#and here i was enjoying my self imposed blissful ignorance

[undertakerslxt]

this post slapped me with the reminder to go work on my angst bb oc fic

Please give me black butler fanfic recs…I haven’t had the time to read anything is so long.

I’ll take Dadbastian, angst, AU’s, a ship fic if it comes highly recommended, just anything. Give me the best you got.

I’m sure there’s something out there that I haven’t read already 😭

[kiingocreative]

The Structure of Story is now available! Check it out on Amazon, via the link in our bio, or at https://kiingo.co/book

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I often feel that it took me thirty years to write my first book, No Pain, No Game. Not because I was physically writing it for that long, but because finally publishing my first novel felt like the culmination of three decades of bad writing, half-finished novels, random short-stories and a million mundane diary entries. It took that long to experiment with my craft, hone my skills, and master the fear of putting my work out there for all to see.

Exaggerations aside, it actually took me three years to write No Pain, No Game, from typing the first word on an otherwise blank page to having a fully-fledged, ready-to-publish novel. Those three years consisted of mostly undisciplined writing, sitting down to work on the story as and when the urge arose, sometimes not looking at it for weeks on end, and only getting back to it when inspiration hit. Only when I got serious about publishing did I put in the hours consistently, whether or not I was in the mood for it. The whole experience felt like not so much like long distance running, but more like a slow, often sluggish stop-start stroll, with a heart-pumping sprint at the very end.

I came out of having published the book revved up from adrenaline, soaking in the momentum, fretting for more and ready to do it all again. Out came the laptop again, the rush to get the first draft over and done with and the mad rush into editing-land.

It’s a Marathon, Not a Sprint (and not interval running, and not a slow leisurely walk)

The thing with sprinting, however, is that if you do it for too long, you quickly run out of breath and I soon learnt that maintaining that level of effort over time was unsustainable. Somewhere in the middle of editing my first draft, I hit a wall.

A big, fat, hundred feet high brick and mortar monster of a wall. I never saw it coming, and I face-planted right into it. For weeks after that I couldn’t look at my manuscript or social media, and I had to take a proper break from it all to restore.

The break gave me a chance to introspect and take stock of what had happened. It felt to me that, if I wanted to keep on writing more books (which I did) I had to pivot from my disorganised style of writing to a more committed endeavour. There’s nothing wrong with a leisurely walk, or random bouts of interval running, but I realised it wouldn’t give me the kind of results I was truly after. I had to look at writing as a marathon, and build the sort of stamina and endurance I needed to do this many times over without burning out.

From Dilettante to Disciplined Writer

When I think back to writing my first book, I wonder if there’s some truth in the saying that ignorance is bliss. Because I was less focused on the outcome at the time, I was better able to enjoy the ups and downs of the process, especially because I only sat to work at it when I felt like it. I was also mostly unaware of the mountain of logistics that come with writing and publishing a book, so I’d be able to see the distance I’d covered, without worrying about the miles that still stretched ahead of me. Yes, ignorance was, most definitely, a little bit like bliss.

Reminiscing on her own experience, author Shamika Lindsay says that, with her first book, ‘the process felt so different and [she] almost felt the pen gliding across the paper but with [the sequel], it was like pulling teeth’. In fact, she adds, starting to write her second book from scratch felt like ‘such a chore and [she] was just so eager to complete it because [she] felt like it took so much from [her] to write than the first book’.

For R. G. Tully, author of the Ardamin series, who put greater emphasis on the editing stage when working on his second book, the process also took longer and wasn’t always enjoyable. ‘The editing grind was exactly that, a grind’, he confesses.

But you have to do it whether you like it or not, because the only way out is through. There are, fortunately or unfortunately, no shortcuts. Fortunately, because it’s the very act of going through that arduous journey that makes you a better writer in the end. And unfortunately, because there can be times it’s just not all that pleasant.

You’ll be surprised the amount of distractions that manifest themselves when you desperately need a reason not to work on your manuscript — it’s actually quite spooky. Treating writing with discipline, organisation and professionalism is exactly what will prevent you falling off tracks, and what ultimately gets the work done. And that’s the difference between a published book and one that’ll sit indeterminately unfinished somewhere in your archives.

A Tough Act to Follow

Unfortunately, there’s still a little bit more to writing your second book than just great discipline. Even when you’re able to get yourself to follow through and show up for your craft, giving your first book a literary sibling can come with its own challenges, especially because you have something to compare it to.

And it’s not only you, but your readers too, who will be expecting certain standards from your writing, especially if it’s a series. Though it shouldn’t come in the way of writing the book you want to write, the relationship of trust you’ve built with your readership through your first book still needs to be honoured, and this can cause certain amounts of pressure.

‘I felt a little pressure to keep the same feel about the story’, R. G. Tully says, ‘and to include more from my secondary characters, give them a little more depth’.

Stormi Lewis, author of the Sophie Lee trilogy, puts it simply: ‘It was a little hard to decide how to exactly start [with the second book]. At first I was worried and became overwhelmed because so many loved the first one. I didn’t want to let anyone down. I had to step back and come to terms that they loved it for being unique. And the only way I could stay true to the story and give them what they really wanted was to focus on the story and not so much about what I thought they wanted for the second.’

