Or we could pretend not to be married. In fact, I think it’s probably better if we did. We can be married to satisfy all the customs but... keep it a secret.” 

Loki shut his eyes. “Do not let the King or Queen hear you say that. They would consider it breaking the oath of marriage that we have not yet made. But we may discuss this matter- it may well be the easiest way of it. Assuming, of course, that you should remain close enough to at least guide me through establishing myself on your world. Or assign someone else to. I need only remain until you die; those are the terms of my settling on Midgard.” 

“Of course,” Steve agreed quickly. “Yeah, I’ll make sure you’re well taken care of, personally, even. I figure we could live in the same building, just... maybe different rooms?”

“Good. And when we visit my parents, you will be capable of the pretense that we are happily married, and enjoying all that such a bond offers?” The relief in his voice was so palpable that Steve decided not to tell him about how bad of a liar he was. And how little he knew about what ‘such a bond offered’. 

“That will work. Sounds like we're pretty much on the same page, here.” He commented. 

Loki gave him the first genuine smile he’d seen on his face. “Perhaps this will not be so difficult, nor so painful, as I feared.”

Steve returned his grin, and didn’t object as Loki urged his horse to go a little faster. 

One step at a time. First things first, meeting the in-laws. Then marriage. Then they could figure out faking a life together. 

Piece of cake.

[ursafilms]

My First Teamster!

The white-hot arc of my production career started during the Fall of 1984 with Suzy Miller at the NBC affiliate in Philadelphia. In December I reluctantly left that unpaid internship at KYW-TV  to move back to New York City. My entreaties to find paid work in the City of Brotherly Love turned up absolutely nothing and my follow up to job postings on the NBC “Employment Opportunities!” site included more than one suggestion to “Perhaps look into the internship program at your local affiliate to gain some experience,” I returned to what is always touted as the world’s largest job market, The Big Apple.

I sent out 200 hard copy resumes. But since most of the people that received them didn’t get past the “G” in “George” at the top of my CV, I concentrated on getting the proposed recipients on the phone . . . yes, this was long before the millennial ideal of speaking with no one from the time you turned seven, through the moment of your untimely passing, invaded our work culture.

A typical conversation with a gatekeeper would go as follows:

Reception: “Good Morning. Big Enormous Productions.”

Me: “Hi. I’d like to speak with Joe Producer, please.”

Reception: “Who’s calling?”

Me: “Uh. Tell him it’s his mother.”

Reception: “You have a very deep voice for someone who’s been dead for six years.”

Me: “Uh, yes you’re right, and you might want to tell him it’s urgent.”

Reception: “This isn’t very funny.”

Me: “It’s not?”

Reception: “No. His mother isn’t dead, but you’ve tried this same routine three times now.”

Me: “I have? I must have lost track.”

Reception: “Oh, I believe Joe just got off the line. I’ll put you through.”

Me: “Ulp.”

Reception (SHOUTING): “JOE! IT’S THAT WISEASS P.A. LOOKING FOR WORK!!”

Joe Producer: “Did he use that bit about my mother again?”

Reception: “Yes.”

Joe Producer: “Let’s put him on the Maalox shoot, and tell the Teamster captain he called him a fairy.”

Reception: “Will do. (To me) Call time is 6am at Mothers Studios 2.”

This exchange has been embellished, and the end result is that I usually did not get hired, but once in a while someone would take pity on me and put me on a gig. Either that or they got sick of hearing from me every week or two.

At this point in the process, which was the first two months of 1985, I don’t know which I liked better, the pity hire or the annoyance hire. They both have certain characteristics.

The Pity Hire telegraphs to the producer and coordinator that you are a weak, sniveling wuss raised in a vacuum and owning a lot of bow ties. You will be humiliated publicly over this.

The Annoyance Hire connotes some strength, but at least one revenge job awaits you, and you will have to learn to throw a left jab, if you want to survive.

****

Bill Cote, owner of the cleverly named BC Studios on West 25thStreet in NYC gave me my very, very first P.A. job. He actually called me and offered lunch and no pay to work on a marketing video in his studio, which was a very nicely kept, smallish (1000 square feet?)  photo stage. 

Bill: “Crew call is at 8am.”

Me: “Would you like me to come in before them?”\

SILENCE

Bill: “This really is your first job, isn’t it?”

Me: “North of Philadelphia, yes.”

Bill: “New York is also east of Philadelphia.”

Me: “I worked in Atlantic City once.”

Bill: “In production?”

PAUSE

Me: “7:30am okay?”

Bill: “Make it 7am. There might be some gear to unload.”

