#also from one of those rare instances where i sketched in black

[mysandwichranaway]

insane how i'm so obsessed with this man despite not having gotten to the part of the manga where he appears yet

[nep-neptune-0]

Seeking You

Dan Heng x Reader

Summary: Dan Heng never liked to be disturbed in his room, especially when he was sleeping. Even the slightest disturbance outside the door easily woke him up, much to his dismay. But he never felt troubled when you were the one who disturbed him.

Content: fluff, reader is injured, description of injury (not too detailed), male Trailblazer mentioned (sorry I luv him)

Word Count: 2k

a/n: I'm not a medical expert or anything like that, sorry if I got it wrong 😭

It was rare for the archivist of the Astral Express to get quality sleep. If he wasn’t out and running into all sorts of trouble with the Trailblazer and March 7th, you could find him in his room, so immersed in his work that he often forgot to sleep. The only semblance of rest he got was from blacking out from fatigue, but he never felt truly energized from it. He was also unfortunate enough to be a light sleeper, so during those rare times he decided to actually sleep in his bed and not pass out on his chair, all passengers made sure to take another route to their destination if their original path crossed his door. Of course, there were instances when they didn’t know he was sleeping, and later during that day his team would notice his fighting became just a tad more jagged, irritated. Though he never got properly upset at any of them.

Tonight was one of those rare nights where all Dan Heng wanted was to sleep, new data be damned. He had been pulled along for some new trouble the Trailblazer found himself in, which obviously triggered a chain reaction of even more trouble, as it always did. The archivist wasn’t sure how long they spent outside the Astral Express before they decided to call it a night. 

As soon as his head hit the pillow, he was out, and he intended to be out for at least a couple of hours if possible. Since both March 7th and Caelus had fatigue clinging on to them before they went to their rooms, it was safe to say he would remain undisturbed. But he failed to take another potential factor that would threaten his sleep time into consideration.

That factor was you. 

His door was slammed open, a thud following close after. At first, he thought it was one of the troublemakers. He sat up, ready to tell them he wasn’t in the mood for another adventure. 

All words he had thought of died in his throat. There was a lot of blood pooling under you, who collapsed onto your stomach. The faint light pulsing from the data bank illuminated your knitted eyebrows, trembling lips, and the sheen of sweat over your skin. 

It wasn’t the first time you visited his room in the dead of night. Both of you had gotten into some rhythm of keeping each other company without saying much whenever you visited his room. While he was updating and refining data entries, you would be at his desk, sketching and scribbling notes of the new plants and enemies you had found during missions. 

You were a curious soul with a thirst for knowledge that could rival any high-esteemed scholar or researcher. The first time you were there, you merely stood on the other side of the doorstep, asking him with a quivering voice if there were any data entries that matched something particularly eye-catching you had seen on your latest mission. When he had given you an answer, you had scurried away to your room after thanking him. 

The next time you were there, you had bravely stepped into his room to observe him while he found the correct file. And before long it became a common occurrence for you to swing by after a mission, sketches in hand and questions burning at the tip of your tongue. After a few more times, Dan Heng had told you you were free to look through the information yourself.

At first, you thought he was telling you to stop bothering him, but the newest troublemaker on the express had other thoughts about it. He had pointed a shaking finger at you, sputtering about how the coldest person on the Astral Express had given you permission to touch his precious data without any consequences, something that he never thought was possible. Not that others weren’t allowed to, of course, but Dan Heng usually kept an eye on Caelus whenever he wanted to check something. A laugh had escaped you at that, and you waved his words away, saying that it was natural since Caelus somehow managed to cause trouble wherever he went. You weren’t special. In response you got a smug look from him. Whatever that meant.

One day, you were too caught up in information hunting you didn’t notice how much time had passed since you sat down by his desk. But before you could gather your papers and bolt out of the room with a flurry of apologies, he had stopped you and said you were allowed to stay as long as you wanted, so you sat back down. 

You had wondered if he was actually alright with it. Occasionally, you would glance at him, trying to read his body language or facial expression for any sign of annoyance. At one instance, your eyes met his, and you couldn’t look away, but after a few seconds, you forcefully tore your focus away from him, back to the photographs. You felt the tips of your ears burning as intensely as the sun. 

While you promised yourself to not look again in fear of embarrassing yourself, you couldn’t help but sneak some longing gazes at him. And if you had rested your eyes at him for a bit longer, you would have noticed his eyes being drawn to you more than a few times too. 

That night, you had fallen asleep on his desk, face planted on all the photos you printed out to analyze. His coat had been draped over your frame as a makeshift blanket when you woke up and your phone had an unread message. You’re welcome to continue looking through the database even if I’m not there. I hope you slept well, it said. You remembered feeling flustered, not only from the message but also the faint smell of him lingering in the coat.

Soon enough an additional chair was placed by his desk. The surface was spacious enough to fit two people working on their own thing, only occasional talk filling the otherwise silent air. Sometimes, only you were there when he was out with Caelus and March 7th. The Database practically became your second room. 

There were also times you opened the door to find him sleeping, and despite being a light sleeper that became grumpy the day after, he didn’t seem to be moody at all during the days after he was briefly woken up by you. He would merely peer up at you before shutting his eyes again, hand lazily beckoning you in. You had asked him more than once if your visits while he was resting disturbed his performance the day after, but every time he had told you not to worry about it. So you continued to visit him whenever you were finished with a mission, even if he happened to be sleeping. Though, you became more careful when opening his door. 

Dan Heng would never admit that he slept better when you were in the room. The comforting sound of your pen scratching against paper and the occasional sighs or hums you let out somehow made him feel warm, a stark contrast to the coldness that enveloped him when he slept alone in the room. He really didn’t mind you waking him up more often in the middle of the night if it meant he got to experience that warmth.

Although, you had never arrived when he was sleeping with a gash on your stomach. 

A metallic smell had spread through the air. Your breathing was shallow, body twitching from hiccups. 

“What the hell happened?” Dan Heng breathed, though he didn’t expect a response. Before he could think, he was out the door, heading to the infirmary. He gathered all the supplies he could think of getting. 

Detrimental thoughts swirled in his head like a typhoon. What mission were you sent to? Did they not check the danger levels before dispatching you? Did you get distracted? He should’ve come with you, but you were already gone by the time he met up with the troublemakers in the Parlor Car. You could’ve gone to him before heading out and he would gladly have accompanied you to the mission. What if you were gone by the time he came back?

When he had everything he needed, he hurried back. You still seemed to be in some state of consciousness when he entered his room, not dead. Good. 

Dan Heng started wiping off the sweat that collected on your forehead, then he tentatively rolled you onto your back. The wound wasn’t as deep as he thought it was, it wasn’t life-threatening. You’d survive.

“I’m gonna clean your wound.” He shut the door and gave you a towel to bite on before unscrewing the bottle of antiseptic. “... it’s going to hurt.”

Guttural whines and sobs escaped your throat as soon as the alcohol touched your wound. Biting down hard on the cloth, your hand flailed to find purchase in anything that could ground you. The victim happened to be Dan Heng’s thigh. You were sure it would leave crescent shaped indents at the end of the procedure, but you could not be less bothered to care. 

How you managed to stay somewhat lucid was beyond you. The shock probably helped you through the stitching part. Though Dan Heng’s gentle voice, mumbling something you could not quite make out, tethered you the most. If you had heard, you definitely would have been reeling from the profanities and apologies he was spewing out of concern. 

When it was time for him to bandage you up, the pressure on your abdomen relieved you. Your jaw slackened and the archivist removed the now soggy towel. 

“Sorry about the floor,” you slurred. “I’ll clean it up tomorrow.”

“You will not. Now, care to tell me what happened?” 

“Hm.” Tiredness washed over you like a wave. The worst was over, and now you just wanted to sleep. “Found a treasure map, didn’t expect a Reaver to be in the way.”

“Hmph.” His disappointment was evident. “You’re lucky your wound wasn’t that dangerous. Who knows what could’ve happened. Did you go to that place alone? I would have gone with you if you wanted to find the treasure. You could’ve died, [Name]. Why didn’t you just go to Natasha when–”

“I couldn’t think straight,” you muttered, letting your eyes flutter shut. Your voice dropped down to a fragile whisper. “After I got injured– I don’t know– all I could think about was getting back to you first. I wanted to see you.” 

There, you said it. A few seconds went by and he had nothing to say back. Great. When you had gathered enough energy you were heading – crawling if you needed to – straight to your room and–

“You absolute idiot.” Gentle hands lifted you up, trying to avoid agitating your wound. You were half-expecting him to carry you back to your bedroom, but you felt him taking a few steps before you were lowered again, onto something soft. His bed. 

Dan Heng laid himself slowly beside you in fear of making you uncomfortable. He laid on his side, using his arm as his pillow as he gazed at your side profile. His free hand inched forward to brush some hair away from your face.

“I’ll always be here,” he murmured. “Next time you get injured, which I rather wouldn’t happen, give me a call and head to Natasha’s immediately. I will be there as quickly as I can.” 

Your eyes hesitantly cracked open. Upon seeing the worry etched onto his face you brought your hand to intertwine with his.

“Promise?” you asked meekly. 

“I promise.” His lips ghosted over your cheek before he casted his blanket over the both of you with the utmost care. “I’ll clean the blanket tomorrow, so don’t worry about it. Now, get some sleep. After the troublemakers roping me into their schemes and you nearly giving me a heart attack, I really need some rest. We’ll go to Natasha’s Clinic tomorrow.”

“Yeah… good night.” 

“Good night, love.” 

[ravensbug]

Beautiful

Fandom: Legend of Korra

Ship: Lin Beifong x reader

Request: No

Prompt: “It’s beautiful”

Summary: You’ve been stuck at home ever since you broke your leg. Lin refused to even let you go to the precinct to work at your desk. Seeing as you had nothing to do at home you decide to paint, seeing as it has been years since you’ve done so. Lin comes to visit to see how you're doing and admires your paintings. She visits more often to see how they’re going.

You picked up the two-inch brush and primed your canvas with turpentine. You decided you were going to use oil paints today, rather than the watercolor you’d been using for the past week. It was a change of pace since oil paint took much longer to dry. It allowed for more complex ideas and significantly more details.

You were always fond of painting animals, either from memory or when they would sit outside your window. You mostly painted birds, but there were a few cats and dogs scattered throughout your list of paintings.

Switching to a different brush, you situated yourself in a more comfortable position in your chair. Painting was much easier when you were standing, but your broken leg didn’t allow you to do that. It was more like Lin wouldn’t allow you to. She would scold you if she came over to find you standing while painting.

You really wished you two could spend more time together, but being a cop was a time consuming job for the both of you. More so for Lin, being the Police Chief and all.

Her visits were always nice. She would usually come with food, knowing you spend all day painting without a break. Of course she wouldn’t have eaten either, so she couldn’t judge you too harshly.

Today you decided to paint a raven, by far your favorite bird. Even though it’s feathers were all black, you were able to put so much color and detail into them. Of course feathers were still a pain in the ass to paint. If even one was off by size, color, or even shading you had to repaint it.

But that’s what made oil paint so much better than watercolor for this. If it didn’t look right then you could fix it. The paint didn’t dry right away. It was a nice ‘cheat’ as you would call it, even though it wasn’t cheating.

The downside was that the paint didn’t dry right away. Kind of redundant, but you couldn’t do too much work all in one day. The paint had to dry so you could add some details without the colors mixing. Things like eyes would be done last to avoid any chance of the paint getting wet.

You took a small amount of the general paint colors and painted over your sketch. You could still see the sketch, but there was a light layer of colored turpentine now covering it.

Turpentine was very important for oil paints. The paint refuses to attach itself to the canvas without it. It also serves as the cleaning agent, as water only moves the paint around everywhere.

You took some of the grey and began with the beak of the bird. Starting at the top was important to avoid smudging. You also had the background to worry about, but that would come last. You would rather be able to remove the excess paint covering the raven than paint over the background and have layering issues.

Once you were satisfied with the color and shading of the beak you moved on to the head. Black paint would be what you used for the most part. The eye, and the shading around it would come last, but it was still black.

You painted the small feathers that stick out from its head as well as the ones that cover some of the beak. The paint was nice and smooth, so you could get fine lines out of it when you needed to.

You painted down the neck and stopped before the wings began. It’s important to know that with oil paint you work from dark to light, rather than from light to dark. Lighter oil paints, like white, can never truly be covered once added. You avoid this by always adding less white until you get the desired shade.

Once you added the small details to add definition to the head and neck you began work on the wings. The most painstaking part of the painting. You started with the left wing first, which was at an angle. Less feathers to paint and it allowed you to get a technique figured out for this painting.

Because of the background you had chosen, a cherry blossom tree, you decided that the highlights on the feathers would include some green and even a hint of blue. It created a contrast that was noticeable, but wasn’t ugly.

The top of the wing was much easier to deal with as it was made up of smaller feathers. Since the wings were both tucked in you could get away with only using vague highlights to show off the small feathers. You knew you would come back to them eventually, either later while painting or when you finally decided you needed to fix it. For now it looked fine.

Moving down to the individual feathers you painted them one by one. Not just plain black either. Full shading on each feather before you moved onto the next. And if the previous feather didn’t look right after you finished another you would go back until it looked right. This was tedious and sometimes annoyed the hell out of you, but making these feathers look right was your main priority.

About halfway through the first wing you threatened to rip the canvas in half. The feathers weren’t cooperating like you wanted and there was the nagging voice in the back of your head telling you that you could never get them right.

Oh the perks of being able to paint. On one hand it relaxed you and kept you from thinking about being stuck in your apartment all day. On the other it pissed you off to no end when you couldn’t get something exactly right.

You eventually gave into your frustration when you threw the brush at the painting. It didn’t ruin anything thankfully, but it made you feel better.

Sitting back in your chair you couldn’t help but scold yourself for being stuck in this situation. You were always careful when it came to using your cables and zipping around the city or down from one of the blimps. But as life would have it you still weren’t careful enough.

Your fall wasn’t life threatening in any way, thankfully. Lin wouldn’t have known what to do if it had been. It was maybe fifteen or twenty feet from the ground when your cable suddenly snapped. There was training for these instances and you knew what to do.

You had used your other cable and attached it to a nearby building. It helped angle your descent to not have as much of impact which was the key to why you weren’t injured anymore. But you still managed to land awkwardly, catching your foot on a small hole in the street and breaking plenty of bones.

The adrenaline of the whole situation caused you to not feel anything, which was for the better. You tried standing up, but when your leg refused to hold your weight you knew something had happened.

Lin ignored whatever they had come to do in the first place and ran over to you. You weren’t crying, but there was a sense of sadness or disappointment around you.

No matter how many times you and the doctor told Lin you were going to be ok she never really believed it until you got home. You would have a cast on for six months or more if you tried to use the leg. You knew it would be more because you were stubborn as hell.

You didn’t want this to stop you from working, even if you were stuck at your desk for those six plus months. Lin, however, refused to let you come to work. She personally walked with you back to your apartment after you had come to the station the day after getting injured.

Lin would rather you be in a wheelchair than crutches, but she knows she can’t control everything you do. She remembers that you can handle yourself even if you’re more vulnerable now. She spends more time with you because of that, but neither of you complain.

Once you were done reminiscing about how you got to where you were right now you took a deep breath. Art wasn’t easy, you knew that. Being out of practice wasn’t much help either.

You picked up the brush from its spot on the floor and cleaned it off. The floor had some paint on it, but it was nothing a rag couldn’t clean up. At least it wasn’t a spill.

After another deep breath you went back to the feathers. Taking that short break to let out your frustration worked well. Whatever was stopping you from figuring out had left your mind. You could see that it was simply how wide the feather was. A stupid mistake that you scolded yourself for.

Finishing the wing became much easier now. It wasn’t faster because even though there were less feathers as you went down they also got longer.

You noted that you might have to change the shading after getting an idea. It was only a maybe though. Making it seem like there were flowers above the bird and out of view was hard, but not impossible. You would come back to that idea later.

The body in between the wings was left unshaded. Plain black was enough since your light source would make it shadowed anyway.

Now came the second wing. It would have to take much more time and patience for you to do this one, as you could see more of it than the other wing. Thinking you had plenty of time left in the day to finish the painting you started on the wing. You only stopped when you heard the lock of your door turn.

Were you startled by it? Yes, you definitely were. But it could be argued that Lin was more startled by having a knife floating inches from her face as she opened the door.

“Lin! Spirits you scared me!” you guided the knife back to the counter.

“I’m glad you’re prepared for intruders,” She seemed unphased even though you knew better than to think that.

“C’mon. You don’t need to be the high and mighty Chief of Police here,” you smirked. That was one of the things she had started to do around you. Let down her guard. It was rare for her to do that and you felt appreciated knowing she did that around you.

“I brought you dinner.” she lifted the bag of food in her hand. It was for both of you, but she wouldn’t say that out loud.

“You’ve been working on that all day haven’t you?” she placed the food down on the counter and walked over to you. She studied the painting while waiting for you to respond.

“Apparently I have,” you sighed. “I don’t even know the time.” You leaned over and looked at the clock. Seven in the evening.

“Well you got off early,” you smiled at Lin. It was rare for her to get off anytime before eight.

“Wanted to see how you were doing, that’s all,” there was a small grin that showed on her lips. You wondered if she left early on purpose just to see you.

“So what did you get us this time?” You added the us last second. You two had eaten dinner together so much in the past few weeks that it was the new normal for you two.

“Kwong’s,” she answered.

“No way! You didn’t?” You got up out of your chair and hobbled over, without your crutches. You were excited, who could blame you?

Kwong’s was something you had only a few times in your childhood, saved for ultra rare occasions, like your graduation.

When you made it over to the counter you saw that Lin had indeed gotten you two Kowng’s.

“How the hell did you get Kowng’s? They’ve been filled with customers for months.” Lin turned when she saw that you were now next to her. You knew your question wouldn’t be answered because of the scowl on her face.

“You have crutches, please use them. I’d like you back in the station as soon as possible,” she scolded you. It wasn’t her usual tone that she gave newbies at the station or even vets who were on her nerves. There was worry rooted deep in her voice. She cared about you, you knew that.

Lin walked over to where your crutches rested and grabbed them for you. She handed them to you and you reluctantly took them and put them under your arms.

“I’ll get the food ready, you go sit down. Use your crutches this time,” she told you.

You stuck your tongue out at her as you made your way to the table. If anyone else had done that, they would have been dead. But you weren’t anyone and you figured that out when you got injured.

You had speculated that Lin had liked you after the fourth day of her bringing dinner, as an excuse to see you. She would always say she was checking in, lying to herself about why she came to see you every time.

Once you had confirmed it, which was hard to do, you tried to get her to admit it for a while. You knew nothing could make Lin blush, let alone laugh, so when you were able to do both, that was the confirmation. That happened almost a week ago. Her hesitation to tell you frustrated you to no end, much like the feathers on your raven had.

Lin placed the take out boxes on the table and grabbed plates from your cabinets. Once they were on the table you both served yourselves some food.

Talk was usually minimal when you two were eating. You occasionally asked about what was happening at the station and Lin would usually tell you. She would grumble about it of course, because everyone there seemed to think her advice or orders didn’t matter to them. You would always listen, only sometimes saying things back to her about whatever she was grumbling about.

Today there was a strange call in and Lin couldn’t even finish telling you what happened before you were laughing your head off. You laughing brought a smile to her face because it was the first good thing that happened to her today.