For others, the comparison can be more inward-facing, like author Tara Lake, who admits that writing the second book in her series has been a challenge, because she’s ‘struggled with comparison of the self: past Tara had a lot more time to devote to writing, present Tara has much less time with [her] kids being home full time from school during much of the pandemic’.

For others still, some of that pressure can be self-imposed. When writing her second book, Freya McMillan shares that ‘[she] put a huge amount of pressure on [herself] as [she] wanted it to be meaningful in a particular way to honour [her] dad, who died a few years ago. Once [she] stopped doing that, it was much less challenging to write’.

It Ain’t All Bad.

I do want to pause here and add that not everyone faces such challenges. There are authors out there who launched into writing their second book with more ease than the first.

Sabrina Voerman tells me that ‘[her] second book came a lot easier to [her] than [her] first book. The idea hit [her] so hard and fast that it took [her] aback, and [she] could do nothing but write it’, and the entire novel was written in a matter of weeks, whilst her first book took years to finish.

Same for Trevor Wiltzen, who says that writing the sequel to his first book went smoothly, greatly helped by the fact that ‘[he] wrote the second book immediately after the first, [so he] knew the characters really well’. He admits he ‘found it very freeing and really enjoyed the process’.

Even Stormi Lewis, who struggled at first, adds that ‘once [she] got started, [she] was fine’ and that ‘[she] felt the writing was solid and [her] best book yet, simply because [she] really got to develop more of the characters and the story’.

As with everything, we must then conclude, there will be as many types of experiences as there are writers out there. So how can we best prepare for what’s to come?

A Chance to Grow

Performance coach Tony Robbins says that the quality of our lives is intricately linked to the quality of the questions we ask ourselves on a daily basis. So if we need to face something that’s outside our comfort zone — starting again from scratch on your second book for instance — is it a punishment or is it a gift? Is it a curse or an opportunity?

I’m tempted to think that the level of discomfort that can come with writing your second book is a gift, because it gives us a chance to grow.

It’s a chance to take everything we’ve learnt from doing it the first time around and take our learnings for a spin to see if it makes the process easier. It’s an opportunity to improve, to work at our craft in new and wonderful ways.

It’s both daunting and incredibly exciting to face a brand new story — or a different side to the same story for those writing series — and to dare to plunge into the unknown of where it’s fated to take you. It’ll see you grow and evolve as a writer and, in turn, you’ll get to watch your writing morph into something more mature than it was before.

I say look at your writing like you do the passing of seasons: different times will have different qualities, different characteristics, different feels to them. You live and learn through each of them, and gather a wealth of experiences that eventually inform who you become. Maintaining the discipline to write through every single one of them is what will ultimately give your work all its depth and substance.

All it takes is that first word on the page.

And the second.

And the third.

And all the words beyond that.

[egoiistas]

may i feel, said he (19)

first | tag | ao3 | ffn 

[co-written with @tsaritsa]

a/n: mmmm that was a long break wasn’t it? let’s go ahead and jump in! there are some important notes on the ao3 author notes that you should totes check out! enjoy!

Warnings: Sexual Content ™, cursing, roy being cute af Words: ~8.5k || Rated: M - Royai 

Chapter Nineteen, in a minute

Summer arrives and officially, Riza is no longer his student.

Throughout the months, he’s tried to rationalize the pros and cons of jeopardizing her academic career from her perspective. A better grade? A decent fuck? Or a nice basket of both with a bow on top? His worst case scenario had always led him to the conclusion that if there was an ulterior motive, then she’d leave as soon as her grade was administered. If this was an elaborate, painstakingly cruel ruse, she would know him by now and have every advantage over him, forevermore holding this over his head because of a thoughtless impulse. She would know that he had unwittingly fought for what they shared, exposing himself freely, and that he’d never be the one to hold it over her. That cool façade in the beginning of the year had never collapsed so quickly and he would have fallen for the trap; hook, line and sinker.

Yet, his fears remain as unfounded as they ever were.

Time passes.

The newborn summer days swiftly turn into sweltering, humid weeks and in those weeks, he wakes with her at his side more mornings than not - passing by uneventfully, comfortable just existing in each other’s presence, finding solace indoors with air conditioning, lazily planning day trips to the countryside and never going.

Their heated, explosive start has transitioned into something that simmers comfortably now.  They’re turned into an average couple, falling asleep in the middle of movies or ignoring them altogether for a bit of naked reprieve, swapping one heat for another. The root of any of their short-lived arguments usually stemmed when either of them were hungry or tired or both. It’s bizarre to Roy how easy it is to just ...be.

During one idle afternoon, he wonders on the the microcosm of their relationship, built up in these walls. In some ways they had come to rely on the self-imposed rules, and moving beyond those parameters into something that resembles a normal relationship was going to come with its own set of challenges.