Me: “Gear? I—”

Bill hung up, after not assuaging my fears of actually working on a set in New York City, which I realized was about to happen for the first time in my career. I had been on a set, but as a craft-service (That term I did know) gorging dancer.  

The next day, a very cold typical January day for New York City, I sprang out of bed and joined the subway commuters on the 6 train at 77th and Lexington Avenue. If any of you survived the adventures of the videogame also known as the Metropolitan Transportation Authority of the 80’s, you know how much fun commuting with a bunch of Wall Street Yuppies can be. Given that I was, more or less, sleeping with one of them, I was sorta thrilled to be crushed by humanity as the already packed train pulled into the station and every doofus with an Ivy League degree turned the platform into a rave. 

Made a promise to myself after this first morning. If rush hour commuting ever made it back into a regimen for me I was heading to the middle of as many women as possible. Their clothes at the time weren’t any nicer than the suits the men wore, but at least they smelled good. 

I survived the subway ride and showed up at 6:55am in front of a bell/buzzer that read “X$#&%,” but appeared to be in the approximate area of the main door to Bill Cote’s studio on West 25th Street. I rang, and straight from the scene from FX, a window opened and a set of keys that would have made the managing monk at a Benedictine monastery proud, plummeted from a window. The ring included a genuine skeleton key about the size of Johnny Depp. The key ring cracked the sidewalk. I noticed several other weekend golfer sized divots nearby.

“It’s the copper colored one.” Came a voice that had just finished gargling razor blades.

There were six copper colored ones, not counting the Johnny Depp sized skeleton key. I tried three before I got in.

I stared at a second door that could have helped Ripley hold back the creatures in Aliens. I took the bold move of throwing the security bar off the jamb and turning the latch.

It opened, and not a single retractable-jawed alien stood on the other side. Just a hardwood floor room with several flavors of wall surrounding it. One brick. One wood paneled. One with a piece (Later I would be told this was called seamless) of gray paper covering it. And one wallpapered relic from the 50’s that held a multipaned door.

In the far corner, directly away from the Alien barrier, sat a man with an Ozzy Osbourne hair style. At least a dozen empty wine bottles in front of him at a kitchen table. He folded the lead foil from their necks into neat little blocks. 

Me: “You must be Bill Cote.”

Bill Cote: “Why?”

I took it as an auspicious way to start my film career.

Me: “No reason."

Just as this in-depth conversation about German Expressionism, or was it Minimalism, was about to continue, the Alien barricade door swung open once more and slammed into the brick façade wall of the studio. Shortly thereafter a parade of cholesterol-challenged leg-breakers waddled in. 

My first Teamsters.

One at the lead, wore the haute couture of a black T-shirt that read, “Mama’s Pizzeria, because someone has to work in this family,” a pair of bluejeans once owned by Levi Strauss, and work boots with the bloodstains from the body of the previous owner. During the man’s hour long trek across the forty foot studio floor, a sandbag in his left hand exploded, its contents spilling onto the hardwood. He stopped, which had the same effect as the QE2 trying to back up. His colleagues also applied their brakes at the rate of local government, and the five of them gathered round the sand pile.

The killer of the sandbag, looked down, dropped its cloth corpse onto the sand, and turned his head in the direction of Bill Cote. It might have been the most exercise the man had in a month. 

Sandbag Killer: “Pffffww.” 

Bill Cote: “George will take care of it.”

Sandbag Killer: “Who F$&K is George?” 

Bill pointed his non wine bottle arts and crafts finger at me.

Sandbag Killer: “Pffffww.” 

He turned and looked at his colleagues. They erupted into laughter that sounded like a half dozen tugboats competing for space in the East River. The lot of them turned like a fleet of 747s on a tarmac and waddled back out again.

Me: "Where are they going?"

Bill Cote: "Hennessy's. A place around the corner. They'll be back at wrap."

Me: "What will they do all day?"

Bill finally stopped obsessively folding lead foil and stood. He put his hands on his hips and gave me a quick up and down.

Bill Cote: "Yep. Your first job. Let's get started. You'll figure it all out as we go."

And in hindsight, two firsts for that day. Teamsters and a very prescient statement about the production industry. You just sorta figure it all out as you go.

NEXT SUNDAY: A seemingly harmless TV spot for Frito-Lay lands an actor in the Loeb Boathouse Lake and sets a personal record for Yours truly for hours worked. See you then.