When you two finish eating Lin is the one to clean everything up. You protest by trying to get up, but your leg seems to have a mind of its own and sends a wave of pain up your spine. You winced and sat back down in defeat.

Lin gave you another glare, but it was still soft. No anger was present, she couldn’t be angry at you. She would have done the same thing if it was her with the injury. Nothing would have stopped her from continuing to work in the station. Well you probably would and Lin would listen to you.

That was another thing that Lin would let only you do, argue. She would shut everyone else down immediately. Of course when she had tried to do that to you, you didn’t cower away like everyone else. You stood your ground against her and she admired that about you.

When she finished cleaning up dinner she moved to grab her coat and leave. You didn’t want her to. It was always what she did. Come in, eat dinner, and leave. It was nice and all, but you felt lonely cooped up all day.

“Could you stay? At least for a little while?” you asked. You sounded more desperate than you wanted, but it was how you felt.

Lin had stopped putting her coat on and looked at you. You felt like you made a mistake, but it was too late to go back now.

“We don’t have to talk or anything, I just don’t want to be alone.” You really sounded desperate now. You scolded yourself in your head for it.

“Sure,” she hesitated. “Of course.” She didn’t know why she hesitated to answer. Of course she wanted to spend time with you, that’s why she came over with dinner all the time. Bringing dinner was just the excuse though.

“You can continue painting if you want,” she suggested. You thought about it and then shrugged.

“I think I’m done working on that for today. It’s already made me frustrated enough,” you glared at the painting like that would do something.

“Are you having trouble?” she asked in disbelief. She was walking closer to the painting again, looking it over for a second time.

“Yeah, feathers are a lot harder than you think. It still doesn’t look perfect.” you had come over to the painting, on your crutches, and stood next to Lin.

“It doesn’t have to be perfect,” she told you. “It’s beautiful.”

It was your turn to blush for the first time. You didn’t know if Lin wanted you to blush or not, but that wasn’t important. What she said was. She had always complimented your art when she came over, but it was always “This looks nice,” or a simple “Wow”. Her calling your art beautiful was like her holding your heart in her hands. Surprisingly soft for someone compared so closely to the element she could bend.

“T-Thanks,” you muttered.

“It’s been awhile since someone’s seen my art let alone compliment it,” you explained. Like that was the only reason for you to be flustered.

“I don’t understand why you ever stopped.” She looked at some of your finished watercolor paintings that were hanging by clips in front of your window.

“I never had the time when I was always at the station. I tried for a few months, but it just became stressful rather than relaxing,” you explained.

She had stopped and looked at one particular painting that stood out from the rest. It was the only non-animal painting you had. Still watercolor of course, which made it even more brilliant in Lin’s opinion.

She recognized it in a second. It was the view of the city from her office. You had painted her office. She smiled as she looked over the picture. She couldn’t see any mistakes. You truly strived for perfection in this painting.

“Oh,” you realized which painting she was looking at. “I was really missing the station that day. It made me feel better having some part of it here, even if it was a painting.”

Lin felt honored that you had chosen the view from her office as the part of the station you wanted to paint. She felt so gullible right now. Both of you felt that way.

“Thank you for always coming over,” you had said this a few times before over the past weeks.

“I honestly don’t know what I would do if you didn’t. I’d probably go crazy,” you laughed. That wasn’t entirely true. You would have found something to do, it wouldn’t have been as nice as having dinner with Lin, but it would be something.

“I’m sure you could’ve managed. Plus, there’s no one else checking up on you, so how am I supposed to know how you’re doing?” she raised an eyebrow at you.

“You could let me work at my desk,” you suggested.

“That’s not happening as long as you have that on your leg.” She pointed to the cast on your leg.

“I am perfectly capable of handling myself,” you argued.

You shouldn’t have argued. You knew that as soon as a sly smirk appeared on Lin’s face.

You had been leaning on your crutches while Lin had been talking to you. She knew that’s what you were doing and took advantage of that. She simply kicked one of the crutches out from underneath you and sent you falling to the ground.

“Shi-” You couldn’t react in enough time to find something to stop you from falling. You didn’t need to find anything because Lin wasn’t actually going to let you hit the ground.

You felt the wire wrap around your waist and hold you in your almost fallen position. You looked up at Lin who still had that smirk on her face.

“Y’know you really are mean,” you said jokingly. She grabbed your arm and pulled you back up. You leaned on her for support since you had dropped your other crutch while falling.

“I try,” she smiles. “Comes with the job.”

“Yet you rarely are to me.” you continued to lean on her.

“Because I don’t need to be with you. You actually listen to what I say,” she told you. You weren’t the only person who listens to her, Mako occasionally does, but that’s only after she scolds him.

“One, you’re my boss and two its kind of hard to ignore what you say,” you explained. Was this you admitting how you sometimes got lost in whatever she was saying? Yes it was.

“Everyone else has a pretty easy time ignoring me,” Lin counters. She took what you said as a compliment, in a way. She wasn’t sure what you were trying to say, so she couldn’t tell herself that it was really a compliment.

Your words were caught in your throat. How exactly could you tell her that you got lost in her voice. That sometimes your heart flutters around her the same way you know hers does around you. You really couldn’t explain in words. So you didn’t.

Did you regret moving in to kiss her? No, not one bit. Hell you were glad you finally did it because you knew Lin had been dodging around her feelings for weeks.

Her arms snaked around to hold you by the waist and you wrapped your arms around her neck. It felt so good, it felt perfect. You wanted to stay like that forever. But unfortunately both of you still need air to breath so you have to stop.

“You…” Lin began before pausing.

“Oh don’t act coy with me. You don’t think I’ve figured out why you come here so often?” You watched embarrassment flood her face.

“Not that I would have wanted it any differently,” you smiled. That made her feel better.

“Am I not allowed to worry?” She asked. She looked at you and the shell, the armor, that she wore to keep her emotions hidden was off. She was out in the open, her heart in your hands.

“You are. I’m glad you do,” you were still smiling. Of course you wanted her to worry, it made you feel loved.

“I still want to go back to my desk though,” you complained.

“What am I going to do with you?” she sighed.

“Love me?” you gave her a cheesy grin.

She rolled her eyes and kissed you again. Mostly to make sure you weren’t going to ask to go back to the station. You were hers to protect and she was going to make sure that you stayed here until your leg healed. Even if she didn’t bring dinner every night.

[thoughts-on-bangtan]

Let’s talk: the Vmin “no on screen interaction = no bond” Paradox

by Admin 1 & 2

One of the reasons that are usually stated for why people are so insistent on their claims that Jimin and Tae supposedly aren’t close anymore, that their friendship is nothing but PR for Friends, and that the whole “soulmate agenda” is fake as well, boils down to the statement of “we rarely or never see them interact on screen, no touching, no talking, nothing”. We find this both misleading, since it isn’t true, but also disrespectful, since it means that the only way in which some are able to accept closeness between the members as real and valid is if they see it, nothing else. So, just because you don’t see it through grand physical touches, hugs and whatnot, does that mean if they speak about each other, for example, that doesn’t count? 

You could argue that the power of pictures is greater than that of words, but to that I would like to ask: do they owe us visual proof of their closeness when we already have so much that shows how truly close Jimin and Tae are, how much they care about each other and how much work across years they’ve willingly and eagerly put into their bond for it to grow as deep and beautiful as it is?

As a way to showcase how misleading the screen time = friendship/closeness argument is, especially in connection to Jimin and Tae, I’d like for us to look at two different instances: Black Swan MV (the MV Sketch as well as the “opera” b*omb and the basket ball b*omb) and the Jingle Ball 2019 EPISODE.

Let’s start with the videos surrounding Black Swan below the cut:

Around that time I saw a lot, and I mean a lot, of chatter (mostly negative) about vmin since a very loud portion of the fandom were very up in arms after we got Friends. Not only did it solidify their preconceived notion that they are just friends, because the song is titled like that and none of them really cared enough to check the lyrics, but also because it opened up a whole new discussion about “but like, are they really friends?” To which, of course, their answer was mostly “no”. It’s just PR, they actually don’t really like each other, they barely interact, we see nothing of them, both interact way more with the other members, you know the drill. So when the MV Sketch for Black Swan came out it was, once again, like more “am/munition” for their arguments.

The thing we find laughable though is this expectation of “ship moments” in a video that’s literally about the filming of their music video, most of the scenes showing said filming happening though there’s also a few scenes of the members interacting. But, at the core, this isn’t like a bangtan b*mb of them hanging out backstage waiting for something or another where it makes sense that we’d see them interact a lot and be silly, instead it’s a video in which their focus (as well as ours should be) is on filming and giving the best performance they can so the MV turns out amazing, which it did. They are doing their work, not enjoying their free time. When you’re at work, do you really spend the majority of your time playing around with your friends? No, you do your job, the thing you get paid for doing.

The first few times I watched the video, I was so captivated by the theatre and their dancing, their mindset and performance, I didn’t even really notice any of their interactions or pay attention to who interacted with who or who did not. Guess my priorities and expectations are simply a bit different when watching a music video being filmed...

So what was the conclusion people drew? While Jimin and Tae are both close to JK and the other member, they are not close to each other, they don’t even particularly like each other. It was a narrative I saw repeated across various sns and, really, while it made me sad, I also wasn’t surprised. It’s nothing new that people treat vmin in such a manner.

Then, months later we got two Bangtan B*mbs from the same time and surprise, surprise Jimin and Tae did interact, a lot even, in ways that show how attuned with each other they are, how easy it is for them to fall into one of their role-plays or just be silly together, how gentle and thoughtful of the other they are, and how much they enjoy doing something together, regardless of what it is.

The first, posted October 1st 2020, showed Tae playing basket ball while Jimin and JK sat off to the side and watched him. Like you can see in the above pictures, eventually Jimin joined Tae and they played together for most of the video. Since the sun was shining at them, Tae stood before Jimin and raised his hands so the shadow fell onto Jimin’s eyes and he could see better, later on doing the same for Tae. It’s a small thing and yet it shows they care about each other. At some point Jimin pretended that he’ll be leaving, twice, and yet he stayed and they played some more. Toward the end of the video Namjoon joins them and eventually vmin leave and Namjoon stays behind and plays with Seokjin before the video ends.

Based on all that you’d assume the people who, seven months earlier, claimed vmin are essentially estranged and barely even like each other would reconsider, but of course not. Despite the focus being largely on them across the entire video, many comments by non-vminies (and non-namjinists) I saw on sns were about Tae playing on his own, Jimin and JK sitting off to the side together, and Namjoon playing with Seokjin. 

The second video was posted October 24th 2020 and began with Jimin pretending he’s an opera singer, which Tae noticed and immediately joined in, since we know this is the sort of thing Tae enjoys doing, even occasionally turning their own songs and lyrics into opera style to make the other members laugh. This sets off this entire sequence of Tae and Jimin singing different things, JK also joining in for a moment, and then vmin ending on that sweet moment of Jimin standing behind Tae with his hands covering Tae’s eyes before concluding that “it’s hard to play with him”. And yet, even if it’s hard, can we talk about these two screenshots of Jimin fondly watching Tae and looking like he can’t wait until his stylist is done so he can go join him? Adorable.

But again, even here while the focus is on vmin for a large portion of the video, this fact was largely omitted and instead people zeroed in on moments in which Tae was alone, Tae or Jimin interacted with JK, and Tae singing with Namjoon and Seokjin. It seems to me like the council of “how valid is a friendship” decided on their opinion months prior and stuck with it even if it meant, as always, to just ignore vmin interactions in favor of other things while at the same time spreading the “vmin are not friends because they don’t interact” agenda to anyone who’ll listen.

Generally I don’t really care all that much for all the chatter happening among parts of ARMY, but seeing these comments belittling and erasing the bond Jimin and Tae have, regardless if you see it as platonic or potentially romantic, is just really hard to read sometimes. Not even because I’m a vminnie, but simply because they are erasing something that is so important to both Tae and Jimin, this bond they have with each other they themselves spoke so much about, showed so much of, and yet people refuse to accept it, like they have any right to make such judgements about their bond.

The second example I’d like to show is Jingle Ball 2019 in LA and how deceptive, paradoxical and misleading the no screen time = no bond agenda really is.

For context, the Jingle Ball happened some time in December 2019, the same month as when we got the vmin “let’s take a half bath together” while holding hands during Seokjin’s birthday vlive happened, meaning a time when Jimin and Tae were just as close as ever, even occasionally giving us glimpses into their bond, giggling together and being all smiles. Also the same month as the famous holding hands because we think no one sees us anymore moment at the airport.

On July 22nd 2020 we got the EPISODE showing the behind the scenes of the Jingle Ball performance. It’s 11 minutes long and includes the BWL performance with Halsey, but largely shows the members getting ready, practicing their English and being excited to perform. If we focus solely on vmin then sure, I’ll agree that there were no interactions between those two whatsoever, not a usual or out of the ordinary thing, and not something I see any kind of problem in. They don’t owe us interactions in every piece of content. And yet, as always, it just added fuel to everyones favorite agenda that vmin are not close, ignoring all the prior time frame context we established previously. But who cares, they didn’t interact in this 11 minute video therefore they definitely didn’t interact at all and now hate each other.

Jokes on those people because of course that isn’t true.

Excuse the rather mediocre quality of those pictures, I tried my best with the screenshots taken from a video taken by a fan (one of many) who got to see BTS behind the scenes before going on stage from the stands further up. There’s this video on twt that shows just vmin and then I found a longer version in this person’s vlog (around the 7:25 min mark and onward). You can check both and confirm that it really is vmin in those screenshots. Also, as memory refresher, Jimin was the only one with a black collar and shirt along with blond hair. Namjoon stands further away and can be seen in the three lower pictures.

So, what does this tell us? Easy--just because it wasn’t shown in a condensed and edited video it doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. Just because Jimin and Tae don’t show us things on screen, or the editors don’t use scenes where it can be seen, it doesn’t mean that it’s an accurate representation of their actual, real life bond. They weren’t in the EPISODE but hugged and walked together off camera.

Notice how this agenda merely applies to vmin, how their bond, their soulmate status and closeness is the only one that gets questioned at every possible moment. When Seokjin said that Yoongi feels like his soulmate nowadays in an episode of In The SOOP no one questioned his words and accepted them as true, because he said so himself and we should believe their sincerity when they say these things. And yet when it comes to vmin, the rules are entirely different.

This was a post brought to you by Admin 2 coming across yet another thread on twt filled with ARMY claiming outlandish things about vmin and their bond and getting annoyed.

[kokiri-at-the-pack]

1004

October 4

Ranting like this isn’t going to be helpful at all…

...I must take a walk first. Better to relax my head.

...

Yes! Yes! YES! I know what I’ll do exactly!

I can’t believe a simple walk around my village gave me a huge inspiration!

Occasionally, homeless people and their children would wander around corners of some streets. They include Mr. Francis, an old man whom I have befriended as I have regularly listened to his magnificent and skillful play of guitar. Well...a guitar-like instrument exactly as it was made up of rubbish like cans, plastic containers etc. Still, it would play melodies that would sound just like an ordinary guitar. That was his ability. Creating a musical instrument and its function out of any material. That and his open-mindedness have allowed me to get closer to him. As usual, I headed towards the street he often dwells in to calm myself through his music.

Just like I expected, he welcomed me with a smile and played soothing balad music like he was a professional musician. I closed my eyes and let every single note fill my head. For a moment, I got oblivious towards my major concern with which I was stressing myself.

“That was awesome, Mr. Francis!” I exclaimed when his music ended, “what song did you play exactly?”

Mr. Francis chuckled, “this is my song actually.”

I could not believe what I just heard.

“You composed it?! I didn’t know you could make music! Seriously! Shouldn’t you apply to a company or something?”

However, Mr. Francis remained quiet and shook his head. Even behind his dusty hat and greasy gray beard which covered half of his face, I could observe sadness in his eyes.

“Been there and done that, young lady. Lost count of it.” he finally answered.

I immediately understood what his words meant.

“I gave thousands of my songs--now all burnt to ashes years ago--in every business I could find. I explained for many times what my ability can do. But maybe the Heavenly Father made a mistake of not putting me luck when sending me to this world. Every result was no different. Rejection. Your music is too bland and old-fashioned. The world has plenty of instruments today.”

I was speechless. Never knew Mr. Francis had such a tragic background.

“We do not need your ability,” he emphasized the last sentence as if that was the most agonizing statement stuck in his head.

Then he returned to his original bright face.

“You may expect what happened next. I spent too much chasing after my hopeless dream. My family lost trust in me. The debt was not paid on time. My home was lost, and... here I am,” he chuckled weakly.

I was lost in thought. Mr. Francis started to remind me of Father. Struggling with what others thought are disadvantageous abilities. Yet, after facing reality, they have both given up paths that could have made them happy. That could have made their loved ones happy. Despite all of that, Father did have his own skills. Mr. Francis just showed me his unique talent. Others would never have been able to imitate them. Is there really no way to make their abilities worthy?

Unless…

...My drawing!

I stood up quickly, “don’t worry, Mr. Francis. Everything will be better soon.”

I comforted him before I returned home, leaving his confused face behind.

I ran as rapidly as my feet could and reached my room filled with notebooks and sketches.

Why did I never think of it before? My ability and its critical effect can be put to good use. If I draw with care unfortunate people like Mr. Francis succeed by following their passion, not only will they have a joyful future ahead in their lives. They will no longer have to suffer from difficulties in the past. They will forget it and become totally new people!

And who knows! They might be seen as diamonds in the rough!

It would be okay. I’m not going to ruin their lives. Just… just helping them. As long as my sketches are safe, I can prove my ability to be supportive!

Ah, I should not waste time writing this. I should gather some newspapers, if there is an article about those who need help.

October 7

After days of searching, I have chosen and written down the list of people to whom I’m going to use my drawings to give them second chances in their lives. I have not written down their full names and addresses as I must respect their privacy. Instead, I have elaborated how they have lived before and the way I’m going to change them in more positive ways. I wish I could pick up more, but I do not have the skill yet to quickly draw all wanted events in detail. Anyways, here is the mentioned list:

Mr. Francis finally gets recognized thanks to his music and his ability.

A girl with a nickname of Jenna opens a pet shop for her ability to communicate with animals.

A lonely man discovers his love of life with his skills of persuasion.

An unpopular Pattern Creator winner of the Design Competition is invited to design products of one of the most famous clothing brands Whiskey.

A college student, who worries about her final assignments for graduation about using her abilities to help people, accomplishes it smoothly and receives honors.

October 12

Alright. I have finally finished drawing all the illustrations of the chosen people. Now, where can be the safest place for sheets of paper in my house? Oh, yeah. The storage room. My hands hurt right now from restless use of them to accomplish my work. But I must remain mindful of how I am going to store the drawings without my family finding them.

Hmm, that’s right. An old wooden box in the corner. There is no way they will even take a peek at it.

October 13

Is my ability finally getting the light it deserves? When I passed by the street where Mr. Francis frequently played his instrument, I was surprised to find that he was not there. In his place, I noticed other homeless people, who seemed to be his friends, having an excited conversation. I stepped a bit closer to the group and eavesdropped on what they were saying.

“You believe what we just saw?” asked one of them.

“Don’t mention it! Never thought about witnessing it at all!” replied another.

“Who was that fancy-looking man from a...very long car?” an old female beggar spoke.

“Dunno. He just said that he liked ol’ Francis’ music and took him away.”

Mr. Francis? Someone liked his music? So he brought him away to somewhere else? Can this happen on an instance? I thought it was just a super rare coincidence...at first.

It wasn’t until I saw my parents watching the small black and white television that I understood it wasn’t. Inside the screen, I recognized at once who that lady was. The Pattern Creator. She was having an interview about how she was happy to get invited to showcase her talent after all the years of namelessness.

“Sigh, even that woman with such an ability succeeds in this world,” Mother complained.

However, her words were barely worth attention to me at that moment. I rushed to ask Father to borrow today’s newspaper and scanned all the available headlines. Sure enough, there was that one headline I had been looking for. Jenna, the girl with an ability to communicate with animals, had just opened up her unique pet shop and wrote an article about how her ability differentiates her shop from others. She was also looking for employees to work with, the advertisement of which was posted at the end of her article.

It worked! This can be the new potential of my ability! They are all smiling. They have a wonderful future ahead! Jenna… Mr. Francis… The Pattern Creator… They have begun new lives thanks to me! If I can utilize this more efficiently, then who knows how far this positive influence can go?

I don’t think I would be able to sleep tonight. But it doesn’t matter. This is the day I discovered my worth!

[bubble-tea-bunny]

a painted lady 

[carol danvers x reader]

author’s note: i started watching iasip and it’s so funnyyy i love it so much. anyway, here’s something short and sweet for my girl carol. hope you enjoy  <3

word count: 2,737

Spring announces its arrival with the melting of the snow and the crisp mornings which give way to a sunny afternoon and a gentle breeze not nearly as harsh as the winter gusts that makes cheeks flush and stings the sensitive skin. Warmer weather begins popping up on the forecast. The days grow longer. The flowers bloom. There are many telltale signs to the changing of the season, but this year, they’re joined by a rare spectacle that has become the main topic for news stations and strangers making small talk in the coffee shops or at bus stops.

Channel 2 is on mute, but Carol hasn’t bothered un-muting it or even looking at the screen, since the view outside the bedroom window is exactly the same. Butterflies flutter past the glass in great numbers, taking their time with the plants on the front lawn. The neighbors’ houses aren’t bound to be any different, nor would anywhere else in town really. Seeing butterflies isn’t out of the ordinary when spring is approaching, but what is out of the ordinary is just how many there are. They’re everywhere.

Carol catches the sight of orange wings with black bands on them, and speculates aloud. “Monarchs?” To an outside observer, it might appear as though she’s asking this to thin air.

“No. Painted ladies,” you respond from the ensuite bathroom. After you’ve combed the tangles out of your hair, you set the brush down and walk back into the bedroom. “A little smaller than monarchs.”

Carol hums in acknowledgment, and takes a few more seconds to study the bright swarm before she lets her hand drop and the curtain shifts back into place. She turns around and grins when she sees you across the room putting on your watch. You’re wearing your usual lip color today: a bold red shade that brings out your eyes. “You’re a painted lady.”

That color hadn’t always been a staple in your makeup routine, and Carol has the sneaking suspicion it had found its way there after she had mentioned how much she liked it on you the first time she saw you in it. You’d been so unsure of it then, but she genuinely liked it. While she had told you as much, she’s sure you also could tell by the sincerity in her voice and the earnestness on her face. Not that it’d be difficult for you pick up on what she is thinking. You read people like books and she’s your favorite novel, one you know from front cover to back.

Even at this distance, you notice her gaze lowering to your lips and you roll your eyes but you’re smiling too. “I guess I am.”

Carol had closed the gap between you as you made your comment, and she leans in close. You’re about to take a step back and tell her At least give it a minute! but it’s too late. She steals a kiss and laughs at your expression of playful incredulity.

“It hasn’t even dried down!” You reach up to wipe the bit of lipstick that had transferred to her mouth, then grab the compact on the dresser to check if you would have to re-apply any on yourself.

“Sorry, couldn’t help myself.”  

“That’s what you say every day.”

“Well, it’s true.” She shrugs matter-of-factly.

And you can never even fake being irritated for too long. Once you’ve confirmed that your lipstick is finally completely dry and transfer-proof, you kiss her. This one lasts a little longer, and she meets you with equal enthusiasm. She smells the lavender perfume you wear—every morning, two small spritz, in the soft spots behind your ears. By now, she has your routine memorized, but that’s no surprise because you’re her favorite book too.

The butterflies are immortalized in a small piece you create for your art class. You wave it off as nothing special, but just as with every other instance Carol has had the opportunity to see your finished art sitting on the easel, oils still setting and your familiar signature with its trademark loops and elaborate flourishes (“My signature is not that fancy!”) tucked away in a corner, she shakes her head and says, “It’s amazing.”

You stand side by side, surveying the canvas like you’re in a museum studying a painting on the wall. You’re mulling it over, considering her compliment and staring at the butterflies and she’s right, you think. It’s not so bad at all. You can’t help smiling because of how supportive she is, has been, and would continue to be, for it’s in her nature to pick you up when you’re down, and a warmth bubbles in your chest.

“Thanks.”

Carol’s watched your artistic endeavors from the sidelines, which she has been happy to do. She doesn’t have much to complain about when she has the front row. As such, when you come home one day and ask if she’d help you with your newest project, her brows raise at the unexpected request.

“I don’t know how much help I can be, but sure. What is it?”

“I need a model.”

Her eyes light up and her grin is big. “How should I pose? Maybe something dramatic?” She rests her wait on one foot and juts out her hip, setting her hand on it and angling her head slightly downward so as to look up at you in mock seduction. “Or maybe something fancier?” She stands back up straight and reaches over to grab an apple from the fruit bowl, then holds it up as if scrutinizing it closely, her other arm folded neatly behind her back.

You laugh at the various poses she strikes, and she breaks character quickly, laughing as well. “No, nothing like that, although that would be pretty fun.” You take a deep breath as you calm down. “I’ll have to get back to you on pose ideas. I’m not really sure what mood I’m trying to go for here. The prompt was really vague.”

“But that’s good right? More open avenues.” Carol sets the apple back down and leans back against the counter with crossed arms.

“It is, but it can be overwhelming too… The key is just to let the inspiration come to me. If I try too hard to come up with ideas, I might just get more frustrated than anything else…”

While waiting for this inspiration, you fill your time with sketches, thumbnail drawings of people in motion and positioned this way and that. You also draw Carol quite a bit. It’s your warmup for when you move onto the real piece, and if she hadn’t noticed whenever you stared before, she definitely does now, catching your eyes as you look up at her then back down at your sketchbook.

You draw her over and over again, pages of your sketchbook filled with her face at different angles and wearing various expressions. Even if the drawings are hasty, the care behind each is apparent. You ache to understand every detail, the natural sway of her hair as she turns her head whenever you call her name; the crinkle of the corners of her eyes when she flashes you a wide smile; the high points of her cheeks that catch the sunlight just right. And Carol peers over your shoulder at these pictures and she knows exactly what you are trying to do and she understands that you don’t just see with your eyes. You see with your hands.

One slow morning you’re doing it again, sketchbook in your lap and pencil in hand. Carol’s still laying down, drifting in and out, her body trying to cling to the last bits of sleep but she can’t tune out the scribbling and scrawling and the erasing. She’s not mad about it though; she probably shouldn’t be trying to sleep this late into the day anyway. So she rolls onto her side and props herself up on her elbow to look at you better—you’re sitting cross-legged facing her, which means she can’t see the page.

“How many times is this now?” she asks to break the silence.

You glance up at her but don’t answer immediately, your eyes tracing the line of her jaw, which you then replicate on the paper. “I dunno. Haven’t been keeping count. But I need to make sure I get everything… perfect…” You trail off, enamored with your task.

The fact is, you don’t draw many people. Portraits aren’t your forte, and that’s the main reason you’ve had to draw Carol as many times as you have before you take out your paints. Still, she can’t resist teasing. “You’ve never drawn me before this, have you?”

“No…” More scribbling.

“This isn’t quite playing out like those romance movies where the artist draws their partner all the time.” She tries to sound disappointed, but it falls apart the moment you look at her with a raised brow, and she cracks a grin.

“Since when have you wanted one of those storybook romances?” you shoot back, playing along.

“Hm…” She purses her lips pretends to be deep in thought. “Ever since you started drawing me I guess. I have to admit, it’s flattering, and you make me look good.”

You chuckle. “While by this point I’m confident I could draw you from memory, drawing from reference is always better.” You grow quiet again, presumably putting the finishing touches on your newest study, then set it off to the side as you turn your attention back to Carol. “And for the record, I only draw what I observe, so if anything, you make you look good, not me.”

Carol’s not one for bashfulness, but there’s something about your tone and how you look at her that prompts her to avert her gaze as she suddenly finds the white bedsheets very interesting. She only ever reacts like this to compliments when they come from you because you’re the artist and you can find the beauty in everything so when you say that you found it in her, well, that’s the highest honor, isn’t it?

Her eyes slide back up and you’re grinning because you know what your words can do to her. You want her to love herself like she loves you. Plus, you won’t lie: you like having this power. Shy Carol is a rare sight (and a sight, she would tell you, is reserved solely for you).

Deciding the space between you is too great, you crawl forward into Carol’s bubble to kiss her and she welcomes you because really, her bubble’s got enough space for two.

When you paint, you tie your hair into a bun and use paintbrushes to hold it in place. Carol won’t admit it but she really likes when you do that. You also change into clothes you don’t care about getting dirty, like a ragged and flimsy shirt with loose threads and a pair of sweatpants with holes. They’re well-used and paint-stained, much like the plastic storage cabinets in your art room.

The designated art room of the house is organized chaos, but there’s a certain charm to it. It’s the physical manifestation of all the ideas you have in your head, and Carol feels privileged that she’s able to take a peek into your mind via the drawings taped to the walls and the sketchbooks stacked on the desk. It’s the room with the largest windows and she’s not surprised you’d created more butterfly paintings since the first one; you can see them all the time.

She’s seeing them right now from the glass sliding door leading to the backyard. It’s dark out, but a few painted ladies remain exploring, not yet ready to turn in for the night. Her cup of coffee has been empty for a few minutes now, and her attention only shifts when she hears your footsteps padding through the hallway.

“You okay?”

It’s late and the darkness always seems to warrant lowered voices. Your enquiry is gentle and fatigued, and Carol turns to look at you rubbing your eyes, an attempt to fight off sleep but that’s a losing battle.

“Yeah,” she replies, speaking quietly in turn. You join her in staring outside. “There’s been so many of those butterflies.” While the painted ladies have been around for a few weeks now, she, as well as many others in town, still like to reiterate the peculiarity of the occasion. The subject hasn’t gotten old, and it might not anytime soon. It’s too special to gloss over that easily.

You hum and smile sightly, and Carol spots it in the reflection on the glass. Then you tell her you’re going to clean up and go to bed. You sound faraway, evidence of sleep finally taking over, and she grins as she nods okay. She kisses you quickly and says good night.

As for her, she lingers for a short while before following your lead, taking her time washing her mug and setting it on the drying rack where it would be ready for the next day. One of your sketchbooks is on the dining table, so she picks it up and walks to your art room to return it. The only light on in the house is that in the bedroom, visible through the crack at the bottom of the door, but she needs none to find her way to her destination.

The moonlight pouring in from the windows is enough to illuminate the canvas sitting on the easel. After Carol sets the sketchbook down with the others, she walks over to inspect your current work in progress. It’s not finished, but you’ve completed enough of it that she recognizes herself staring back, and she understands that you don’t make paintings; you make mirrors.

This is your final draft, she realizes. It’s the culmination of all your studies, in which you’ve enshrined the planes of her face on paper and on canvas and in your mind because your soul will live forever and you carry the thought of her like a rabbit’s foot tucked into your pocket.

One of your sketchbooks is open on the desk next to the easel, and she picks it up so she can see the page more clearly. It’s from the morning you’d drawn her while in bed, the picture she hadn’t seen at the time. This is the reference you’re using. She’d been wondering why you hadn’t yet gotten back to her about pose ideas, or announced that you’d be starting the final piece so she’d better clear her Saturday to be your model. She just assumed you wanted more time to practice and to settle upon the perfect pose for the mood you wanted.

And the perfect pose, it would seem, was no pose at all. Carol’s posture in the drawing and the painting is relaxed, half her body concealed by the bedsheets she’d struggled to untangle herself from that morning (they’d just been so comfortable). She’s propping herself up on her elbow and the hand of her other arm rests atop the blankets. Her eyes stare directly ahead, like she’s watching the viewer, and even she’s unable to deny the sense of intimacy this affords. It makes the viewer an active participant rather than a mere observer, which appears to be your goal—you want the viewer in your shoes. You want them to feel what you feel.

Carol’s eyes switch back and forth from the sketchbook to the canvas, comparing the details. The painting is still missing a date and signature, but they’re present in the drawing, at the bottom and off to the side so as to be non-invasive. There’s a title too, in quotation marks: My Favorite Place. Her chest blooms with warmth and her lips curve in a fond smile. You want the viewer to feel at home.

There’s a strange sensation in the pit of her stomach, an inexplicable mix of heaviness like there’s something there and an airiness like she’s about to sprout wings and lift off from the ground. Her heart wrenches hard enough she swears it might shatter—for you, always for you. She loves you with every bone in her body and perhaps the town’s influx of extraordinary visitors these last few weeks has been her doing because every time she thinks of you, she gets butterflies.

[longlistshort]

Silver Jews- Random Rules

I first heard about David Berman and his band Silver Jews a while ago, as they were one of those bands you heard about if you were a Pavement fan. But sadly, I never got around to listening to them until now.

Stephen Malkmus and David Berman went to the University of Virginia and later moved together to Hoboken, New Jersey. There Malkmus, along with their other roommate Bob Nastanovich, played with additional bandmates as Pavement, and together with Berman they formed the Silver Jews, although Berman soon remained the only constant member of the band.

When I discovered that David Berman had passed away and read the many quotes from his songs posted online by friends and fans, I finally spent some time listening to his music. There are just so many great lines in these songs. For instance, from Random Rules, posted above- “In 1984, I was hospitalized for approaching perfection/ Slowly screwing my way across Europe, they had to make a correction”. It’s a funny opener and the whole song is filled with quotable lyrics. Towards the end are the lyrics “I asked the painter why the roads are colored black/ He said, ‘Steve, it’s because people leave/And no highway will bring them back’.” So many of his songs are like this, the humor mixed with the pathos.

Silver Jews disbanded in 2009 and Berman quit making music for awhile. In 2011 he started a blog. In May, ten years after he stopped making music, he released the album Purple Mountains. The lyrics to the songs on this album, including the one below, are poignant, made even more so after his death. In a recent interview with Exclaim!, he discusses each song off that album.

Purple Mountains- All My Happiness Is Gone (song starts 2:06)

He also wrote poetry, and this poem, from his book Actual Air, is just so incredible I’m presenting it in its entirety (via poemhunter).

Self- Portrait at 28

I know it's a bad title but I'm giving it to myself as a gift on a day nearly canceled by sunlight when the entire hill is approaching the ideal of Virginia brochured with goldenrod and loblolly and I think "at least I have not woken up with a bloody knife in my hand" by then having absently wandered one hundred yards from the house while still seated in this chair with my eyes closed. It is a certain hill the one I imagine when I hear the word "hill" and if the apocalypse turns out to be a world-wide nervous breakdown if our five billion minds collapse at once well I'd call that a surprise ending and this hill would still be beautiful a place I wouldn't mind dying alone or with you.

I am trying to get at something and I want to talk very plainly to you so that we are both comforted by the honesty. You see there is a window by my desk I stare out when I am stuck though the outdoors has rarely inspired me to write and I don't know why I keep staring at it. My childhood hasn't made good material either mostly being a mulch of white minutes with a few stand out moments, popping tar bubbles on the driveway in the summer a certain amount of pride at school everytime they called it "our sun" and playing football when the only play was "go out long" are what stand out now. If squeezed for more information I can remember old clock radios with flipping metal numbers and an entree called Surf and Turf. As a way of getting in touch with my origins every night I set the alarm clock for the time I was born so that waking up becomes a historical reenactment and the first thing I do is take a reading of the day and try to flow with it like when you're riding a mechanical bull and you strain to learn the pattern quickly so you don't inadverantly resist it.

II two I can't remember being born and no one else can remember it either even the doctor who I met years later at a cocktail party. It's one of the little disappointments that makes you think about getting away going to Holly Springs or Coral Gables and taking a room on the square with a landlady whose hands are scored by disinfectant, telling the people you meet that you are from Alaska, and listen to what they have to say about Alaska until you have learned much more about Alaska than you ever will about Holly Springs or Coral Gables. Sometimes I am buying a newspaper in a strange city and think "I am about to learn what it's like to live here." Oftentimes there is a news item about the complaints of homeowners who live beside the airport and I realize that I read an article on this subject nearly once a year and always receive the same image. I am in bed late at night in my house near the airport listening to the jets fly overhead a strange wife sleeping beside me. In my mind, the bedroom is an amalgamation of various cold medicine commercial sets (there is always a box of tissue on the nightstand). I know these recurring news articles are clues, flaws in the design though I haven't figured out how to string them together yet, but I've begun to notice that the same people are dying over and over again, for instance Minnie Pearl who died this year for the fourth time in four years.

III three Today is the first day of Lent and once again I'm not really sure what it is. How many more years will I let pass before I take the trouble to ask someone? It reminds of this morning when you were getting ready for work. I was sitting by the space heater numbly watching you dress and when you asked why I never wear a robe I had so many good reasons I didn't know where to begin. If you were cool in high school you didn't ask too many questions. You could tell who'd been to last night's big metal concert by the new t-shirts in the hallway. You didn't have to ask and that's what cool was: the ability to deduct to know without asking. And the pressure to simulate coolness means not asking when you don't know, which is why kids grow ever more stupid. A yearbook's endpages, filled with promises to stay in touch, stand as proof of the uselessness of a teenager's promise. Not like I'm dying for a letter from the class stoner ten years on but... Do you remember the way the girls would call out "love you!" conveniently leaving out the "I" as if they didn't want to commit to their own declarations. I agree that the "I" is a pretty heavy concept and hope you won't get uncomfortable if I should go into some deeper stuff here.

IV four There are things I've given up on like recording funny answering machine messages. It's part of growing older and the human race as a group has matured along the same lines. It seems our comedy dates the quickest. If you laugh out loud at Shakespeare's jokes I hope you won't be insulted if I say you're trying too hard. Even sketches from the original Saturday Night Live seem slow-witted and obvious now. It's just that our advances are irrepressible. Nowadays little kids can't even set up lemonade stands. It makes people too self-conscious about the past, though try explaining that to a kid. I'm not saying it should be this way. All this new technology will eventually give us new feelings that will never completely displace the old ones leaving everyone feeling quite nervous and split in two. We will travel to Mars even as folks on Earth are still ripping open potato chip bags with their teeth. Why? I don't have the time or intelligence to make all the connections like my friend Gordon (this is a true story) who grew up in Braintree Massachusetts and had never pictured a brain snagged in a tree until I brought it up. He'd never broken the name down to its parts. By then it was too late. He had moved to Coral Gables.