[rumoursontheubangui]

Unbordering Central Africa

Reflections on the ‘The Long Term: Tracing Legacies of Violence in Francophone Equatorial Africa’ workshop, 23-27 November 2018, Libreville, Gabon[1]

Hoinathy Remadji presenting during the workshop (Photo Andrea Behrends)

In November 2018 I had the chance to take part in a Point Sud workshop organised at the Université Omar Bongo (UOB) in Libreville, Gabon. The main goal of the Point Sud workshops is to bring together scholars from different countries, disciplines and generations to share knowledge about Africa in Africa. For this occasion, the participants had come to Libreville from different countries in Africa, Europe and the Americas to exchange ideas during a workshop entitled ‘The Long Term: Tracing Legacies of Violence in Francophone Equatorial Africa’.

What makes ‘Francophone Equatorial Africa’ an area of study? Is it a common proto-language substratum? A shared colonial past? The way power is exerted, as well as its (broken) link to the metaphysical ? Its apparent political dysfunctionality? Is it violence[2] that gives meaning to the cohesion of Central Africa? Its different waves and layers? Slavery, (neo-)colonialism and its nefarious and longstanding consequences? Or could it be the modes of communicating, moving and the resilience and vital force of its people? Its kinaesthetic forces, the strength of its colours and the richness of its soils? Is this region of Africa defined ex negativo, just by that which it is not?

The question of how to define the region that falls under ‘Francophone Equatorial Africa’ (for academic purposes) seemed to be a recurrent point of discussion. Which countries were to be counted in and which not. The fact that two scholars working on Equatorial Guinea were part of the group, on the one hand, but also the absence of the Central African giant, Congo-Kinshasa, on the other hand, added fuel to the fire. Regarding the first, Equatorial Guinea had previously been a Spanish colony, throwing the word ‘Francophone’ in the workshop’s title overboard. Regarding the latter, even if Congo-Kinshasa had been obliterated, many of the participants referred to it in their presentations. One could question even further, what about Rwanda and Burundi which are so linked to the political history of DR Congo? Or Angola, which shares a common pre-colonial history with both Congo’s? And why not South-Sudan and Zambia?

At the onset a focus on the dense forest, its waterways and its myths side-lined Chad, where there are no lush forests, but savannahs and deserts. Ironically Chad had been part of the AEF, in its original reading that is, ‘Afrique Equatoriale Française’[3] (French, instead of Francophone, Equatorial Africa). In a layered reading of history, however, this apparent contradiction ceases to exist. Placed one on top of the other, the different layers of history overlap and encompass, among others, the pre-colonial forests and the Sahelian territories colonized by the French at the end of the nineteenth century. A layered reading of history encompasses different religions, an amalgam of languages, different colonial pasts and colonizers. The similarities should not obscure the differences and vice-versa.

Perhaps Equatorial or Central Africa should be defined by those who consider themselves working in it? Not to say, first and foremost, its inhabitants… The Zambian Copperbelt, for instance, has been considered by some as being part of this region.[4] Defining Central Africa might then just be a fallacy. The focus and effort should rather lie in understanding how this region takes shape over time and its changing dynamics.

Some participants argued that borders are there to be crossed. In Central Africa rivers have been turned into (national) borders, separating the right from left riverbanks. However, crossing rivers on pirogues, magical bridges and other extraordinary means connects the riverbanks and separates, in fact, the water, not the land. I concluded my presentation with a short video recorded while crossing the Ubangi River. It triggered another participant to send me a photograph of the place where the water of the Gabon Estuary meets the Atlantic Ocean (see photograph hereunder), his response and enthousiasm were reminiscent of the call-and-response methodolgy.[5]

Notice the slightly different shade of blue between the two waters (Photo Lionel Ikougou-Renamy)

Perhaps the most important lesson to be drawn is not the bordering, but rather the undoing of borders, the continuous contestation and questioning of borders. Perhaps the most important lesson is unbordering. In its present continuous form, unbordering, reminds us, over and over again, of the process that challenges that which is fixed and not transgressive, also in our minds –especially in our minds.

The challenge lies not in limiting ourselves to transgressing thematic, or disciplinary, or geographical  borders (all in which this workshop has excelled). The challenge rather lies in looking for new, fascinating, delirious and unthought-of ways of unbordering academia: facilitating African anthropologist to study European societies; brainstorming on how to include the ‘present absences’, i.e. the people we do research with; acknowledging the production of knowledge of our assistants, informants, interlocutors, gatekeepers and friends, without whom we could not call ourselves scholars; creating new connections that are not defined by North-South relationships; opening the doors of the university to other types of (non-academic) knowing[6]; Unbordering knowledge...

I would like to conclude with an anecdote. On the last evening in Gabon, as we awaited our flight back home, I was ‘abducted’ by a jovial and energizing Spanish-speaking Gabonese lady who runs a Spanish language institute in Libreville. She had recently come back from a trip to Colombia, where she attended a conference in Bogotá (the city where I was born). Sharing a last diner (and especially a last Gabonese REGAB beer) she explained how Gabon was too France-centred. How wonderful would it be if her school could teach anthropology in a Spanish-speaking, and even South-American, tradition? How different would the papers and researches be from those written and carried out in the framework of the French academic tradition? Just to have another, complementary view. Feeling the breeze of the estuary on our shoulders, we talked about bridges connecting the two continents, Africa and South-America, music to my ears. I guess unbordering is exactly that, opening up to new ways of knowing, of connecting – creating bridges in order to become wealthy-in-people.

[1] I do not claim authorship for the ideas presented in this blog, even though I am responsible for their interpretation. This blog is the result of the exchanges between all the workshop participants, inside and outside the conference room, in the corridors, during walks and drives, on the beach, while having drinks, and on the dance floor. To acknowlegde this co-creative process I want to thank all for the fruitful exchanges (in the hope that I am not forgetting anyone): Fabert Mensah, Lotje de Vries, Andreas Mehler, Klaas van Walraven, Joseph Mangarella, Moussa Sissoko, Florence Bernault, Karine Ramondy, Meredith Teretta, Andrea Ceriana Mayneri, Sylvain Batianga-Kinzi, Maria Ketzmerick, Enrique Okenve, Hoinathy Remadji, Maixant Mebiame, Lionel Ikougou-Renamy, Enrique Martino, Dimitri Ndombi, Stephanie Rupp, Guy Moussavou, Héloïse Kiriakou, Djanabou Bakary, Andrea Behrends, Arielle Ekang Mve, Célestine Koumba, Amélie Mogoa, Ingrid Jäger, Christian Mayss, Raymond Mayer, doña Véronique Solange, Herve Essono Mezui and Styde Mavioga Mickala.

[2] In the Connecting In Times of Duress research project we work with the concept of duress: i.e. the individual experience and internalization of violence. See the recently published special section on duress.

[3] AEF included today’s Chad, CAR, Congo-Brazzaville and Gabon.

[4] Think for instance of the Oxford-based “Comparing the Copperbelt” project, which subtitle reads Political Culture and Knowledge Production in Central Africa.

[5] A methodology of triggering exchange and collaboration. See:  Puwar, Nirmal, and Sanjay Sharma. 2012. “Curating Sociology.” The Sociological Review 60 (1_suppl): 40–63.

[6] I am hereby inspired by the Voice4thought Foundation and its work on co-creation. Co-creation looks beyond the walls of academic savoir and acknowledges the epistemological value of knowledge produced by activists, journalists, artists, etc... . 

[fashiontrendin-blog]

How RuPaul’s Drag Race Challenged My Gay Identity

http://fashion-trendin.com/how-rupauls-drag-race-challenged-my-gay-identity/

How RuPaul’s Drag Race Challenged My Gay Identity

A

s even the most casual viewer of RuPaul’s Drag Race will tell you, the show is one meme-worthy, GIF-able moment after another. From the now-infamous Linda Evangelista rant to deep cuts like “Get her, Jade,” the show has spawned a shorthand of its own. But there is one specific scene from the show’s decade-long history that will always stay with me. It’s a testimonial clip from the seventh season (admittedly not the show’s strongest) in which Trixie Mattel reveals the origin of her drag name: “Trixie” was a homophobic slur used repeatedly throughout her childhood, a name intended to cause harm to a little boy who didn’t fit into a certain predetermined mold of manhood. Taking that slur and building her drag identity around it was an act of defiance on Trixie’s part, a way of reclaiming power and owning her identity.

The moment had such a profound impact on me was because it wasn’t until I began watching Drag Race in 2014 that I realized just how much I had been holding onto my own misguided ideas about what it means to be a gay man.

I was a scrawny and bookish little boy, and because I didn’t quite fit in, I found myself identifying with Disney heroines Belle and Ariel, who were outcasts in their own ways. I would sit in my room for hours, reading and making up stories and casting myself in lavishly imagined adventures. I had no idea that these things would code me as queer in the eyes of other people. I was called “camp” when I was still in primary school, before I even knew what the word meant, and long before puberty hit me like a bus called Priscilla and brought with it the first inkling that I might like boys.

When I later came out as a teenager, I almost immediately became preoccupied with being the “right” kind of gay.

When I later came out as a teenager, I almost immediately became preoccupied with being the “right” kind of gay. Since I didn’t personally know any other openly LGBTQ people, I can only assume I internalized what that entailed from the meager, sexless queer representation in the media at the time and from the constant jokes made by my peers. I went to an all-boys grammar school that had been so steeped in the myth of masculinity over its 350-year history that you could practically smell it as you walked down the halls. (Male privilege, it turns out, smells a lot like AXE body spray.)