V five The hill out my window is still looking beautiful suffused in a kind of gold national park light and it seems to say, I'm sorry the world could not possibly use another poem about Orpheus but I'm available if you're not working on a self-portrait or anything. I'm watching my dog have nightmares, twitching and whining on the office floor and I try to imagine what beast has cornered him in the meadow where his dreams are set. I'm just letting the day be what it is: a place for a large number of things to gather and interact -- not even a place but an occasion a reality for real things. Friends warned me not to get too psychedelic or religious with this piece: "They won't accept it if it's too psychedelic or religious," but these are valid topics and I'm the one with the dog twitching on the floor possibly dreaming of me that part of me that would beat a dog for no good reason no reason that a dog could see. I am trying to get at something so simple that I have to talk plainly so the words don't disfigure it and if it turns out that what I say is untrue then at least let it be harmless like a leaky boat in the reeds that is bothering no one. VI six I can't trust the accuracy of my own memories, many of them having blended with sentimental telephone and margarine commercials plainly ruined by Madison Avenue though no one seems to call the advertising world "Madison Avenue" anymore. Have they moved? Let's get an update on this. But first I have some business to take care of. I walked out to the hill behind our house which looks positively Alaskan today and it would be easier to explain this if I had a picture to show you but I was with our young dog and he was running through the tall grass like running through the tall grass is all of life together until a bird calls or he finds a beer can and that thing fills all the space in his head. You see, his mind can only hold one thought at a time and when he finally hears me call his name he looks up and cocks his head and for a single moment my voice is everything: Self-portrait at 28.

There is only so much time to read, listen to, and see all the wonderful things people have created. David Berman made work well worth spending some of that precious time on.

Rest in Peace.

[mx-requests-forum]

[Fulfilled] Flower Shop

Prompt: kiho hanahaki disease au angst with an angsty end [plot: Hoseok loves Kihyun but Kihyun and Changkyun love each other and have been dating for so long that Hoseok can’t even confess] Idk i want to cry as a baby.

Fulfilled by @welcome-home-we-haz-biryani ! Thank you so much!!

Words: 3822

AO3 Link

Raising the tall flute to his lips, Hoseok takes a delicate sip.

The bubbling, golden champagne fizzes in his mouth, deliciously ice cold. It leaves a pleasant buzz on his tongue before he swallows it down, into the brunt of his body heat. He follows the feeling of the icy streak down his eosophagus until it disappears into the heat of his stomach.

He takes another sip, staring out unseeingly into the night as he refocuses on another cold shot seeping down his throat, down the canal that he's pretty sure lies so close to his lung cavity, close enough that the pleasant coldness brushes those nerve endings, spiking a shortlived burst of semi numbness through the expanse of his lungs.

He likes it. He likes the cold. He likes the numbness.

He likes how he can't feel his fingers holding the icy flute of champagne; he likes how the drink itself is so icy he can barely taste it but feel it instead with each sip and swallow. He likes standing out here in the balcony, unprotected by the cool, nightly breezes that have the tip of his nose numb and aching and find their way through the fancy dark blue suit he wears to sting at his body. His muscles are aching in the involuntary stiffness they're held in, his body shuddering unevenly from the freezing atmosphere. His feet too have gone numb and aching, given how long he's been out here, his back turned to the warmth and lights inside where loud laughter and chatter await to welcome him.

Hoseok sucks in a long, deep breath of the biting, raw air that smells of winter and snow. Breathes it into his lungs as long as he can. The cold reverbates inside him, and he decides he'll stay here a bit longer. He takes another sip, unseeing eyes lingering until they fall onto the balcony railing. And the numbness he tried to encase himself in cracks ever so slightly as his mind scrambles at something to think about.

He looks at, does not see, the flowers and ribbons twining around the rails in picturesque decoration one would pinpoint to some kind of celebration taking in place inside the stylish black building. And who would know better than Hoseok, the person in charge of all this decor? He looks at the flowers, and even though the night is so dark it would swallow him up, save for the dim yellow lights shining from above, he can see the dark, majestic purple petals streaked with black, perched atop stems the darkest, velvety green. The boquet is set off with a thick satin ribbon and bow of a light, creamy shade that twines along the railing till the ends wrap around the flowers in the middle.

"You know what to do, hyung. I know you do."

Hoseok is a horticulturist. That's what everyone insists on calling him, even though he has no degree in botany, or anything faintly close to biology. He prefers to stick to his own story wherein he worked part time at a flowershop, just another university student short of cash and wanting to be more authorative of his life. Besides, he liked flowers okay, and he thought himself lucky to get a nice job with a not-so-bad pay, as long as his employers were nice. It had seemed like the most cliched thing in the world at the time: a flowershop run and owned by a friendly old couple who were to remain satisfied with the life they'd lived to the very end. And as time went on, he realized some cliches are cliches for a reason.

Kihyun had never been skeptical of his choice of part time job, not even when he stuck to it through all their four years of university. After all, they were just students willing to work at anything as long as it offered enough money to manage moving out of the dorms or a fancy date. Everyone was doing the oddest of odd jobs, some of them with the better catch like Kihyun, who was a teacher's assistant and tutor being paid by the hour; some of them like Hoseok, on neither end of the bell curve but in the peaceful in-between; and some like Changkyun, one of the many juniors Kihyun tutored, who pieced together a myriad of odd and part time jobs to earn enough to eat.

Hoseok takes a cold breath, but this time it refuses to numb him, rattling his nerve endings so that inklings of sharp stabs bloom in his chest. Puffing out the breath just as rapidly, he raises the flute to his lips and gulps. The drink is still cold enough to frost over his innards, nipping the ache in the bud.

For now.

Hoseok was good at his job. He was nice to the customers. He charmed them with smiles and advised frantic first dates with the right flowers. He was very good at arranging complex bouquets, too, and he always had the shop restocked with the most exotic, beautiful flowers within the budget, much to his employers' bemused amazement. The flower shop, in short, slowly but surely gained popularity. Never did he let a flower wither before time, and to every green thumb and enthusiast, he gave the same answer:

"Just find out what makes a flower thrive."

And when that was followed with a "Well, what is that?", he answered the same, too:

"Love."

One thing that surprised him, though, was the concept of regulars. He'd believed that type of customers was a luxury for cafes and bars; places where people went to find some sort of comfort, some kind of peace.

Turns out there are two types of people-- those who look for relief and those who relieve. Flower shop regulars are always the latter, and who would know better than Hoseok, who's made the shop and its contents his life's work?

And he also knows that some of those people are empty and broken, that they need love as much as they prefer to be a giver. And that giving is what fixes them for a while, until the cracks reappear and they wind up at his counter once again, to which he smiles gently and hands them the bunch of flowers that's been waiting for a couple hours. Sometimes he sees the hollowness, the pain mirrored in their eyes so clearly it hurts, and they know he does. But it's the kind of personal pain you can't talk about, only sense and understand.

Why else do people buy flowers, and why else does each kind of flower hold a special message?

Most of the regulars weren't that deep-- the art major who loved sketching portraits (they later hired her to design a new sign), the hopeless romantic who stabbed himself one time too many in the pursuit of single roses or even the elderly old man who hobbled in like clockwork every Sunday for any type of flower, as long as they were white.

"Hyung, don't laugh..."

Hoseok did have some special clients, for whom he reserved only the very best. Changkyun, for instance, who came to be Kihyun's star crossed lover and vice versa.

And not that Hoseok was playing the younger dirty, but he wanted only the best for his best friend.

So the first time Changkyun burst into the shop, looking windblown and wide eyed, Hoseok just smiled.

"Kihyun told me he'd be going out tonight..."

"I need help."

"You're not the first, not the last."

"C'mon, hyung, you know better than me what Kihyun would like."

"I do know he has an expensive taste."

"I'm willing to work overtime."

Hoseok saw determination with its sharp edge behind the haze of first time date panic in the boy's eyes, and decided he just might give him a chance.

"Then this one's on me, kiddo."

It was more of an unspoken pact, signed the day Hoseok went to the back of the shop and reappeared with a magnificent bouquet deep purple flowers streaked with black, set off with a creamy ribbon, which he handed to a gaping Changkyun with the same charming smile he gave all his customers.

Make Kihyun happy.

Hoseok realizes he's draining the already none-too-generous flute too fast, and that the cold is seeping away too fast. He can't afford to go back inside. Not now. Not yet.

A gust of Siberian wind blows and he sucks some in, nostrils stinging and eyes watering slightly. But his lungs are nowhere near the four liters they're meant to intake at maximum capacity before they start to crumple in on themselves. His ribs ache, muscles spasming as he smothers a fit of racking coughs, swallowing down the itch and urge with practice that's been perfected over a span of some years.

Years in which the flowers changed, blooming more exquisite, more beautiful. And then there were so many that Hoseok allowed himself to restock the shop with them. Even when the old couple passed on the ownership to him, they didn't ask many questions about how he was managing it all. They seemed to believe what he said about making flowers thrive.

"Will you do us the honors, hyung?"

Kihyun was still training to be a teacher by the time Hoseok was officially the manager of now his flower shop. On one of the rare gap days Kihyun had between studying and working, he met up with Hoseok at the cafe they'd been going to ever since their first year of university. From stressing out over assignments to talking of buying an apartment, the place had always been home. Summer rain poured down the window panes as they sipped their hot drinks, and Hoseok can still taste the milky latte he had as fresh as the champagne he's drinking when Kihyun showed him the engagement ring on his finger.

"..Why am I not surprised?"

Kihyun had laughed, a rare, bashful smile on his face.

"Yeah, I know. It's just...I don't know if either of us are ready."

But Hoseok knew then, and knows now, that Kihyun was, if anything. prepared. Kihyun is a man who knows what he wants and knows how to get it. He knows his limits and strengths. He's a practical man, one used to the solidness and accuracy of mathematical formulas given life by physics, rather than the enigmatic tangles of the emotion called love. And Hoseok knew he'd get over that confusion too, because that's what Kihyun is good at doing: removing obstacles from the path of destination.

And judging from where Hoseok's standing today, Kihyun has been successful, like he always is.

The flute sweats in his hand, his palm uncomfortably clammy. The champagne has long lost its fizz as he downs the last drops of it, abruptly erupting in goosebumps. The cold is there but now it feels all wrong as odd parts of his body freeze while others sweat, his skin a patchwork of blotches. His heart is thudding unsteadily as the brunt of memories wash him over, vision distorting with each beat. He pulls in short, shallow breaths but no precaution in the world can stop the stabbing pain from blooming in his abdomen.

"It has to be you, hyung...after all this time Kihyun always loves your flowers. I want it to be the best day ever for him."

Hoseok exhales heavily, enduring the ache in his ribs with patience perfected over years.

It's already the best day for him, flowers or not. Because he has you.

Empty flute in hand, he finally turns and stumbles towards the doors. It takes a few tries for his stiff, aching fingers to clutch at the delicate handle and wrench them open, nose stinging again as warmth settles over him. He unsteadily makes his way down the winding staircase, sounds of laughter and talking growing louder as he descends.

How many dreams and fantasies has he tied up into bouquets and given away?

Hoseok reaches the marble floor just as a waiter passes by; in perfect choreography he places his empty flute on the tray perched on his hand and walks on without a second glance, navigating his way through the cliques of guests and dancers. His eyes raise above their heads, darting around as if looking for someone.

How many of those wishes are here, up against the walls, decorating the banisters and arranged in countless vases and tables, all on shameless display?

He sucks in a breath, the warm air agonizing inside his already tormented alveoli. He feels like a fucking tropical forest in there, squeamishly hot and wet and suffocating.

His eyes finally light on the couple who stand arm in arm amidst the guests, eyes bright and sparkling as they happily chat away with another one of their friends, Minhyuk. They lean into each other impulsively; yet as rings glint on their fingers, it's as if they're taking full advantage of the new titles they now hold for the same love.

Changkyun catches his eyes first and eagerly waves, pointing to him and talking to Kihyun at the same time, no doubt telling him there he finally is.

Does anyone even know what his flower shop has become as they mindlessly place in orders?

"Hoseok! Where were you?" Kihyun exclaims when he's within earshot, his eyes shining with drops and lenses wide in an expression Hoseok knows so well it's almost odd in this setting. The same look he gave him studying for finals is the same look he gives him right now, as a married man of three hours.

Hoseok half smiles.

"Bathroom. Think I'm coming down with something."

Kihyun raises an eyebrow, gently breaking away from Changkyun, who starts chatting away with Minhyuk again, deeming Hoseok socially present.

"For two hours? Are you okay?"

Kihyun's his best friend. Hoseok sighs, then immediately smothers a cough.

"I may have had a couple drinks too, y'know?" he manages to smirk at him, watching as he physically relaxes, eyes a little less critical.

"This is supposed to be a happy day, Seok. Not just ours, but..." Kihyun's voice trails off, reaching to place a hand on Hoseok's bicep.

"I mean, ours, you know what I mean? I ...I really can't tell you how much it means to me for you to be here...and have done all you have..." Kihyun purses his lips, and Hoseok's genuinely surprised for a second.

"Hey, hey, Ki, what're you getting at?" he asks, half laughing albeit confused. They've stepped off and away from Changkyun, who continues to mingle cheerfully.

"No, I..." Kihyun chuckles, too, a tad awkward as he tries grasp for reason between the mix of emotions flooding through him. Hoseok waits, like he always does when Kihyun's bogged down like this. Even now, he looks stunning, dark hair swept in a curve over his head, his black suit setting off his creamy skin perfectly and bringing out his dewy, bright eyes. They now meet his again as he finds words.

"I mean, Seok...it's just that you're my...my best friend...we've known each other so long it's crazy...it's...it's just...kinda...surreal...to be standing here at this point, me married, you my best man...and we literally grew up killing slugs on the pavement... it's just--" he breaks off, suddenly blinking unevenly.

"Oh, oh dear, is my conservative brother possibly feeling, oh, I don't know, emotional?" Hoseok bursts out laughing, thumping Kihyun on the back as he furiously dabs at his eyes.

"No! You idiot, shut the fuck up, I--"

"Hey," Hoseok chuckles fondly, "it's okay, Ki."

As he gently tugs his best friend into a hug, the latter allows himself to sniffle a bit into his shoulder. Hoseok soothingly rubs his shoulder, squeezing it comfortingly.

"We've come a long way, I know," he murmurs before thumping him again. "C'mon, Ki, you've got lenses in! Man up on your wedding day, mate," he teases as Kihyun chuckles weakly against him. "I never thought you'd be the type to go all soft like this."

"I'm not all soft, Seokie, I'll be fine in just a minute..."

"Stubborn as ever, are we?" Hoseok shakes his head. "C'mon, why haven't you run off to your precious honeymoon yet? That'll dry up those tears in no time," he adds with a smirk, earning a slap to his arm.

"You bastard," Kihyun says fondly, dabbing at the corners of his eyes one last time. "When are you gonna settle down then, huh? The next wedding I attend better be yours."

Hoseok rolls his eyes.

"Oh, Ki, are we having this conversation again? Besides, you've been married three hours, bro, I wouldn't get so high on my horse about being 'settled down'," Hoseok grins and is jabbed again.

"Aw, c'mon, Seok, you had it going so good with Hyungwon," Kihyun smirks, but he just shakes his head, smiling softly.

"Hyungwon, and all these other...flings...I've had..." he stares off into space as he searches for words, "they don't feel like the real thing, Ki. I've always felt as if I'm trying to distract myself from something bigger...something more true."

"Distract?" Kihyun's eyebrows have shot up as he latches onto the word. "Are you quite possibly in love already, Hoseok? Some unattainable crush?"

Hoseok meets his eyes, picoseconds stretching like taffy into eons, a lifetime of thoughts flashing through his mind, some of them blooming and withering on his tongue in a matter of those picoseconds.

"I couldn't say," he murmurs quietly, the raucous noise surrounding him comparatively peaceful to the white static in his head. "It's more like it doesn't feel right. I want to...I want to feel that click....like you and Kyunnie," he says out loud for the first time, watching Kihyun. Watches his eyes widen and then go bashfully dreamy.

"Click," he hums, as if testing the word out on his tongue, smiling slightly as he does so. "Guess you could say that. But it doesn't do much justice to what it feels like. And...I understand if that's how you feel, Hoseok. If you're waiting for that..then I'd say it'll be worth it."

It definitely has been.

"Someone's whipped," he raises an eyebrow, grinning as Kihyun's cheeks color, eyes crinkling. "Now please run off to that honeymoon already, Ki, because I really don't feel well enough to hang around any longer and I'm definitely not leaving before sending my best friend off."

"You know what, fuck the system, you're right," Kihyun agrees. "Just for you, though," he adds unnecessarily, and Hoseok smacks him.

"Don't pile your horny fantasies on me, mate. Get out and get 'em, tiger!"

"I already have him," Kihyun says none too quietly as he sashays back towards Changkyun. A second later he comes dashing back, throwing himself on Hoseok in a hug.

"Bye," he says meekly, causing him to snort before crushing him back,

"God, Kihyun, I feel like I'm sending you off to preschool," he laughs. "Didn't know you'd be so afraid of of all the nasty things you two are clearly--"

"Gah! Enough, I don't love you anymore," Kihyun rips away, his eyes crescents. "The one time I'm actually soft, Hoseok, I swear--"

He's cut off with a yelp as Hoseok scoops him up and carries him back to Changkyun, ignoring all the eyes that turn on them.

"Your husband is very eager to get on with the honeymoon," he smirks as Changkyun blinks. He sets down Kihyun. "You can carry him bridal style later, though. No hard feelings."

"Oh my God, Hoseok! On my--fucking--wedding!" Kihyun shrieks, whacking him with a fist. Hoseok shrugs.

"Isn't that what you invited me for?"

"The car's ready, let's get you two going!" Jooheon bursts in out of nowhere, the equivalent of Hoseok as Changkyun's best friend. Like the bachelors they are, all the friends gather to herd the newlyweds out of the hall and all the way to the car, Kihyun ranting about his picture perfect wedding being hijacked and Changkyun shrieking along happily by contrast. The movements charge Hoseok's lungs more than they can afford, but he manages to hold down the coughs that itch his throat with each breath he heaves.

It's only as the car is revving up, headlights bright in the dim night when the roof pulls back and Changkyun waves from his seat.

"Get married, suckers!" he yells, standing long enough to violently throw the bouquet he's holding. Minhyuk shrieks, darting forwards.

All at once, the car moves off, Kihyun and Changkyun waving. Around Hoseok everyone else is laughing and shrieking, the bouquet seemingly moving in slow motion. Hoseok watches his dreams and fantasies streak across the sky, arcing and tumbling gracefully towards the outstretched arms.

It shouldn't hurt as much as it does when everyone misses and the flowers hit the ground.

They are his, after all. He can't be anyone's catch either.

Does anyone realize what else flowers can serve for whenever they enter his shop?

Hoseok has a jagged edge, an edge that yearns to have another half that will fit with him perfectly. And if the one half he had has clicked with someone else so contently, who is he to rip them apart?

After all, all he's wanted is for Kihyun to be happy.

He's willing to let his own jagged side be chafed blunt. It isn't meant to fit in with Kihyun's anyway, not after all that he's witnessed. If he's meant to be they way he is now, he'll take it.

After all, Kihyun's always loved his flowers, delivered at the hand of Changkyun.

That's what keeps Hoseok at bay, after all these years. He now sits in the semi darkness of his flower shop, long returned from the wedding and idly gazing at the silhouettes of the flowers that surround him, perched on shelves, stands and vases.

Kihyun loves them.