Moderating my own behavior became second nature, and that habit followed me into adulthood. Was I being too loud? Too effeminate? How was I standing? What should I do with my hands? Even dating other gay men, I would feel this impulse to tone myself down, to put on a rather weak show of perceived manliness, assuming that would be what they found most attractive.

RuPaul’s Drag Race was a real “come to Jesus” moment for me. In addition to being one of the most consistently, outrageously entertaining TV shows of the new century, Drag Race synthesizes the battle that goes on inside a great many gay men in a way that I had never seen on screen before. The queens share many personal stories about playing with mom’s makeup and trying on her clothes, or feeling somehow separate from their peers and siblings when they were growing up; as a kid who was constantly described as “sensitive” and “creative” in a very particular tone, I could relate.

Unlike so many other gay narratives where you follow a character from their traumatic coming out to their inevitable death by HIV/AIDS, RuPaul’s Drag Race was perhaps my first unapologetically optimistic, joyful gay viewing experience. It takes all of the things it seemed I was encouraged to feel embarrassed about, the weirdness I often wished I could leave behind me in the closet, and it reframes them as important, integral elements of a greater collective identity. Here were men like me, who had also idolized Disney princesses as children and were now channelling and reinterpreting those characters, retelling those stories with themselves cast in the lead roles.

The acts of reading and throwing shade (described by drag queen Dorian Corey as “the art form of insults”) were also immediately familiar to me. After all, the stereotype of the acid-tongued gay man is rooted in some truth; if you spend your formative years being taunted or feeling like you have to read the room in order to better fit into it, then it makes perfect sense that you would become an expert at picking up on other peoples’ insecurities and retaliating with perfectly formulated barbs. What makes the show’s iteration of this so gratifying is that when a queen is read for filth, she will shriek with laughter because she appreciates the artistry of the shade. Drag queens wield language like a weapon, but those volleys are shot across an equal playing field. Bullies they are not.

  I can say with certainty is that I wouldn’t be so openly affectionate and supportive with my gay male friends, so unafraid of showing vulnerability, if I hadn’t learned how by watching grown men share wigs and lovingly call each other “sister.”

As the show’s popularity grew, it became something of a gateway drug to queer culture for its audience. You can’t praise Drag Race without first acknowledging the debt it owes to Paris Is Burning (a legacy the show references proudly and often). And you can’t talk about Paris Is Burning without recognizing how much gay vernacular and iconography comes from black and Latinx communities, and trans women in particular.

I’m not saying that I wouldn’t have the circle of queer friends I do now if I hadn’t become so enamoured with Drag Race, but what I can say with certainty is that I wouldn’t be so openly affectionate and supportive with my gay male friends, so unafraid of showing vulnerability, if I hadn’t learned how by watching grown men share wigs and lovingly call each other “sister.”

I was in my late twenties when a friend initiated me into the cult of Mama Ru. Watching Drag Race become such a mainstream success and inspire a generation of younger fans has been hugely encouraging; queens like Trixie and Katya especially have stans who are still in adolescence, right at the beginning of their journeys to find themselves. It makes me so happy to know those kids are growing up hearing Ru’s message of self-acceptance: “If you can’t love yourself, how in the hell are you gonna love somebody else?” It makes me wonder how different things might have been for me if I’d been exposed to such a philosophy at an earlier age.

The show is not without its challenges. The conversation that has emerged during more recent seasons about the way black queens are received by fans of the show compared to their white sisters, and this season’s disproportionately negative viewer reaction to The Vixen (who correctly anticipated that she would be stereotyped as an “angry black woman”) is both illuminating and damning. This dialogue, and the fact that we are only now beginning to openly talk about race on the show, is in many ways a microcosm of the ongoing discourse on racism in the gay community at large, where whiteness (along with, yes, masculinity!) tends to be centered.

RuPaul herself might occasionally misspeak on certain issues, but RuPaul’s Drag Race as an entity has become a broad church in which queens of any ethnicity, gender identity and body type are celebrated. I eagerly await the day when that kind of acceptance is reflected in mainstream, everyday life so that young LGBTQ people won’t be inhibited by the same kind of gatekeeping that still occurs even within our own community.

The time has come for outdated ideas of being the “right kind of gay” to sashay away. Until then, it’s reassuring to know that there is at least one mainstream outlet for joyful diversity in the form of Drag Race; I hope it continues to open people’s’ eyes like it has mine.

Philip Ellis is a freelance writer and journalist from the U.K. You can follow him on Twitter @Philip_Ellis

Photos via VH1. 

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[megadarkbouquettidalwavethings]

Kaia Gerber’s Dad Was a Model, Too

Mr. Gerber plans to funnel some of those riches into a start-up incubator, based in of the Malibu celebrity hang pad that serves as his office.

He rattled off some of the pitches he has received in his new role as a venture capitalist: “different app ideas, a coffee company, a milk delivery company.”

“There’s a lot of good ideas, some crazy ideas, and some that are not so good,” he said.

“He’s a model for ‘hard work pays off,’” Mr. Schrager said of his former protégé. “He was a kid from Queens, and he went on to marry a beautiful woman and have a beautiful family and great success. And it’s always nice when a nice guy does good.”

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First Family of Supermodels

In the Gerber household, Sunday night home-cooked pizza is a family tradition, as is jumping into the pool whenever one of the brood comes home from a far-flung assignment.

But such homey get-togethers are becoming harder to organize, now that each member of the family has their own work schedule and jealously protective team of publicists, stylists, managers and other gatekeepers, whose job is to control and monetize their very lucrative time.

Photo

Kaia and Presley Gerber at Paper magazine’s “Beautiful People” party in New York in the fall. Credit Rebecca Smeyne for The New York Times

That value shot up considerably last September, when Ms. Gerber made her runway debut at the Calvin Klein show, “instantly becoming,” in the words of Vogue, “the model of the moment.” She has since walked in shows for top international houses including Chanel (most recently for Wednesday’s couture collection), Fendi and Burberry; appeared on the February cover of Vogue Paris; announced a design collaboration with Karl Lagerfeld; and starred in ad campaigns for Versace and Marc Jacobs Beauty, among others.

While the media’s reaction to Ms. Gerber’s debut was frenzied (“Cindy Crawford’s mini-me” was a popular response), her preternaturally centered parents were unfazed by the celebri-bomb going off in their midst.

“I think we both wish they could have been a little older, but the world is different now, and Kaia wanted to do it,” Ms. Crawford said. “When she was 13 we said to her, ‘mmm, when you’re 16.’ And then, all of a sudden. …”

Presley Gerber, while not a superstar on his sister’s level (567,000 Instagram followers versus her 2.8 million), has nonetheless booked a string of campaigns, including Dolce & Gabbana, Calvin Klein Jeans and Pepsi.

“Those kids have every reason in the world to be screwed up,” said Mr. Clooney, who has known them since birth. “They’re beautiful kids and they were born into fame and wealth. But Cindy and Rande were very aware of raising kids in Malibu, and how that can go horribly wrong. So they’ve been really hands-on parents.”

Ms. Crawford said that the name Kaia was inspired by a character in the 1988 fantasy film “Willow,” while Mr. Gerber said she was named for “Kaya,” the title track of a 1978 Bob Marley album (and slang for marijuana).

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They did agree that the name Presley can be traced to a long-ago dinner with the Hollywood music producer David Foster, who was then married to Elvis Presley’s ex-girlfriend, Linda Thompson. Mr. Gerber recalled him asking, “Can you imagine being me, having to follow Presley?” For whatever reason, the name stuck.

When all four are together, fueled by the children’s Tigger-ish, teenage energy, the family comes across as a writhing puppy pile of mutual affection.

“He’s like the coolest person in the world,” Ms. Gerber said about her father. Her sophisticated all-black evening wear at the Omega party — stilettos, crystal-embroidered tulle skirt and low-cut, lacy top — was at odds with her 16-year-old hyperactivity, which fizzed out of her like a shaken-up soda bottle.

“He knows how to throw a party, which, I don’t even have friends who know how to throw a party this good,” she said.

Her brother said, “He’s a perfectionist and an all-around happy guy. He’s like my best friend.”

The Gerbers can sound a little corny, and that’s because they are. Nothing confounds a celebrity profile like a happy family. They are four golden figures that, even viewed up close, seem to be constantly dissolving into a Malibu sunset.

“When I meet people from my past, they’re not really shocked where my life has taken me,” Mr. Gerber said, clinking his Casamigos and ice, flanked by his wife and equally symmetrical daughter.

“Most people just figured I would have been successful,” he said, and shrugged.

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BEN WIDDICOMBE

The post Kaia Gerber’s Dad Was a Model, Too appeared first on dailygate.

[makeitwithmike]

The 3 Secrets of Success that Influencers Don’t Tell You

By Jeff Bullas

Jim sat on his dingy bed.

Around and under the centre of his universe were the bits and bric brac of a life collected. Books, a radio and just some tired essentials. Some of these were the leftovers of Jim’s story. Dog eared photos of past relationships and distant memories.