He smiles ruefully, ignorant of the tears cascading down his face. It's normal flowers that need love to grow. His flowers /are/ love. A suffocating, insurmountable love that overwhelms him to the point that he doesn't know what to do with it until they come spurting out as flowers, like carbon compressed into diamond.

His flowers grow on pain.

Hoseok breathes in shakily, tears dripping faster, and does nothing to stop the racking coughs that eat at his lungs from the inside, familiar wet clumps inching up his throat. He doubles over, choking on his love.

The flowers don't want to stop, blooming black and purple and red. That's never bothered Hoseok. He's ready to die at their hand anytime. That's who Hoseok is, really. He's someone who settles for anything.

A flower shop, this illness, a tormented heart...

...Kihyun being happy.

The only thing he's changed, though, is this flower shop to a shrine.

[pandolfo-malatesta]

I decided to answer some questions from this list for my girls.  If there are any others you’re curious about, let me know and I’d be happy to answer them.

15. What was something their parents taught them? It should come as no surprise that Judith’s father taught her how to use a camera.  The first step was the mechanics of the machine—where the plate goes, how to adjust the focus.  But equally as important are the artistic elements.  Those he taught more subconsciously, by letting her observe as he photographed clients and by critiquing his results.  And though he was sometimes surprised by the things she asked, or that she had to ask certain things in the first place, he always answered her questions about techniques and processes. 

But her mother was the one who encouraged her in other artistic endeavors, in painting and sketching and studying.  Before Judith got a camera of her own there was only so much time she could spend practicing with Papa’s; Mother rightly pointed out that learning other mediums would be useful.  Maybe Isabela had a dim hope of luring Judith’s affection from photography to a more feminine and therefore more socially acceptable art form.  If that were the case, she never tried to stop her daughter from joining the studio.  But it was on their trips to the museum, and even their visits to Grandmother Rodrigues’ friends’ homes, that she pointed out the way that velvet and silk reflected light differently, and how the ancient Greeks and the Egyptians portrayed the animals so very differently. 

And it was probably from her that Judith first got her hankering for color, because no matter how pretty Mother looked in photographs she never looked as vibrant and spirited as she was in real life.  From that young Judith got it into her head that only color could make her look real.  Later on Judith learned, from Papa and Mother both, how to capture a subject’s essential qualities, thus making them look lively even in monochrome; soon after that she also learned that rather than having their essence revealed most customers simply wanted to look as attractive as possible.  But she never lost the desire for true-color photographs.

21. What is their favorite thing about their personality? Pauline is generally pretty satisfied with herself as a human being.  She knows she has flaws (like the gap between her teeth) and faults (that she’s too concerned with appearances, for instance, and that she wants a grander life than her parents have, which surely means she’s greedy and ungrateful), but in her own opinion those black marks are largely obscured by her many good qualities.  The best of these, she thinks, is her ability to make friends with almost anyone.  It’s a boon at work, of course, where establishing a rapport with the prickly or uncertain customer leads to sales.  But being able to chat amiably with others has proved a pleasant way to pass time and has led her to learn many new things.

23. Do they get lonely easily? It’s mostly during working hours that Hana gets any time to herself; she’s rarely alone otherwise, whether she’s out with her friends, spending time with Roman, or helping her parents at home.  While she’s sweeping and scrubbing is her best chance to think and to enjoy the quiet.  If asked, she’d say she rarely feels lonely, but she would admit to missing people: mostly Jozef, Zuzana, and Thomas, but even her sweetheart if it feels like it’s been too long since he held her properly.  At those times it’s best that no one is around to see her shiver and sigh and blush at the thought of his arms around her.

37. How easy is it for them to say “I love you”?  Do they say it without meaning it? For the Kollárs, “I love you” is rarely said, though always understood.  Hana knows Mama loves her because she’s kept warm and well fed, and she knows Tatko loves her because of the way he used to tuck her blanket up under her chin after a story at bedtime, and she knows Jozef loves her because he tried to teach her his lessons after school and never called her names the way some older brothers did to their sisters.  Likewise, they’ve never had to doubt that she loves them.  They just don’t go around saying it all the time.  Actions speak louder than words anyway, right? 

For that reason and others she wasn’t expecting Roman to say it first. She knew he liked being around her and hoped that he was fond of her in the same way that she was of him.  And then he did, his lips against hers and the scent of flowers surrounding them both, and everything was different.  Hearing him so sure of his feelings was a surprise greater than the flowers and his kiss.  Now there’s no reason not to tell him she loves him at every opportunity.  The words sometimes feel insufficient in light of how she feels for him; at the same time actions alone aren’t enough—nor are the type of actions that would best communicate her feelings appropriate for an unmarried couple to engage in. So for now the words have to be enough, and she means them with every fiber of her being.

38. What do others admire most about their personality? Hana admires Pauline’s lightness and ease in any social situation, and Judith’s dignity.

Jack admires that Hana has the patience and fortitude to put up with Skittery.  That, as he well knows, is a monumental task.  More seriously, he appreciates that she cares for him so thoroughly and deeply; knowing that someone is looking after his pal takes a load off his mind. 

Judith doesn’t know Hana well enough to admire much about her, but according to Roman she’s the sweetest, hardest-working woman ever to walk the earth.  David’s got nothing but good to say about her, too, though his praise is markedly less fervent.  So maybe she’s a little envious of Hana.  She admires Pauline’s energy and aesthetic sense, as contemporary fashion is one arts-adjacent field she’s never quite got the hang of.

Jack admires Judith’s clear sight.  For all that she works in an artistic field, she’s straightforward, level-headed, unpretentious.  Plus she made his family—four-legged members included—look good, and Dave can use all the friends he can get.  (I, for one, am interested in what some other people admire about her.  Just throwing that out there.)

Pauline admires Hana’s steadiness and good humor and generosity, and Judith’s wit and regal bearing.

And it goes without saying that Jack admires Pauline’s boldness and verve and willingness to stab a guy who deserves it.

39. What does their happily ever after look like? For Pauline it’s marriage to a faithful, kind, noble young man, and a few babies somewhere down the road (not too many, though, and not too soon).  It’s moving away from the rooms she grew up in.  Unless she falls head over heels for a rich man they won’t be able to afford a house at first; even if the move is simply to a place of their own in a different building it will be a good start.  Eventually, with hard work and thriftiness, they’ll be able to afford their own place, just the right size for their family and with a little yard for the dog—if her husband happens to have one.  They’ll have a big bed and curtains so fine they float on the faintest breeze, a bathroom they don’t have to share with anyone else and a table large enough for at least half a dozen guests.  Their home will be full of friends and happiness and love.  She’ll sleep at night in her husband’s arms with their children nearby, all of them safe and comfortable and utterly adored.

53. What is their hair color?  Eye color?  Skin tone? I’m cheating a bit on this one.  When I was first coming up with Judith I wrote the following to describe her from David’s point of view; though I never got to use it verbatim in a story, it was really useful to me. 

As the young woman strode toward him Denton’s voice echoed in his head, urging him to note details and impressions.  So: Miss Cook had a complexion the color of antique gold, with a faint olive cast.  Strong nose with a bump at the ridge; full eyebrows over green eyes; dark hair frizzing out of its updo at the temples; dark dress that at first appeared merely serviceable but upon closer inspection was actually finely embroidered and expertly tailored; whiff of flashpowder and darkroom chemicals as she extended her hand.  Nothing about her was what he’d expected.  “I’m Judith Cook,” she said.

56. What do they smell like?  Why do they smell like this?  (Is it the things they’re around or a perfume they wear?) As above, she smells like the tools of her trade: magnesium and silver nitrate and sulfur.  Since then David might have also picked up on her perfume.  It smells like oranges and flowers and he’s not sure what else.  (This scent, a blend of orange, white rose, and cedar, fits the bill, though it didn’t exist in 1905.  This site describes some early 20th century perfumes.) 

57. How do they feel about sex?  Are they a virgin? It is by no means something she’s proud of, but Pauline is in fact interested in the subject.  Unfortunately, the person she’s most comfortable asking about such delicate matters is only slightly more experienced than she is in them.  At least Hana has confirmed that Pauline isn’t alone in wanting to do a little more with her sweetheart than just holding hands and kissing goodnight.  It’s reassuring to know that thinking about those things doesn’t make her perverse.

But thinking about it is confusing.  Her education on the subject has been far from comprehensive, consisting of oblique lectures about what good girls don’t do, giggles from coworkers, and overheard complaints from customers.  It’s far more daunting this way than if everything had ever been explained; what she’s heard has her apprehensive enough not to be too forward with Calvin.  Mostly she’s content to have his arms wrapped around her, holding her close as he whispers sweet things in her ear.  But sometimes that intimacy is enough to cause her fear to waver, and that makes her think that when the time comes everything will finally make sense and she’ll be alright.

For his part, I think Calvin tries to rein in his more physical reactions to her.  The desire in their relationship is not one-sided, but she’s still young, and they don’t need to move any faster than they are right now.  He wants to do things the right way, for everyone’s sake, and he isn’t about to take risks with her future.

63. What is always guaranteed to make them smile? Hana is a sucker for babies and the smell of fresh hay.  When she gets a whiff of the latter she’ll stop in her tracks, her eyes closing of their own avail; she’ll take a deep breath of it and remember the hayricks in fields just outside Revúca, the flash of blades from mowers’ scythes and piled-high carts pulled by sturdy horses.  Sometimes the memory adds a hint of wistfulness to the slow smile that spreads across her face.

77. What is their most prized possession? If you think that Pauline, the quintessential romantic, doesn’t have a box containing every note and card that her beau ever gave her, you’re wrong. 

82. What is their handwriting like? Because of her dyslexia, Judith’s handwriting isn’t the best.  If she could she’d communicate via pictographs instead.  Anything she wants to write requires a lot of thought and effort, and it still never reads back as fluid as it sounded in her head.  Her handwriting is more angular than she’d like; it can also be disjointed in places where she’s had to stop to work out a spelling before she goes on.  Her pages never look very tidy as the examples in her penmanship exercises at school.

84. Which deadly sin do they represent best? Pauline: avarice.  She wants more than she has, wants to move up in the world, literally and metaphorically. Hana: envy.  She wants what others already have, particularly marriage and a home with her own family.  Judith: pride.  She doesn’t want to be pitied or looked down on, especially not because of silly things like her relationships or lack thereof and her choice of career—her choice to have a career.

[local-idiot-heartbroken-blog]

08.02.18: Third Time’s the Charm?

So surprisingly I got a second date with Taylor. This time around we were getting dinner...accordingly I planned out the date a few days in advance. My plan was to get sushi, go to the view in Hacienda Heights and lastly dessert at Macchiato. On paper the date seemed perfect since she likes asian food, hikes/scenic views and dessert. But when do things ever go according to plan? So minutes before clocking out (around 5:25) my boss calls a meeting for the whole tax department, how convenient. He claimed it would take 10 minutes max, but this dude didn’t stop talking and it pushed almost 20 minutes. The whole time my anxiety was intensifying because I didn’t want to make her wait. As my patience was running to its end, I see her walk to her car from my boss’s window and I say “oh shit!”. He laughs and says “you can go” and within like 20 seconds I changed and packed up all my stuff. I walked up to her car eagerly and I caught a peek of her smile through the car side mirror. We headed over to Kamon Sushi (first time I went was with Barry and Tiffany) in Rowland and she spoke with excitement about how she loved sushi. I mentally patted my back for the good choice. Dinner went well, the conversation ranged from majors to music taste. Based off our conversations, she is definitely sharper than most people I have come across. After dinner I let her decide between going to the view or dessert first. She chose going to the view first and it was the better choice of the two (although I didn’t know that until after). We got to the base of the hike at about sundown. The reason I chose this location was its proximity to the dessert place and also because you can hear the buzzing from the power lines. I felt like that would make the spot more interesting and memorable. While hiking our way to the top of the overlook, she was looking around and was noticeably enthused. I knew then and there that my decision to go on this hike was a success. For once I was at a view with no boba and a GIRL (it was truly a rare occurrence). Once we were at the peak we talked about our week; she noted that it seemed like I’m always lost in thought. She then proceeded to ask what I think about and due to my inability to filter my thoughts I told her a good amount of what runs through my mind. I told her I think mostly about how I can find happiness and fulfillment in my life. She seemed to be interested in the fact that I think about those things which surprised me.  Taylor said she also thinks to herself a lot and that she even practices meditation. We spent about 30-45 minutes up there and when I sensed she was starting to get cold I suggested we go get dessert. The hike down was very steep and I actually purposely picked it for this very reason. I planned to used the steepness as an excuse for her to hold my hand, but I was too shy to offer my hand. To my surprise, (yeah I know she keeps surprising me but it’s good) she wrapped her arm around mine in order to walk down more stably. There was a cute moment while walking down, from a distance she noticed like 4 odd people dressed in black approaching us. To be honest, I didn’t notice them until she pointed it out, but I asked her if she was scared and told her to walk behind me. As they got closer, they really did seem sketch, luckily they weren't. She was clinging onto my back and it was an adorable side of her I haven’t seen until that instance. For the final part of the date we went to Macchiato (s/o to Barry for introducing me to this place). She was fascinated over the fact that they had mochi waffles (which was oddly reminiscent of my first time there). We ended up getting the mochi waffle (I didn’t tell her that I wasn’t too fond of them because she was super eager about trying them). Taylor is really cute when she’s eating because she just seems passionate about everything she eats. Every bite taken she would have some silly smile on her face talking about how good it was. Being with her I feel a bit insecure because I wonder if I am even attractive enough. Regardless of those thoughts, everything went really smoothly and we finished up our dessert. This is where one of the two (noticeable) mistakes happened throughout the whole date. She offered to pay for the dessert, but I insisted I pay and when I did she looked upset. I was so confused because I’ve been raised and taught to always pay, what was the right move in that situation?! In order to get away from her obvious irritation I just struck up another conversation and by the time we left things were okay again. I held her side while we were walking and I really didn’t know where this boldness came from. While driving her back to her car I mustered up the courage to hold her hand. It’s been awhile since I gave anyone physical affection and I felt super nervous. I dropped her off to her car and as we were saying bye I kept hugging her and letting go (it was very awkward stalling to say the least). Then I let go and leaned forward to kiss her, our lips touched, but I didn’t feel reciprocation so I quickly fell back. She said “too fast” and I was super embarrassed and flushed. I walked toward my car and said “please disregard that” and she laughed and said “see you tomorrow”. Once I was back in my own car, my embarrassment came all the way to the surface and I felt so stupid. I knew I shouldn’t have listened to my boss (who is single af), but somehow I fell for his advice because I didn’t want to be friendzoned. Besides those two hiccups the date overall was really great, dare I say 9/10. I still am unsure how this relationship will pan out, but I do want it to go further than this. Needless to say I’m very scared about this, I can already feel some emotional vulnerability and leverage being shifted into her court. If a third date happens, this timeline will continue. Let’s hope for the best. 

[caltropspress]

Notes on AKAI SOLO’s Eleventh Wind

Rhythm in poetry need not be “smooth” or “musical” (since that word has a questionable meaning). Be cautious of these descriptions as a so-called “good ear.”

—“Manifesto” from Russell Atkins’ Juxtapositions

I try to become really liquid with the shit—not even liquid. I try to become formless.

—AKAI SOLO

Always the same thing. A drop of hope glimmers, then a sea of despair begins to rage, and always the pain, always the pain, always the anguish, always one and the same thing.

—Leo Tolstoy, The Death of Ivan Ilyich

I've been robbing motherfuckers since the slave ships.

—The Notorious B.I.G., “Gimme the Loot”

1.

There’s an “unfinished” aesthetic (I mean it gently, fondly) to AKAI SOLO’s work. His rhymes often start in medias res. The listener needs to become oriented to what he’s spewing, but he barely allows you to catch your breath. For anyone who’s ever been thrown [au]topsy-turvy by an ocean’s wave, you can respect the power of the primordial soup flow. Each verse is a wipeout. It’s Ron Wilson’s relentless drums on the Surfaris’ 1963 “Wipe Out” and the Fat Boys’ rollicking 1987 version all at once—joy pulled from despair.

2. “…a sunken system”

What is flow? In AKAI’s case, it’s something abrupt—both a step-up and a step-to. Is it free-form? Is it automatic writing gone horribly wrong? Is it asemic writing? Is it a Ouija-like push of the pen across the page? A flower doodled on scrap paper? Is it AKAI’s language acquisition happening in real time—a babbling? It’s not an infantile flow, though. Mannish boy? Man-child? It sometimes sounds like lips smacking of Mississippi mud. Think of AKAI on Shrine’s “Parables” (which begins with the lapping of waves—not the babbling brook): he takes “a deep sea soak in plasma.” The structure and borders of AKAI’s bars are liquid (formless); his words wash over.

3. “Pondering of the painter in between strokes.” (An Unknown Infinite, “Concrete Slides”)

Who’s out of pocket? Geochemistry tells us small pockets of water pulsate deep below the Earth’s surface. I find AKAI to be offbeat in both senses of the word. He’s both outré and outer space. Antediluvian and FEMA flood recovery plan. His bars rupture the very notion of time, of meter. To rap along with AKAI is to have an out-of-body experience—our neuroscience skitters and we gain an astral perspective on what the physical mouth is doing. Sheldon Pearce has called AKAI’s verses “impressionistic.” Plugging into AKAI’s music is to induce the Stendhal syndrome—beholding the sublimity of Claude Monet’s Impression, Sunrise, but—more accurately—Calida Garcia Rawles’ Singularity, seeing as how AKAI keeps it hyper-real. He “signs” nearly all his songs—another painterly touch.

4. The Earth is a great place to visit, but I ain't stayin’. (J-Ro, The Alkaholiks)

AKAI SOLO is for the antisocial kid who quotes Bruce Lee under their yearbook photo: Empty your mind. Be formless, shapeless—like water. Water is everywhere on Eleventh Wind, even if the album title suggests other elemental forces. AKAI sometimes slurs, but not drunkenly—this isn’t some stumbling and staggering likwidation: it’s a reflection of your own grogginess, your own inertia from sleeping on his flow. There are oceans between J.M.W. Turner’s The Slave Ship and the “Big Pimpin’” of Jay-Z, but AKAI’s poetics bridge the two. He comes at us, off-kilter, aslant, like the uneasy and queasy cover art for O.G.C.’s Da Storm.

5. “…a ship came, seeking harbour, fleeing from torture & swords” (from Kamau Brathwaite’s “Noom”)

The content often defies logical reasoning. He spits non-sequiturs in a literal sense, in that he does not follow. He machetes his own path (cutlass, more likely). AKAI is Cappadonna with his words—his slang is editorial, and it floods similarly. Zilla Rocca has called Cappadonna’s work “a waterfall of energy and creativity.” The same, seriously, could be applied to AKAI SOLO. I’ll call it logorrhea—and I don’t mean that pejoratively. It’s the seasickness you stomach so you can see the sunset from hundreds of miles off land.

The songs on Eleventh Wind are essentially single verses. There’s no middle eight, only an interminable Middle Passage. And water is everywhere.

6.

AKAI’s lineage traces to the same cove you’d find Mr. Complex and Saafir washed ashore. Like those predecessors, his un-rhymes and rhythm-driven bars beat against the rocks, ebbing just when you think he’s flowing. He’s an H2O proof MC. He’s Black hydropower, and, like the ancestors, AKAI continues to speak of rivers, of swerve of shore to bend of bay.

On “An Ode to the Isolated,” argov’s production sounds submerged, certifiably Cousteau. We’re immediately in the deep, and the beat platforms AKAI’s aqua-lung breath control. He’s “in a den of dissonance dissolving,” which puts language to what’s happening sonically here better than a critic ever could. AKAI is “overwhelmed by your deep blueness”—the vast blue sea. These are pandemic blues. The Covid-minded lyric, “Masks donned as requested,” doubles as the masculine trap to swallow pain, smothering emotion in gritty sand, while still forward-facing a street persona. AKAI has acknowledged Eleventh Wind was, in part, generated from a depressive state.

7.

[Testimony of John Cranston, a sailor upon the Polly, describing a slave woman hoisted down to sea from the mainmast in a chair after being isolated for small pox, June 15, 1791]

Q: Did you not hear her speak or make any Noises when she was thrown over—or see her struggle? A: No—a Mask was ty’d round her mouth & Eyes that she could not, & it was done to prevent her making any Noise that the other Slaves might not hear, least they should rise. Q: Do you recollect to hear the Capt. say any thing after the scene was ended? A: All he said was he was sorry he had lost so good a Chair. Q: Did any person endeavour to prevent him throwing her [over]board? A: No.

8.

“Tetsuo” draws on Tsukamoto’s trilogy of cyberpunk perversity. How AKAI could feel “washed before the water touch the skin” is beyond me, as the skin crawls with maggots. The penetration of metal rods, but no tetanus—no lockjaw. Only body horror flow. He’s sketching futures—and all of them are nightmarish: “Surrounded by a blanket of ashes, / We all fall down like that one song said we would.” AKAI vaguely alludes to a plague rhyme of yore. And the uncertainties we’re living with come through even in his drafts, as the liner notes on PTP’s cassette release of the album provide a set of lyric options: “Surrounded by a sea/bed/blanket…” Choose your own misadventure.

9. From at least the sixteenth century onward, a major part of the ocean engineering of ships has been to...minimize the wake. But the effect of trauma is the opposite. It is to make maximal the wake. (Christina Sharpe, In the Wake: On Blackness and Being)

On “Tainted,” AKAI—young as he may be—identifies the foolishness of some of his peers: “N----s wanna toast on a slave ship / …sinking with the drink.” AKAI suggests they’re still on the slave ship, ignorant of the fact. When he goes off on a paranoid tangent full of what seem to be elementary internal rhymes, it’s anything but: “hitting a lark / in the dark / in the park / skill a shark / or a narc / ill a mark on his job every time.” This litany of monosyllabic rhymes sounds an alarm.

10. “Even though the vessels differ, we’re all still sailing. / …navigation through suffering.”

“Still Sailing” acts as a centerpiece for the water imagery on Eleventh Wind. It’s also a self-assessment of his style. The “wavelength irregular” puns on wave and owns the irregular flow; “my groove goofy,” he admits. His vulnerability is stunning, refreshing: “I was ensuring my work was worth something.” Such vulnerability is liquid, is flux, reflects reality:

In a dirt sea, all I am is a seed Reaching for what I mean to Rooted in what it is, galvanized by what can be.

Even AKAI’s other nature metaphors—like earth (be it rare-earth or “Real Earth,” no matter), seeds, and roots—are built on water ones (“dirt sea”). This is Wallace Stevens-level abstraction. “Flowing like katanas of grass / Landscaping through with blazing sound waves” does it again (“flowing”/“grass”). And, of course, the mention of flowing katanas invites a Liquid Swords comparison. With the even cuts of AKAI’s sharp lyrics, it’s warranted.

I want to feel like Vast Aire, “like Moses with a staff that parts the Red Sea,” but it’s not so simple. Meaning is slippery on the album—hard to get your footing, your sea legs. Listeners are pulled into rip-tides and torn asunder, repeatedly. AKAI’s songs are raw—not in a hardcore way—in a work-in-progress sense, the way some of the most sincere songs humans have recorded are at times unfinished ones. Like Dylan’s “Santa Fe,” for instance, where the words converge into a slurry.

11. “Your water heavier than it’s supposed to be and they know that.”

On “Candor,” AKAI speaks on the burden of family discord, a “dilemma with me and mines.” In venting, he channels and subverts LL Cool J: “Don’t call it a comeback / These are just preliminary steps / On your back like structural racism is.” Where LL foregrounded his pugnacious masculinity, masking his insecurities (all the while calling for his “Mama”), AKAI is more likely to allow his tears to rain down like a monsoon. Candor has its origins in kand, meaning “to shine.” AKAI’s words offer glimmers of clarity, of openness.

12. “Depression stirs me before the morning chirps.”

Eleventh Wind closes with “Nebula”—gases flow, dust is bathed in glowing starlight. Again, we’re persevering: “Sound like nil singing / Feeling like nebula unraveling / Feeling like infinity expanding.” The consecutive gerunds emphasize AKAI’s desperation. He’s nihilistic here, nonexistent (“nil”) and grasping for meaning. In that way, he’s not so different from us approaching his music. Whether people are hot or cold, irate or aloof, he turns to water for comfort: “When I want to feel the heat I don’t get from people, I resort to water. / When I want to feel the cold I know people for, I resort to water.” AKAI SOLO doesn’t just bless us, he christens us.

Images:

The Fat Boys & The Beach Boys, “Wipeout” music video (screen shot) | The Surfaris, “Wipe Out” 12” (Decca, 1963) | Fat Boys, “Wipeout!” 12” (Tin Pan Apple, 1987) | Jay-Z, “Big Pimpin’” music video (screen shot) | J.M.W. Turner, The Slave Ship (1840) | Originoo Gunn Clappaz, Da Storm cassette cover (Duck Down/Priority Records, 1996) | Claudia Garcia Rawles, Singularity (2018) | The Alkaholiks, Likwidation album cover (Loud, 1997) | James Neagle, Frontispiece for the Dying Negro (1793) | Screen shot from Tetsuo II: Body Hammer (Shinya Tsukamoto, 1992) | Hokusai, Feminine Wave (1845) | Carina Nebula, NASA, ESA, and the Hubble SM4 ERO Team | Claude Monet, Impression, Sunrise (1872)

[vorthosjay]

GDS 3 Essay Response

In case anyone was interested, I entered the GDS. Since others seem to be posting their essays, I figured I might as well too.

If you made last night’s deadline, good luck!

1. Introduce yourself and explain why you are a good fit for this internship.

My name is Jay Annelli. I work in Emergency Management [Note, I’ve redacted more info about myself here].  As part of my job, I’m expected to deal with unexpected events at any given time and develop creative solutions to problems under severe time and financial constraints. This usually means working collaboratively in cross-cutting teams to create the best possible outcome, whether it’s a plan, a process, or the response to an event. I strongly value collaborative working environments and the pit sounds like exactly the kind of place I would thrive.

Because of my work in Emergency Management, I work well in stressful environments and roll pretty easily with sudden shifts in priorities. For instance, last year I was given five weeks to move our entire 30,000 square foot warehouse operation, a project that should have had months to plan instead had weeks. I’m used to projects being suddenly cancelled or having to re-work them from the ground up based on new directives with little time. But those same experiences have given me the skills to sell projects to senior leadership, and with government work I know how to slowly get traction for an idea while completing competing priorities.

I’ve always been a jack-of-all-trades, and thrive in positions where I have a lot of different kinds of tasks to complete. I’ve got experience in everything from legislative analysis to warehouse logistics.  And I love Magic, and have turned my hobby – passion about the lore – into a paying freelance gig. The reality is I’m not going to be the best designer ever, but you don’t need great designers because you’re not working in a vacuum, you need people who can come together and make great design teams. I’m an experienced leader and manager and work well in team environments where I can complement my teammate’s skills. More so, I recognize the process through which work gets completed is often more important than the skills of the individuals performing the work. R&D has gone through some fairly major organization shake-ups lately, and it would be my hope to help continue to improve processes.

2. An evergreen mechanic is a keyword mechanic that shows up in (almost) every set. If you had to make an existing keyword mechanic evergreen, which one would you choose and why?

Storm! Because NOTHING could possibly go wrong with that idea…

In all seriousness, Dash is such a quintessentially red mechanic that I’d like to see it appear more often. There aren’t a whole lot of current mechanics that would make good evergreen mechanics, but cards like Ball Lightning and its kin were a staple of Magic for years. Red is all about short-term thinking and temporary gains, or making moves before the outcome is determined. While Impulse Draw has been a great way to try and overcome Red’s weaknesses, there’s still pretty clearly more work that can be done. Giving Red access to low cost but temporary creature spells really plays into the same flavor for red. It also gives the player a choice when combined with Red’s traditional looting. Do you cast the creature permanently at a slightly overcosted mana cost? Or do you keep it in hand and for fuel for your later game looting effects, like Cathartic Reunion?

Existing Dash cards focused on the ability to have surprise cheap attackers, with one or two covering Enter the Battlefield effects. What I think would be interesting are abilities that punish or reward the use of Dash versus hard casting. For example, if a Dash dealt damage to its owner when it returned to its owner’s hand, or included a more powerful “at the beginning of your upkeep” ability if the player manages to hard cast it. I would argue that it could be pushed into more colors than Red and Black, as long as the abilities involved were representative of the colors.

3. If you had to remove evergreen status from a keyword mechanic that is currently evergreen, which one would you remove and why?

Defender! I’m actually surprised that defender is still around after all of these years, as it’s by far the least useful keyword ability. Now, the idea itself is fine, but with ‘unblockable’ no longer a keyword, it doesn’t make sense to me that its counterpart hasn’t been similarly de-keyworded. One of the biggest problems I see with it is that the game places all sorts of conditional “this creature can’t attack” restrictions on cards, but none of them use defender. For instance, why wouldn’t River Serpent have defender, when for all intents and purposes it has conditional Defender? Magic doesn’t keyword “can’t block”, either. Defender has gotten a little bit of “Defender tribal” in some sets, but I’m not sure there are any cases where the use of ‘Defender’ is advantageous over simply saying the creature can’t attack. There are a handful of cards that care about creatures with defender, but a switch in the wording might make them even more useful, if you concentrate on creatures who can’t attack.

Besides the templating issues I mentioned, I just don’t think the keyword is needed to accomplish the intended effect most of the time. Most of the time creatures with defender seem to just be intended to be solid blockers, and the circumstance in which someone is going to be attacking with a creature that has zero power are rare enough that I’m not sure why Kinjalli’s Caller can get away without defender but a Pride Guardian needs it. In some case, creatures with defender have evasion and there might be an issue with abilities that can actually give them power, but in those cases simply giving them the ability to block the evasion (like if Wall of Air had reach instead of flying) removes most of their attacking potential, anyway. And in those few cases where an aggressively costed creature is necessary, “This creature can’t attack” doesn’t take up much more card space than “Defender”, which usually gets its own line on the template anyway.

4. You're going to teach Magic to a stranger. What's your strategy to have the best possible outcome?

If I had an optimal environment, I would stack two decks that allowed the game play out in a mostly scripted fashion, slowly introducing concepts over the course of a game, with the game playing out in favor of the person I was teaching. I would start with the pre-game basics: explain the library and graveyard, and have us both drawn seven cards, keeping our hands revealed. I would explain the most important parts of a card: the artwork and flavor text. Wait. I want them to have the best outcome… so instead I might explain casting costs and card types. The new player’s expectation is ‘What do I do?’, so I show them the land, and how tapping the lands allows you to pay for the other cards. Ideally I’d have one-drop that the new player could cast to feel some satisfaction on their first turn. This would go back and forth, with each turn explaining a new card type.

If I’m being honest, I’m stealing this from the 7th Edition tutorial, which had you play a scripted game out against the computer while learning each part of the game. The Duels of the Planeswalkers games fulfilled a similar function, and I’m the living embodiment of that Onion joke about someone explaining the rules to a game and insisting it will be fun. So if I REALLY wanted the best possible outcome, I’d get hired by Wizards of the Coast and sketch out a plan for a contemporary update of that 7th Edition Tutorial, maybe even a short web game, which I believe also existed once, so that there’s a consistent learning environment available so people don’t have to rely on potentially not-great teachers to know the game.

5. What is Magic's greatest strength and why?

Magic’s greatest strength is its versatility. It’s amazing that there are over a half-dozen ways to play and that there’s a huge Magic fandom that’s all over the map when it comes to gameplay. The framework on which the game was build is so adaptable that I was seriously playing kitchen table magic for years before I even learned there were more formats than just casual. Most of those more competitive formats just don’t appeal to me (although I recognize their value and find them interesting). Other major competitors, like Pokemon, Yu-Gi-Oh, or Hearthstone, just don’t have that. Their frameworks, in some way or another, pidgeon hole them into specific playstyles. As much as Magic’s extensive rules cause me consternation, I know they’re the building block that makes everything else work. Whereas in Magic it just means an idea needs some creative problem solving to come to fruition, other games don’t have that extensive framework and thus don’t provide players with the same layers of choices.

Versatility allows choice, and choice is the key to a fun game. You want to allow enough that players can get creative. The same card can be used in entirely different ways even in the same format. It’s something that’s always fascinated me about the competitive scene. And then between formats, the card has entirely different value. I wish this answer felt like more just vomiting back things I’ve read on the Mothership for the last decade or so, but that doesn’t make it any less true.

6. What is Magic's greatest weakness and why?

Magic’s greatest weakness is its complexity. In the last answer I talked about how the rules are an extensive framework from which a lot of different games are built, but they can also be a huge barrier to entry. Complexity is a good thing, but Magic sometimes has far too much complexity for its own good. Even learning how to parse the Magic jargon is a challenge. In my career in Emergency Management, one of the major tenets of Incident Command is to avoid acronyms and jargon, because they’re hugely cultural and often feel like learning an entirely new language.

That’s not just limited to how people and players talk about the game, but how the game talks about itself. Keyword abilities are probably the most difficult. There are dozens of evergreen keywords alone, from activate to vigilance, that a new player needs to learn as a baseline before they can even start to parse deciduous mechanics, and then set-specific mechanics. Most Magic players who engage online have long forgotten what a barrier that is, which of course creates a disconnect between new and established players. And Magic players aren’t always the most patient, so when you sit a newby who still has to ask basic questions all the time, a single negative player is going to hurt their interest level.

Most of Magic’s players aren’t engaged online or at tournaments. They play at home like I used to do, and they buy packs from sets that look cool. I had no idea Kamigawa wasn’t a resounding success until I actively engaged online. To me, it was the cool plane of Samurai. When they open a pack and it has abilities with no reminder text, that’s a distraction from the game. Stopping to look something up online costs time and goodwill, which inevitable costs players.

7. What Magic mechanic most deserves a second chance (aka which had the worst first introduction compared to its potential)?

Level Up honestly has a special place in my heart, and I can’t help but feel that there’s a whole lot of space left untapped there. I think too many of the Level Up cards didn’t make each level feel important, and I think Monstrosity stole a little bit of its thunder. One of my biggest issue with it is that each level didn’t feel like a tangible benefit. I would probably change it look more like a Monstrosity variant, a place to sink larger amounts of mana to get a progressively more impressive creature. This would especially be useful as Monstrosity has some major flavor limitations. The template seemed to have been Figure of Destiny, but I don’t think any of the existing Level Up cards capture that quite in the same way as Warden of the First Tree. Warden of the First Tree could easily have a Level Up cost of {1}{w/b} and be a very similar card (although not exactly the same).

Sets like Ixalan that need some low cmc mana sinks could instead use a mechanic like Level Up. The original flavor was meant as a nod to Zendikar’s Dungeons and Dragons “Adventure World” theme, but it could easily be expanded beyond that. There seems to be design space, like with Monstrosity, to the actual ‘Leveling Up’ process. None of the current crop use one time effects upon reach certain levels, and that seems like a great way to make each level interesting for commons and uncommons with the mechanic without them all being Warden of the First Tree levels of power or complexity.

8. Of all the Magic expansions that you've played with, pick your favorite and then explain the biggest problem with it.

I would pick Return to Ravnica, although the biggest problem is the same as the original Ravnica block. With the ten guilds, the blocks tried to do too much, and failed to make all ten guild mechanics equally satisfying. There’s a lot of nostalgic love for those sets, but honestly I think the new set paradigm is going to be far better for any future Ravnica blocks. There just aren’t ten equally interesting mechanics to go around, and at least three of the guilds felt weak because of it. Return’s biggest problem is that it introduced new mechanics when it didn’t really need to, or used mechanics with limited design space to replace mechanics with equally limited space. Not every guild needs a keyword mechanic to be engaging, and in fact I would say most don’t, especially the guilds more focused on creatures, like Boros or Gruul, that could get by with some interesting effects on various cards but whose most interesting cards rarely seem to use their mechanic - or don’t need it to be a keyword mechanic.

Conservation of space is obviously going to be an issue as we start returning to planes like Ravnica a third, fourth, or even fifth time. You can’t burn through ideas at the rate that Ravnica has been if you’re going to still have something interesting for future returns. Ravnica is a lot of fun and a very satisfying place to set a product, but I think re-using other well liked mechanics  rather than constantly trying to come up with new ones will by far serve design better.

9. Of all the Magic expansions that you've played with, pick your least favorite and then explain the best part about it.

Born of the Gods I would have to say is at least one of my least favorite sets, although it’s hard to say the definitive least favorite. Heroic and Inspired are two of my least favorite mechanics ever. But I really love the world of Theros and I think from a flavor standpoint, and the use of Bestow in Born of the Gods was stellar. It showed what the evolution of a mechanic in a second set should be, with cards like Eidolon of Countless Battles being particularly potent as both a creature and an aura. Most of the Bestow cards in Born of the Gods are simple designs that take advantage of the premise to create solid effects that work both as creatures and auras. The best designs don’t need to be fancy, they just need to make the most of a mechanic.

But the real reason I picked Bestow is because of Chromanticore, which to me exemplifies what makes Magic fun. Sure, there are more competitive cards out there, but for the casual player nothing captures the imagination more than a card like Chromanticore. Chromanticore is a big, splashy creature that demands you build around it. It has a soup of abilities that would make it appealing as a creature on it’s own, but the chance to cast it as an aura is incredibly tempting. Every set needs a card like Chromanticore that’s shiny for the casual crowd and may even entice a few more competitive players to build around it.

10. You have the ability to change any one thing about Magic. What do you change and why?

Mark Rosewater’s “Sorceries with Flash” instead of Instants really appeals to me, but I suppose he’s written about that so much that I would again just be regurgitating things I’ve read about the game online. So let’s expand on this in a way I’m not sure I’ve seen before, and talk about how to reorganize how things are typed. Supertypes always seem like a waste to me. Legendary Artifact Creatures or Legendary Enchantment Creatures usually mean the the sub-type (aka the good stuff, if you’re like me) can only support one type, maybe two if both are very short words. I’m not sure there’s really a good reason that can’t be represented some other way, either in a different frame (Legends are supposed to be different and special, after all) or with some other kind of symbolism on the card.

The sorceries with flash idea sounds really good on paper, but we get back into the issue of jargon, and another word new players have to learn. I would instead make Instant a subtype of Sorcery, opening up a few new avenues. You could also have ‘interrupt’ sorceries, that can only be cast in response to something. That’s an element of the game that was streamlined for good reason, but could open up some new design possibilities. I like otherwise how Enchantments are handled these days, so it’s really reworking supertypes and sorceries that I would change if I could change how types work. The legends issue has implications for tribal decks, so I think that’s what I would focus on, as it seems the most achievable.