The boundaries of this one room dwelling were not wood, stone or walls as most of us know it. But chicken wire side and top. The crooked door sat open. The stale smell of breakfasts, bacon and burnt oil lingered in the still air.

There were many of these cubicles that housed men whom life had left behind. These poor houses of New York were a place to stay before living on the street became the final destination.

David knocked. He wasn’t quite sure who was in the room.

David Isay was a journalist and founder of StoryCorp. He was starting a new project to write a book about capturing the lives of ordinary people. Not billionaires, millionaires or successful scholars or artists.

He was in the right place.

We all have a story

David believed that everyone has a story that is worth capturing, publishing and sharing.

In that room Jim shared his past, his failures and frustrations. David’s notebook started to fill. This was repeated many times as the book’s multiple players were interviewed and assembled.

A few months later the book was ready. David took a copy and dropped in to see Jim.

As he opened the book to the simple one page story, Jim saw his name in black and white. His eyes widened. The book was snatched out of David’s hand and he ran down the corridor and said “I exist…..I exist….I exist”.

It was a simple but public revelation of a life lived. But an ordinary life had been validated and acknowledged. That is what we all want.

To be validated. To be noticed.

You don’t have to wait

Jim had to wait for David to show up to be discovered.

His desire to be recognized was dormant but quietly wished for. His tale was now told. It wasn’t Broadway, Hollywood or the front cover of Time magazine but the recognition was real.

Just hoping for someone to reveal your story and disclose your existence to the world is mostly just a hopeless dream. Sitting and waiting for the world to show up is not how life should be lived.

It does not have to be like that. But many of us live our lives built on idle hope.

The game of life has changed

In 2008 I discovered social media and I was intrigued and curious. I observed behaviour that bordered on obsessive.

Facebook was my first place to play, watch and chat with people and Twitter was next. Digital publishing platforms were also in the mix. WordPress and Blogger made creative portals to publish your creativity with the world easy and free.

I discovered that the social networks are much more than places to share food photos.

Social media is where humanity and technology intersect. The social networks allowed visibility and global marketing without paying any gatekeeper or media mogul. It was a game changer.

The social web had democratized publishing and marketing and it amplified our humanity.

It’s more than play

You just need to decide whether you want to just play or use it to transform your life.

Do you want to reveal and manifest your passionate purpose to a waiting world at full throttle? Is there a voice that sits inside and says “there is more to life than this existence”

If you are willing to start and transform a passion project from a hobby to a lifestyle of substance, then you can build and leave a legacy that maybe you had only dreamed about. You can become a person of influence.

Here is a new mantra that goes beyond just an acknowledged and recorded existence.

I create, I publish, I exist.

That is a place where real personal growth happens. But you will need to take some steps to make that a reality.

There is no need to wait or be discovered by a journalist.

How do you create influence in this digital world? How do you make a difference?

#1. Create

What makes us fully human?

Within all of us are dreams. The burning desire to create something of consequence. To build a legacy that says “I made a difference”.

This superhero was there when we were five. But some of us had it removed when the adults took away the crayons and the Superman outfit and sent us to school.

We heard the words and phrases.

Don’t make a mistake, color between the lines. Don’t be different.

But being distinctive and diverse and maybe even peculiar is to be embraced. Going with the crowd will only achieve one thing. Anonymity. That it is a place to die not thrive.

Constructing that life of consequence needs creation. Just being a part of the team, attending meetings and showing up each day to the corporate cubicle is just “doing”. Many writers leave their best stuff behind when they exit their organisation.

They don’t write for themselves but others. That’s a waste.

Creating has many coats

Some of us write, others draw and some even sing. I missed that one. Programmers and engineers create.

Creative crafting is hard as it means you have to distil noise, complexity and confusion into clarity. Writers need to wrangle words into coherent structure. Song writers need to take singular sounds that flow and pop and delight. Symphonies are written one note at a time.

Connecting the dots does not bring joy or happiness. It is just compliance. To conceive, build and forge a creation that touches hearts and minds is where being human is at.

But creating for all its romance….. is still just the start.

#2. Publish

Creation on its own is not enough. It’s just the first step on an adventure should you be brave enough to begin.

Creating in the quiet dark corner of your home is fun. But the real magic happens when you step into the light. Making your work visible to the world. The writer publishes, the artist displays and the musician shows up at the corner bar to ply his art.

This is publishing with a big “P”

Tradionally this cost a lot of money and time. Travel, hiring venues and paying the gatekeepers and analog platform owners to give visibility to your art.

Here is a short video on the power of publishing and sharing your passion with the world.

This is daunting

You are suddenly vulnerable, open to judgement and loss. The critics may throw stones and the crowd may heckle. The doubts that creep in? Why would anyone want to read my poem, my post or my book?