[marginalgloss]

no leisure at all

Like other novels in Patrick O’Brian’s Aubrey-Maturin series, the title of The Nutmeg of Consolation contains within it a dark joke. In the story, those words* are the name of a ship, and one of the many names of the Sultan who featured in this book’s precedent, The Thirteen Gun Salute. It’s a pleasing image, a phrase which feels obscure, ancient, nicely rounded — more so because it isn’t clear exactly what it means. Comfort and fortification in its most absolute form. It might have been an odd name for a ruler, but for a ship, or a home, or simply a hearth, it seems entirely fitting. But what is it we are trying to console ourselves from in this instance? 

‘The world’ will do, perhaps. Maybe that’s for the best, because the world of this book is full of terrors. It begins as we left off in the previous novel, with Jack Aubrey and Stephen Maturin shipwrecked alongside the crew of the Diane somewhere in the South China sea. It is not long before they come under sustained assault from a local band of pirates; they only survive after a brief siege and a series of terribly bloody battles. It is a bleak and shocking way to open the novel; the violence is described with a cold remove, as though we were watching it through a telescope on a nearby hilltop. It’s visceral, but there is a strange silence to it. 

Here is Aubrey considering the action afterwards:

‘To some degree it was the prodigious contrast between two modes of life: in violent hand-to-hand fighting there was no room for time, reflexion, enmity or even pain unless it was disabling; everything moved with extreme speed, cut and parry with a reflex as fast as a sword-thrust, eyes automatically keeping watch on three or four men within reach, arm lunging at the first hint of a lowered guard, a cry to warn a friend, a roar to put an enemy off his stroke; and all this in an extraordinarily vivid state of mind, a kind of fierce exaltation, an intense living in the most immediate present. Whereas now time came back with all its deadening weight – a living in relation to tomorrow, to next year, a flag promotion, children’s future – so did responsibility, the innumerable responsibilities belonging to the captain of a man-of-war. And decision: in battle, eye and sword-arm made the decisions with inconceivable rapidity; there was no leisure to brood over them, no leisure at all.’

The point about ‘two modes of life’ was also invoked at the start of The Thirteen Gun Salute, only there it was in the context of a sort of holiday. Here it is life and death by comparison. But again, the intent of both passages is the same: to make us wonder which of these lives is the real consolation for the other. Perhaps a state of war isn’t always so bad if the moments in between feel like ‘time…with all its deadening weight’.

There is precious little solace to be found in the world outside the crew. The news, arriving many months late from England, is that the bank in which Stephen has recently stashed his fortune might have gone under, as so many did in those days; he might therefore be broke. Of wives and children we hear next to nothing until a scrap of hope near the end. When our heroes strike out on a chase, they end up losing the advantage and become the ones pursued by the French. It is only a happy accident keeps them from being captured or killed.

I was very struck by this haunting anecdote, told by a guest at dinner and never really remarked upon or explained, in the middle of this book: 

‘…three white bears were seen coming over the ice, a she-bear and her cubs…As she was fetching away the last piece the men shot the cubs dead and wounded her severely as she ran. She crawled as far as the cubs, still carrying the piece, tore it apart and laid some before each; and when she saw they could not eat she laid her paws first upon one, then upon the other and tried to raise them up. When she found she could not stir them, she went off; and when she had got at some distance, looked back and moaned; and since that did not induce them to come away, she returned, and smelling round them, began to lick their wounds. She went off a second time as before, and having crawled a few paces, looked again behind her, and for some time stood there moaning. But her cubs still not rising to follow her, she returned to them again, and with signs of inexpressible fondness went round one, and round the other, pawing them, and moaning. Finding at last that they were cold and lifeless, she lifted her head towards the men and growled; and several firing together they killed her too.’

This is as awful as anything else that men do to each other in this book; worse even in its brutality than the scene our sailors come upon later, on a remote island, where the entire population of natives has been killed by a smallpox epidemic. One of these scenes is pointlessly cruel, the other is merely sad. 

O’Brian never quite seems to know how to handle a scene of human disaster, but as with all the nature sketches in these books, there’s a quality to the sequence above which is immediately affecting. It is equally hard to forget Stephen’s glimpse of a dugong and its calf, for example: ‘...at all times she showed the utmost solicitude for her child, occasionally going so far as to wash its face, which seemed a pointless task in so limpid a sea.’

Is this mere anthropomorphism? I think it’s more complicated than that. (‘Inexpressible fondness’ — who chose those words? Who thought the washing a pointless task? Surely not the man telling the story at the captain’s table.) For O’Brian, looking and thinking about nature becomes a way of thinking about ourselves: a coded discourse, like art or poetry or music, which exists beyond the crude manipulations of language. It is by no means unrelated that Stephen spends so much of this book thinking about children.

Eventually we come to Australia, where the Surprise puts in some time to restock and refit. They stay longer than expected, in fact, after Stephen gets into a disagreement with an Army officer (who he ends up cutting to ribbons with one of Jack’s swords). New South Wales is portrayed as a ghastly place, rendered almost surreal with despicable inhuman misery; sketchy and weird, like something out of Beckett or Kafka. At one point there is described ‘something like a business account, with amounts carried forward from one column to another, but the numbers were those of lashes, days of close confinement in the black hole, the weight of punishment-irons and their duration.’ 

It is a blasted plain, a rare example in these books of a place almost entirely without merit — except, of course, for the wonderful wildlife. Here the animals are certainly better than the people. The one memorable character who emerges from it is John Paulton, a rare local intellectual who strikes up something of a friendship with Maturin.

Paulton, it turns out, is a frustrated novelist, who retired to the wilderness thinking that the isolation would help him finish his great multi-volume opus. It is hard not to think of the author in relation — O’Brian himself, scribbling away in that idyllic village in the south of France — except the point that’s being made here is that what Paulton doesn’t appreciate is the virtues of society and conversation as an imaginative stimulus. Paulton isn’t a failure (though the brief excerpt we read from his novel is amusingly impenetrable) — he’s just misguided. 

Here is Stephen, gently suggesting an alternative to his longing for the perfect ending: 

‘There is another Frenchman whose name escapes me but who is even more to the point: La bêtise c’est de vouloir conclure. The conventional ending, with virtue rewarded and loose ends tied up is often sadly chilling; and its platitude and falsity tend to infect what has gone before, however excellent. Many books would be far better without their last chapter: or at least with no more than a brief, cool, unemotional statement of the outcome.’

This is another one of the author’s little games; that Frenchman was Flaubert, who wouldn’t even have been born yet in the 1812 in which Maturin is speaking. What he is saying is that it’s foolish to want to end. Taken literally, it’s a sly comment on the perpetual nature of these books. But it’s bittersweet, given that so much of what we’ve witnessed in this book is a show of misery. Perhaps the only consolation to be found is in sealing one’s self tight against the seas — like those timbers of the Nutmeg herself, after she was raised — and flushing the bilges, in spite of the rats — and carrying on.

* - O’Brian seems to have borrowed the title from history, though I can’t say exactly from where; the above quote I found via Google Books in a nineteenth century miscellany.

[jnometeora]

A taste of green

White_Prologue

I was playing on the terrace of our house, the stereotype of a penthouse in  New York, without any personality. It was a windy day and I remember the intense color of the sky. 

Being alone, my attention focused on a confused chatting coming from my father’s cabinet, I started  sneaking to the door in order to not be heard nor be seen. 

I saw my father sitting at his table. He was nervous and in front of him was standing a group of men. I only managed to grasp few words: “hypermedia, cognitive abilities,…, charisma, money, power,…, control, brain. “

Above all of them, brain was the mosts recurring world.

I heard my name, “Elizabeth”,  said by someone I didn’t know. I was astonished and confused by their chat and in that precise moment, somebody said again my name - “Elizabeth, come downstairs, your mother’s is waiting for you to go to the park” - so I had to leave. 

Who where them? What was the meaning of all of those words and sentences? Why everyone was so apathetic in their expressions? Why me? Did they meant me with “Elizabeth”? 

Then I convinced myself it couldn’t be me, I was only eight years old, I was just a child. 

And I forgot about that conversation. 

Few months later, I woke up one morning, it was cold and I remember that I had a bad dream, 

A detachment feeling, lights were all over, and coming from all directions, I can remember some sentences: “Connect this last synapse with the inserted one and we are done, stitch her up and let her sleep overnight; Surgical procedure last 8 hours and 38 mins.Thanks to everyone who took part.”

I remember somebody putting a mask over my face. 

A really bad headache was keeping me in bed.

Growing up I realized my father wasn’t anymore lovely as before, I had problems in communicating with others and in social relationships; facts where disconnected in my mind and nobody really liked me as before. 

I asked my father for some explanations, in the few moments we could spend together, but I never came up with an answer of any type. The only moments I felt well and completed were in my own room, reading and trainspotting my mind in my mother’s books, especially the one speaking about Paris, the city of love, and I couldn’t forget the desire of being loved also, so I started dreaming about a new life with a new family in that city. 

Black

After my father’s death I was much more confused than before; I knew that he was the only one knowing what was said about me in his office, and that all was related to my deep controversial attitude while growing up. 

I started again to close myself in my room, the only relief was thinking about my childhood and to the books all around me. 

For this reason I decided to move to Paris; I wanted to discover more of the city and deepen my knowledge based only on my readings and fantasies. 

Last time I read about Paris I felt like I was in the city; I ramble over (…) and took a general view of the city. I crossed the Seine at the Pont Louis Quinze, and walked along the noble quays as far as the Island, admiring, on the opposite side, the vast extent of the united palaces of the Tuilleries and Louvre,(…) and whether I looked up the river, towards the Pont Neuf and Notre Dame, or downwards, to the Champs Elysees (…) I had always a noble scene before me. [1]

Charmed by this memory I needed to see that bridge and walk up the Seine to widen my glimpse. Arrived at the height of “pont neuf” I decided to cross it and to reach the “Ile de la cité” ;

the only instance where Haussmanns destruction was total [2]. Passed by Notre Dame, I crossed the “Pont Saint-Louis” leading to Île Saint-Louis; a big white sign with the red inscription “A vendre” caught my eye. I immediately called the number reported on the sign.

That was really the beginning of something new.[3]

After spending some months in Paris, [4] feeling part of something, as I was building up a new life. 

I made the acquaintance of some interesting people. One of them, Edmond, a really smart guy who also seemed to be feeling lonely and was very ready to keep me company [5]

He convinced me to use the beautiful space I bought, so we started organizing parties and events to reinforce links between all the people we knew. I was so surprised about the amount of people I met in the city in such a short period, and wanted to expand those connections. In fact, the real essence of a city is its people they provide its buzz, its soul, and its spirit, those indefinable characteristics we viscerally feel when we are participating in the life of a successful city [6]

I was so satisfied with my choice of buying this property, but I couldn’t visualize something but what it was already at the moment so before throwing our first party we cleaned the entire block letting only the facades and the roof.

That night, when I entered the space, music was quaking the high walls, and lights were sparkling and reflecting on the shiny dresses of our guests. On the ceiling the light were creating aquatic reflections and for a second I felt lonely and lost in the ocean of my past. 

Edmond brought me back to reality, taking my arm and drafting me next to the bar. He was looking for someone, he was excited and in a good mood. We finally found his friends sitting around a table in the corner of the hall, wrapped in smoke and perfume. There he  introduced me to a Swedish couple, who were in the city, like me [7], looking for new opportunities, enjoying an uncommon drink they called “ Synesthesia”. 

They offered me a metallic glass which contained a viscous liquid, slightly aromatic with a bitter green apex. wait… green? Did I just tasted a color ? 

One sip after I was watching myself chatting and entertaining the Swedish couple. I could feel how cold it was, I could smell the dust around me. I was completely immersed in the memory. I could smell, see, taste, everything. This went on for some time; my mind wasn’t anymore allocated in my body which was melting in the surrounding while my mind was rising above everything. I slowly started to feel new sensation, to experience the space from another dimension, I was able to discern all layers of sounds: the chatting of people, the music, the footsteps, the sound of the empty space and to isolate the one I wanted. Then I entered another dimension, the dimension of smells and tastes, the touch dimension and finally sight. I suddenly realize that I was able to combine them at will and even more sensations were defined.

I just had the time to realize someone were pouring some more bitter greenish “liquid” in my glass, before watching myself walking back to my car and drive away.

Blue

I was enjoying my “Chateau Musar 1975” while reading in front of my fireplace; when the door-bell rung, a blond, woman on her early thirties was chaotically speaking through the videophone. 

I interrupted her and let her accommodate on the LC4 at my place; and went to the  kitchen sideboard to pour her a glass of the same wine I was drinking asking her to calmly repeat from the beginning.

Elizabeth, I discovered this was her name, start vomiting words with trembling and confused voice. She told me she went through a singular experience, which made her mind reconnect to her body, for the first time since she was a kid, and how everything was feeling under her control; her dreams became real and her unsolved questions suddenly got answers.

I couldn’t hide my surprise. My personal interest since I was young was centered about synesthesia and its limits, the potential of this sensorial experiences and how this power could have been exploited for personal empowering reasons In people with no ethical though. 

I said to her that she could never describe (…) what happened in a more accurate way [9] there is no experience of society which is not first the experience of a few individuals. [10]

I tried to clarify to her that what she just described is a neurological condition of involuntary cross-modal association[11] called synesthesia ‘abnormal’ only in being statistically rare. [11] By imagining the world that people with synesthesia perceive, we investigated the generation of spaces. [11] what kind of world do people with synesthesia perceive[11].

I tried to speak in a more reassuring way with her, closing kindly her hand around the thin glass.

Take this great wine, for example, taste it,(…) a sensorial bomb(…) If we had to set out what the wine contains, and taste  the list would be as long as our admiration of the wine was profound, the label would cover the bottle, the cellar, the vines and the surface of the countryside, mapping them all faithfully, point by point [12]”

In the comfortable silence that followed (…) Elizabeth, keeping the wine in her mouth looking for the taste of the vines, experienced that strange but widely familiar sensation of having been there before, of having had this precise exchange with this very gentleman in this location some time ago, a fleeting moment of experiencing the present as a memory. [3] But the present itself was somehow a vivid dream, she couldn’t really explain herself where she was and how she came there. 

Her wondering about that feeling was suddenly interrupted by somebody screaming “A votre santé” and she emptied her glass before realizing that the young architect was speaking about some sketching and ideas he had in developing the spaces.

She pleased me to repeat, apologizing for being absentminded.

“The aim of the proposal is to induce a synesthetic experience in the visitors, by taking both architecture and function to the limits of perception, to the critical point where synesthesia might occur in ‘normal’ brains.[11] Passion spaces here are compared with conceptual spaces (…) in the analogy of ‘logos vs pathos’.[11]”

She was excited of my proposal and immediately asked me how to conceive those spaces. 

According to my studies, Elizabeth, Sensory deprivation proves to be an efficient method: the reaction of the neurological system in absence of any stimuli is to invent its own. A brain deprived of external input starts to project an external reality. [11]

She explained me she bought an entire block in the city center of Paris where she would like to organize those spaces. 

I asked her about the materiality of the block explaining that, there are two types of skin, the inner and the outer. If the outer skin is made of hard stone, the durability of the building will be improved. [13] Elizabeth’s happiness couldn’t be greater in becoming aware of that.

“ We will organize the inner space as follow: The part next to the facade will be left [14] empty in order to perceive the facade in its integrity from the outside but even on the inside, and working as a puffer space, an osmotic membrane between the city and the inner tensions; in fact the entrance hall is the first step in the de-conditioning process.[11] This took the place of the atrium or vestibule.[15]”

If you follow my thoughts Elizabeth, I would like you to enter this floating tank, I want to discover in deep what you went through and how can we deal it in our architecture. 

Entering the tank, I attached to Elizabeth’s head approximately twenty receptors. 

The float tank works like a de-conditioning tool, separating the body from all external stimuli and normal perceptional relations with the world. [11]

This permitted me to understand what she was feeling, to stretch her dreams and thoughts about spaces and sensorial experiences and unfold them in an architectural smooth successions of spaces . I couldn’t stop writing, and sketching associating Elizabeth’s mind readings and my studies. 

And everything was flowing in my head through my hand, the idea started to materialize in the flat land of the blank sheet, how the visitor will encounter a series of chambers, located on three different levels, corresponding to the conceptual organization of the nervous system and the associative routes of synesthesia [11]

And also how these three levels should be connected by a staircase; we have two types of staircase (…) one ascended not by stairs but by an inclined ramp, the other by steps. Personally, I strongly approve of stairs; the fewer the stairs in a building and the less room they take up, the less of an inconvenience they will be.[16] We will use both of them. 

The entrance hall was directly connected to two staircase ascended by steps, one private and one public. The public one lead directly to the third floor where the pathway begins. The three levels are then organized on ascending or descending ramps more or less inclined without differing to much from this rule: an incline of one part in height along the vertical to six in length along the baseline.[16] The ramps were designed and disposed following the natural men’s flow, theirs  linger and their crossing principle. 

This organization should lead the visitor to naturally plunge throw the street level where the chamber representing the deepest level of the nervous system is located. 

And also the most intimate part of the house, a private staircase closed to the visitors and accessible only by Elizabeth, on that pathway, which was mostly organized in the nordest part of the block, life spaces and some synesthetic chamber  were organized, but only for personal or restricted uses; the two pathway crossed several times but never interchange, they fill the inner space as  a double helix, such as the DNA, where two different (but complementary) helix will intersect keeping their belonging track. The block with its facades, as the skeleton of the head, containing the brain organized in his 3 level and the staircases the connection between the spinal-chord and the brain stem. I was tired by all this drawing and drawing. 

At some point I putted my pencil down and I breathed deeply, looking for the first time at Elizabeth face, I realized I knew her, suddenly, and that my sketches were a representation of what she has been through her past, but also that she didn’t know about the operation, and that the drink was what caused the missing reaction to activate this phenomenon in her brain. Everything was clear to me, but I was also concerned about how abnormal the situation was, much bigger than someone could imagine. She started to stare at my drawings and asked me to go on. I didn’t want her to see everything, at the moment, she wasn’t ready, so I told her that she must be exhausted and to go home. I said to her to be at the site the morning after.

Once she left I came back to draw, I wanted to elaborate everything, to put inside also my deep knowledge about synesthesia. 

We now come to the opening. There are two types of opening, one for light and ventilation, and the other to allow man or object to enter or leave the building. Windows serve for light; for objects there are doors and stairs [16], doors should only be placed in accordance to the ramps disposition and windows are in our case only for light because the ventilation will be automatically regulated. I was thinking. The organization of the Pathway started to take form. The first room is 

the “TIME SEEING” chamber, which should blurring the boundaries of the interior and exterior space [11] treated as a portico where the exact view of the site is displayed with an eight hours delay, is the only part emerging from the existing building, this circular Portico shall be covered with a Cupola. [16] the covering hemisphere is perforated from small opening bringing zenithal light into the space, corresponding to the displayed moment.

Sloping further through the pathway, there will be the “SOUNDS WATCHING”  chamber: a theater in which a full orchestra is playing directed by a passionate and vigorous conductor, but nothing is heard. In order to obtain the best acoustic the length of the “scaena” ought to be double the diameter of the orchestra.[17] And the wall has a height one ninth the radius of the central area [13]. The ramp exiting this chamber is slightly ascended and leads to the “LIGHT HEARING” chamber

A chamber were lights openings are modulated and an obscure, cold, humid and foggy atmosphere makes it possible to see the small rays coming from all directions. Freely moving into the space single tones are reproduced when interrupting a light ray.

Next up is the “HEARTBEAT SMELLING”chamber: here the participant is seated in an anechoic chamber [18] were even the visual boundaries of the chamber are blurred, the participant start to hear two sounds one high and one low.’[t]he high one is the nervous system in operation. The low one is blood in circulation’ [19] The brain then compensates the loss of auditive input by heightened attention to all other senses, and at this moment the brain is stimulated by introducing into the chamber an Imput such a particular smell and a wall changing color; hallucinations can occur after only a short while [11].

Leaving the “heartbeat smelling”chamber there will be the “SOUNDS TOUCHING” chamber where the symphonies played by the orchestra are reproduced; every color is associated to an instrument, the “artist” is now called to paint what is hearing in real time. Every color is only available when the related instrument is playing. Finished the symphony paintings are collected and distributed at the end of the next chamber: the “TASTE HEARING” chamber.

This chamber is the only one accessible also from the street, is the apex of the path, a food court were finger food is served and notes are played on regular interval, or the space is suddenly saturated by one color.

Then I re-drew the floating tank in order to be larger and to accommodate more people at the same time; I wanted it to be the last chamber, the apex of the whole pathway. All of the spaces, in fact, were conceived to be lived with the body and the mind but only that one is entering the full conscious process where people can reach their deep understanding of the hypermedia community and how we all are manipulated.

During the stay in the floating tank everybody will become completely conscious of it, and exiting the structure the memory of all the pathway get slowly blurred and the desire to restart from the time seeing chamber occurs. 

Red

The day after I woke up, still with blurred mind because of all what occurred the night before. I went out to go to the site, I decided to walk there. I waited in front of it, but nobody showed up, so I directed myself inside. 

The space was empty again, only a table in the middle was occupying it, covered of plans and sketches, annotations and also a letter with my name “Elizabeth”. 

I took the letter first. 

I opened it carefully. What was written inside confirmed me what I suspected all my life: my father sold me. Or better he sold my brain capability to a society which promised him in exchange an enormous amount of money promising him the high chance of me becoming so charismatic that I would be able to control the human kind.I smiled sadly, thinking about how different the result turn out to be, but also happy because they didn’t reach the aim to control my actions. For a second a walked in the building touching the cold walls, then I took a look to the drawings. I realized the complexity of them, but also I couldn’t stop looking at all the details, and how the pathway was fundamental to the creation of the last room, the library of people’s mind. A place where the mind takes control and different experienced can be shared and lived. In that moment a hand awake me from my daydreaming, it was the hand of the architect on my shoulder. We looked at each other, suspended in this moment, imagining together, waiting for time to give us the rush to start this adventure. 

[1] Woods, Letters of an Architect from France Italy and Greece 1

[2] Kunstler, The City in Mind

[3] Hovestadt Buehlmann, Quantum City

[4] Ruskin, The Stones of Venice

[5] Freud,The Psychopathology of Everyday

[6] West, Scale The Universal Laws of Growth

[7] Hollis, Cities Are Good For You

[8] Hays, Architecture Theory since 1968

[9] Asimov, Complete Robot Anthology

[10] Hayek, The Constitution of Liberty

[11] Ascott, Art Technology Consciousness Mindlarge

[12a.] Serres, The Five Senses

[13] Alberti, On the Art of Building in Ten Books 1988

[14] Vitruvius, Ten Books on Architecture 1999

[15] Williams, Daniele Barbaros Vitruvius of 1567

[16] Alberti, 10 books of architecture 1755

[17] Vitruvius, The Ten Books on Architecture 1914

[18] Broeckmann, Machine Art in the Twentieth Century

[19] Smith, Bare Architecture A Schizoanalysis

[sciencespies]

The Science of Fear, the Royal Scandal That Made France Modern and Other New Books to Read

https://sciencespies.com/nature/the-science-of-fear-the-royal-scandal-that-made-france-modern-and-other-new-books-to-read/

The Science of Fear, the Royal Scandal That Made France Modern and Other New Books to Read

To confront her crippling fear of heights, journalist Eva Holland jumped out of an airplane and learned to rock climb. But while she endured these experiments with a semblance of aplomb, she found that the experience did little to assuage her fears. “I was facing my fear, but it was hard to imagine my resulting feelings, or my control over them, ever improving,” explains Holland in Nerve: Adventures in the Science of Fear, one of five new nonfiction titles featured in Smithsonian magazine’s weekly books roundup.

The latest installment in our “Books of the Week” series, which launched in late March to support authors whose works have been overshadowed amid the COVID-19 pandemic, details Holland’s nerve-racking exploits, the stories of 50 forgotten female innovators, a 19th-century royal scandal that unmade France’s Bourbon dynasty, an investigation of how street addresses reflect race and class, and an overview of St. Louis’ turbulent history.

Representing the fields of history, science, arts and culture, innovation, and travel, selections represent texts that piqued our curiosity with their new approaches to oft-discussed topics, elevation of overlooked stories and artful prose. We’ve linked to Amazon for your convenience, but be sure to check with your local bookstore to see if it supports social distancing-appropriate delivery or pickup measures, too.

Nerve: Adventures in the Science of Fear by Eva Holland

When Eva Holland’s greatest fear—her mother’s untimely passing—was realized in 2015, she decided to embark on a journey of self-discovery, examining “the extent to which her many fears had limited her … and whether or not it was possible to move past them.” Nerve, a work that contextualizes Holland’s personal phobias by delving into the latest scientific research, is the product of this years-long quest.

As Holland writes in the book’s prologue, she began by breaking down fear into three “imperfect” categories: phobias, trauma, and the ephemeral. From there, she set out to answer key questions, including how and why humans feel fear, whether a cure for fear exists, and whether there is a “better way to feel afraid.”

Over the course of her research, Holland grappled with her own fears, interviewed individuals who have a rare disease that prevents them from feeling fear and met with scientists working to cure phobias with a single pill. Though she freely admits that she “can’t say that I am now in perfect control over my fears,” the journalist does note that her relationship with fear is forever changed. With Nerve, Holland hopes to instill these same lessons in others.

She adds, “Fear is an experience that unites, even as, in the moment, it makes each of us alone.”

The Address Book: What Street Addresses Reveal About Identity, Race, Wealth, and Power by Deirdre Mask

Street addresses, argues Deirdre Mask in The Address Book, convey crucial information regarding their demographic details, including race, wealth and identity, of those who live there. These numbers and names also reflect power—“the power to name, the power to shape history, the power to decide who counts, who doesn’t, and why.” As Mask writes in the book’s introduction, addresses come in handy when directing ambulances where to go, but at the same time, they “exist so people can find you, police you, tax you, and try to sell you things you don’t need through the mail.”

Take, for instance, rural West Virginia, which had few street addresses prior to 1991, when a telecommunications company began an unprecedented address-making campaign aimed, “quite literally, [at putting] West Virginians on the map.” Locals, who had long been accustomed to providing directions based on geographic landmarks rather than street names, viewed the initiative with suspicion, writes Mask.

Mask explores the tensions raised by street names—and the ripple effects of not having an address—through case studies of Nazi Germany, a Haitian cholera outbreak, ancient Rome and other communities across four continents. Per the New York Times’ review of The Address Book, the book is surprisingly encouraging for a story on “class, poverty, disease, racism and the Holocaust,” drawing on a “cast of stirring meddlers whose curiosity, outrage and ambition inspire them to confront problems ignored by indifferent bureaucracies.”

The Betrayal of the Duchess: The Scandal That Unmade the Bourbon Monarchy and Made France Modern by Maurice Samuels

The July Revolution of 1830 is perhaps best known for ending the Bourbon dynasty’s rule in France. But as Maurice Samuels writes in The Betrayal of the Duchess, the uprising had at least one unexpected side effect still evident in modern French society: namely, the rise of rampant anti-Semitism.

Samuels traces France’s pervasive anti-Semitism to the 1832 betrayal of Marie-Caroline de Bourbon-Sicile, duchesse de Berry, by her trusted advisor, a “seductive yet volatile man” named Simon Deutz. The duchess, mother of the 11-year-old heir to the crown, had been exiled in the aftermath of the July Revolution, but far from placidly accepting this unwelcome turn of events, she rallied supporters and led a guerrilla army tasked with restoring the Bourbon dynasty to the throne. De Berry evaded authorities for six months, but on November 6, 1832, was found hiding in a Nantes home. Upon emerging from a secret compartment, she reportedly said, “I am the duchesse de Berry. You are French soldiers. I entrust myself to your honor!”

Deutz, the man responsible for the duchess’ discovery, was a Jewish convert to Catholicism who gave up his former confidant for a small fortune. In the aftermath of the betrayal, according to Samuels, the duchess’ supporters came to view Deutz’s action as emblematic of modernity—in other words, a “symbol for the evils … ushered in by the French Revolution.”

Adds Samuels, “The story transformed resistance to modernity into a passion play with the Jew as villain and, in so doing, helped make anti-Semitism a key feature of right-wing ideology in France.”

The Broken Heart of America: St. Louis and the Violent History of the United States by Walter Johnson

As the geographic center of the United States of America, St. Louis has seen more than its fair share of historical happenings. In The Broken Heart of America, historian Walter Johnson traces the city’s evolution—including Lewis and Clark’s 1804 expedition, the Missouri Compromise, the 1857 Dred Scott decision, and the 2014 uprising in nearby Ferguson—from the nation’s “most radical city” to an urban center marred by racial inequality.

“The story of human geography of St. Louis is as much a story of ‘Black removal’—the serial destruction of Black neighborhoods and the transfer of their population according to the reigning model of profit and policing at any given moment—as of white flight,” writes Johnson in the book’s introduction.

Imperialism, capitalism and racism have long coalesced in St. Louis, but far from being a representative city at once torn between “east and west, north and south,” the historian argues, the Missouri capital has, in fact, “been the crucible of American history,” much of which has “unfolded from the juncture of empire and anti-Blackness in the city of St. Louis.”

Anonymous Is a Woman: A Global Chronicle of Gender Inequality by Nina Ansary

Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own contains several sayings that have since become mainstays in the feminist lexicon. The 1929 essay’s title, for example, is commonly used to describe the privacy and independence needed to foster female creativity. Anonymous Is a Woman, a new offering from women’s rights expert Nina Ansary, derives its title from another oft-repeated Woolf quote: “I would venture to guess that Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman.”

In keeping with the British writer’s line of thinking, Anonymous Is a Woman explores the stories of 50 female innovators whose accomplishments have been largely overlooked. Beginning with En Hedu-Anna, an Akkadian woman who was the world’s first known female astronomer, and ending with Alice Ball, a 20th-century American chemist who discovered a treatment for leprosy, the book uses short biographical sketches illustrated by artist Petra Dufkova to unravel 4,000 years of gender inequality. As Ansary writes in the book’s opening chapters, “It was a challenge to select only fifty women. … [D]espite formidable cultural barriers, women have developed their skills and talents, employed their intellect and creativity, and achieved distinction in diverse endeavors.”

Proceeds from the sale of Anonymous Is a Woman will be donated to the Center for Human Rights in Iran and the London School of Economics Centre for Women, Peace and Security.

#Nature

[mf-fairy-princess]

Problematic and Proud: Instagram Artist Beebosloth

Alright, I tried posting this to Reddit but that whole website is fucked so. Tumblr is crazy toxic and I want absolutely nothing to do with this website lmao, I just know if it’s posted here, it will show up in google search results. 

Alright, so there's this artist on Instagram. Nothing new and unique there. In fact, there isn't really anything special about this particular prick at all. Rather, he more-so represents a larger cancerous growth within Instagram; entitlement, and toxicity.

I know, I know, "Hey dumbass, that's the entirety of the internet." Yeah, you're damn right it is. Does that make it any less gross? Any less pathetic? These humans are still humans, they know what they're doing.

So what exactly is Beebosloth? Unless you've come here from googling the name followed by some key-word synonyms of "problematic," you're probably unfamiliar with his presence on earth. @Beebosloth (Stan Osipov) is a pretty general artist on Instagram, pumping out at least one sketch a day; his works are namely skeletal, usually black and white, usually accompanied with an odd little strip of slogan text which rarely fits the image subject. People have gotten his works tattooed, he's almost up to 300k followers now, etc etc, he's doing alright for himself.

If there's one thing that millennials and gen-Z kids' insane internet vigilante rampages have taught us, it's that successful people can be, and often are, problematic as all hell. Beebosloth is no exception.

I had been following the artist for close to 3 years, giving him general support through likes on his posts, but also going an extra mile in standing up for him for 2 problems he had been facing repeatedly as an artist. First, due to the general popular aesthetic of his art, his works were getting reposted a lot, often without credit. There would even be imitation accounts which would post nothing but his art, essentially pretending to be him. I repeatedly took it upon myself to give them the ol' trollish finger wag, in an unlikely hope they'd better their behavior or at least let passersby know who the real artist was.

Another problem he was facing was Instagram support; (Ooh what a surprise, when has that ever happened to anyone)? The way he went on about it had us all believing that Instagram would never punish those who committed these unethical acts. And that was the entirety of the problem at first; not punishing other people who had done him wrong. He made several posts and stories complaining about this, usually enticing his followers to go out and do his bidding in this regard. Then . . there was an incident, and the first instance that really alerted me to Beebosloth's behavior.

This is a man who spends half his posts whining because he refuses to learn how internet-related copyright laws work. Even though with the sheer amount of trials and failures he's experienced, he should be an expert on them by now. A dude who claims every 5 seconds that he's getting his work stolen . . . which is why this next part is such a kicker.

I wish I could remember the time exactly, (but unfortunately I'm not pursuing a degree in problematic Instagram artists, and these details have just really just slipped my mind). It was March; I believe of this year. I scrolled through Instagram like normal, came upon a new post by beebosloth, and noticed that this one had about twice the typical amount of attention attached to it. Osipov had posted a doodle of a skeleton arm, holding up a ticket which read "1 WAY TICKET TO HELL." Pretty simple, pretty basic. And the next picture on the slide was the exact same thing, only this time, it wasn't in his style. I believe he also included screenshots of an incredibly petty argument between him and the other artist, in which she accused him of stealing the design from her. - In the caption he's ranting, he's raving, Instagram copyrighted his version and removed it. He does something else too . . . .

Now, these images are the exact damn same, I wish I could find her original work but it has really just disappeared. After what Stan Osipov does next, it wouldn't really surprise me if she deleted her Instagram to cut out the toxicity of this whole situation. And here's the most important part to consider of all of this; not beeblosloth's cruel, immature, reaction, not his history of sending his followers to spend their own personal time being terrible to other users on his behalf, this-

The artist who claimed Osipov had stolen her work- posted it first. Actually I believe she posted it a few weeks before beeblosloth ever did. And keep in mind- the only feasible difference between these two photos is the art style. They are exact same in every possible detail. Now, unfortunately, at the time I was a member of beebosloth's cult following. I really made up any possible excuse to believe that somehow, regardless of how impossible and ridiculous it would be, this girl was lying about beebosloth just ripping her off majorly. Even though- she kept the matter private, between themselves. Beebosloth was the one who posted their screenshots, made this a "let's get everyone involved and invoke the wrath of my followers" thing.

In the caption, (or maybe in a new post), Beebosloth then goes on to beckon everyone to draw this image, he starts a #drawthisinyourstyle challenge. He also, of course, incites his followers to go send hate the the original artist. I will admit I stupidly wanted to believe beebosloth was the original artist, and maybe there was some justification to him posting the screenshots, but that part, I didn't like. That was totally unnecessary, even if he was somehow telling the truth.Can we just step back and assess how insane this situation is?

Osipov casually rips off another artist

He gets caught, called out in private, and the image is removed

He reposts his imitation image, as well as the original one, the original artist's details, the screenshots from their private conversation; he tells his followers to go send hate to the original artist because she hurt his feelings by calling him out.

He starts a competition encouraging everyone to rip off her image in their own style. In turn getting dozens of results, making a considerable chunk of the Instagram art scene focus all negative attention on the original artist. "Well if I can't have it, I guess everyone can." (It's almost impossible to find left over images of the challenge, but I remember there being dozens upon dozens of submissions. I will post one I managed to find, as well as the original rip-off by beebosloth.)

And me and his other followers were totally blind to this insane, ridiculous, behavior. I find that all of my red flags that make me dislike people and their actions boil down to a very simple act: Being shitty to another human when they're not doing anything harmful. That's exactly what Osipov was doing here, and I just kind of let him convince me she was the perpetrator.

-- The remainder is an explanation of why I personally snapped out of this and realized he is just a really sleezy dude, it gets a bit petty, read at your own discretion. --

I kept following him after this for months, sending likes to those stolen general commercial T-shirt slogans slapped on a sketch of skeletons doing basic little things. And then one day a few weeks ago, an image crawled across my feed whose incredibly vague message just didn't sit right with me. The image, as you should be able to see here (if I've successfully posted it), contains a scene of someone trying to post something on instagram, and there is an error message which reads "Oops, nobody gives a shit about you or your selfies. Post anyways?"

First reaction: YIKES, who has Stanny got a vendetta against today? The username of the poster was "dumb bitch" to boot. I honestly couldn't tell if he was attempting to shame someone specific, people who just enjoy posting their selfies, women on Instagram, the message was so unclear and the caption wasn't a help to say the least. Actually the caption was . . . The only possible relation the caption could have had to the art itself, was . . . no actually I really can't find a damn thing to relate the two. It had the same weird aggressive energy as the image, but it was essentially an uncomfortable and unwanted pep-talk? No . . . what in the fresh hell would you call that caption?

Anyways, I just assumed the caption didn't really have a direct relation to the art image, as that was something he'd done before and is pretty typical on Instagram. But I still had a problem with the message of the image itself; essentially teaching people to feel bad about posting their selfies, and holding some sense of superiority to those who dare share an image of their face every so often. How incredibly boring, and my reaction posted in the images explains why this personally pissed me off. And if there I talk like someone complaining in an Instagram comment section, well . . . I wonder why.

His reaction - Oh man his reaction, you could not have killed someone's loyalty to you faster if you used their pet in your omelet. I mentioned how I was confused at the caption in the end of what I was saying, and I guess that's the part that offended him?! I haven't a clue how, but he starts in: "The fact that you don't understand leads me to believe that you are still very lost."

. . . . WHAT?! bahahaha! Where the hell did that come from?! My mouth fell agape. First of all, I didn't understand his caption for the shear fact that it was vague and unrelated to the image. Secondly, beebolsoth, where in the shit did I say anything about being lost and remind me when I paid you to be my psychiatrist.  He goes on in this ridiculous narcissistic tone, making totally wild claims as if he's known me my whole life and can speak to my personal character, and my mental state. What a creep. Is he playing The Rewired Soul here? I didn't know, I didn't particularly care. The mild entertainment I received from viewing his images wasn't worth being talked to like I've just told freaking Sigmund Freud I don't like the taste of lima beans. After receiving some darling, and for some reason, racist hate from his cult followers, I unfollowed him.

But really, isn't that just one of the cringiest feelings out there? Realizing you've been doing back-flips for someone who would treat you like absolute dirt just for the fun of it? Well, now this experience is documented. Hopefully the true original artist of the "One way ticket to hell" piece is doing alright. And the next time Osipov does something weird and horrible, people can come here, and know it definitely wasn't the first time.