Other doubts?

There are many people that are smarter and better than me.

I can’t publish until I have got it just right. Perfection is the enemy of starting.

You now have the power

20 years ago the reach of the individual was restrictive.

Written words on paper pages didn’t move easily. Publishing contracts were the only way to be a “published” author. It was often a journey of two years from writing to publishing. Now it is one hour from an idea to a blog post that goes viral.

The social web has made us all publishers and marketers. We all can publish and market without seeking permission or paying for it. Our creations and art can be transformed into digital formats. Recording and re-producing your knowledge and art on digital platforms puts the power in your hands.

It has also facilitated learning in real time.

You grow as you forge and share your creation and receive feedback in real time. Reaction and comments can be cruel and kind. But that is a place to grow.

Publishing with hustle

The social web and new technology has made it easy to make it public but publishing that is noticed needs hustle. That is code for marketing.

The new rules for marketing and selling have been amped up.

Joseph Sugarman (the famous copywriter) in the book “Copy Writing Handbook: The Ultimate Guide To Writing” was confronted by a top salesman.

“Joe, I really admire you. I can sell to anybody on a one-to-one basis. Put me up against the the toughest customers and I’ll melt them down and sell them.

But you have the ability to do that on a scale that dwarfs mine. When you sell you mange to duplicate yourself and sell to millions of people all at the same time”

The art of communication on the social web has amplified the marketing and selling process and now you can sell to thousands and millions of people at a time.

That is the power of published content and words that move on the social web.

#3. Grow

The reality is that growth happens in plain sight when you create and publish to a waiting planet. This is not just existence. It is where you fly.

Done with persistence and passion the result is magical manifestation. The world shows up at your from door. People are attracted to visible vulnerability and insights that reveal your unfolding story.

How do I know?

When my passion project started and it was shared the opportunities started to show up in my inbox and on Facebook and Twitter. Invitations to speak, consult and collaborate. But this was not an overnight success. It was a marathon.

Once is never enough

Creating and publishing once is never enough if you really want to grow.

The growth loop starts with a habit of persistent personal creation and ends in validation. That validation and feedback includes social proof such as online comments, sharing and traffic to your content and creations.

This creation feedback loop can be addictive. Attention is a drug and it’s a trigger and provocateur for production. The social web has revealed how that works.

The essential habit

The creative addiction loop is where you publish and are validated in real time. It is the circle of awesomeness that will transform your life from invisible to global influence and success.

But it requires habitual creation. This is “deep work”. Work that makes a difference and is life legacy building.

Busy-ness or shallow work is often just a distraction to the real game of life. Don’t let the trivial stop the significant.

But you need to do the work. Strap yourself in and nourish a habit of creative production.

The creation cycle

The last piece of the transformative art of creating and publishing on this social web is often not expected or explained. Many teachers never revealed this wisdom. This happens in a cycle of constant creation and publishing. This rhythm is where we all grow.

Personal growth sneaks up on you.

The constant creation and feedback loop is a virtuous learning cycle. As you distill your thoughts and articulate your ideas they take structured form.

So how do you get better at the things you create and care about? How do you take your passionate purpose and become the guru, the star or maybe even an influencer?

How does optimal growth occur?

Eduardo Brice in his TED talk talks about two key component zones for optimal growth.

Performance zone

Learning zone

What is the performance zone?

We perform at work….in public. Doctors diagnose and teachers teach. But performance is not enough. But the practice of performing can be the revelation of mastery.

Monastic learning away from the public performance is where the real optimal growth occurs and true mastery happens. The saw needs to be sharpened. Quiet persistent education.

The learning zone is where your read, research and test in private. It is where you expand and discover new ways and creative techniques. This then feeds back into the performance.

Eduardo’s advice is something that I can verify. Do both for optimal performance then perform, reflect and then adjust.

Success and personal growth requires a lifetime of continuous learning

That is how transformation happens.

Over to you

The social web has transformed my life. It has amplified my creations and humanity.

It started with a passionate curiosity. The engine room was developing a habit of daily creation and publishing. Then I built an audience and community before I needed them.

I created, published and the world showed up.

Then it’s up to you about where you want to take your life or your tribe.

You can build a business, influence an industry, go on the speaking circuit or leave it as a passion project that feeds your soul. You don’t even have to leave your job or take a big risk. It can be a side hustle that is done before you commute to work or after hours.

That’s up to you.

The power is in your hands. And you don’t have to wait to be discovered.

The post The 3 Secrets of Success that Influencers Don’t Tell You appeared first on Jeffbullas’s Blog.

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