This is the one and only detail that simultaneously vexes and excites him when he thinks of Aerugo. The walls that constrained them would be knocked down now and they would free to roam around an island, holding hands if they so dared. And he would. But the real test in question was the structural integrity of their relationship on mostly neutral ground - with her and him finally as equals.

In the days before they embark, the photo of a time past resurfaces on the surface of his dresser. A younger him and another woman that he’s been trying his damnedest to forget, even jumping dangerous chasms to do so. He doesn’t exert much effort into deciphering it’s whereabouts or the delayed journey it took from his old box of mementos to finally arriving on his dresser. The why is not important in the wider scheme of things.

And as the day arrives that they set off for another country entirely, Maes reassurances him that her answer is still “no.”

With that response, he departs with a lighter weight on his shoulders that perhaps this trip can be just about a celebration between friends, family, and the sun. Perhaps he can aid her in lifting some of the weight off her own shoulders. Not forgetting, but enjoying herself as her own person and coming out forward for all that she’s been through in the years.

Already, he sees excitement beyond the surface of her eyes as she boards a plane with dissecting curiosity and hints of dread when the aircraft bumps. The window seat proves to be the optimal choice and her eyes hardly tear away from looking outside to the stretching landscape up until the vast ocean comes into view.

This restrained curiosity doesn’t change when they get on the ferry that’ll take them to their last stop. Immediately she’s drawn to the outside deck, eyes wide and bright as she drinks everything in. San Clavel shifts from a distant formation, to an outline, and then to a shimmering, bright beacon as the sun reaches its zenith.

Upon seeing the approach on the island, he checks the time on his phone and sees a message that should have been seen earlier. “We have… a slight problem.”

Completely and utterly enthralled since first sight with the ocean, Riza hesitates and rather reluctantly tears herself from the balcony edge of the ferry. She takes one last cursory glance, as if the azure water would disappear the instant she looked away, and a smile of endearment appears on his face.

She squints looking up at him with the sun in her eyes, her hand flat over her forehead to try to see. “What kind of problem?”

Roy takes off his sunglasses and places them on her face. He decides it’s best to rip the plaster off quickly here. “Well, there are some guests we weren’t - well, I wasn’t expecting that are showing up.”

“Oh.” He can’t see her eyes anymore because of the reflective glass, but her smile drops. “Is that so?”

“My mother,” Roy confesses. “And some of my sisters.”

“Your mother,” she parrots back monotonously. Her poker face is practically bullet-proof without the nuances of her eyes to clue him in. “Is that what you were worried about?”

“I- what?”

“I was half expecting you to tell me the trip was cancelled.” Riza slides her arm around his waist and leans against him, looking out across the water once more as the ferry begins to dock. “I can’t say I blame them for being curious. I know you said we would visit them next week but-”

To say he’s blindsided would be somewhat of an understatement. “Yeah, for a few hours, not days.” He can’t help the petulance that creeps into his voice. “The whole point of this trip was spending time with you. Preferably with us naked for hours on end.”

She snorts a little at that, tucking her head slightly against his chest to hide her face - the faint pink tips of her ears betray her regardless. “Yes, well, that too. But you’ve met my dad. It seems fair.”

“No offense but I feel like you’re getting the short end of the stick when it comes to meeting the in-laws.”

To her credit, Riza doesn’t outwardly react to his slip of the tongue beyond adjusting her posture - the hand that had been resting comfortably against his hip flexes. From his position, her ears are bright pink now. “A family who clearly think the world of you? That’s hardly grounds to say they’ll be terrible to the people you choose to introduce them to.” Her tone is a little too measured, but nonetheless she draws back to look at him better, her hand instinctively raising to push the hair from his eyes. There’s a bright, nervous smile on her face - one that he knows is reflected on his own as well.

“Though, maybe hold off on talk of in-laws until I get the chance to actually meet them for myself,” she teases. “I’m sure it won’t be as bad as what you’re imagining.”

Roy will swear until he’s black and blue that he kisses her to stop her teasing - but that’s not the truth, not entirely. Out of the two of them he’s most certainly the one who is more practiced in dealing with emotions, and certainly the more likely out of the two of them to wear his heart on his sleeve.

There was always an undercurrent of emotional attachment with any of the women he had slept with, regardless of whether the relationship was serious or merely fleeting. Riza was meant to firmly be in the latter camp, a terrible means to the end for the itch that begged to be scratched. Instead, he had taken her out for breakfast the morning after, and offered her an open invitation for more if she pleased. He has the tendency to take the mile when he’s only meant to have an inch, and in hindsight he was already in too invested in a hookup that should never have happened.

So, it is difficult to not apply the same logic here. He knows Riza well enough to know she’d have no problem in telling him if he were wrong, but the fact that she doesn’t even seem to hesitate at an off-cuff mention of a more distant future with him, and even goes so far as to tease him - Roy knows exactly why his heart is beating in triple time. He deepens the kiss and pulls her close to him; Riza makes a noise of contentment, curling her hands around his neck, fingers burying themselves in his hair.

Her nails scratch pleasantly against his scalp, and Roy hates himself for drawing back after a few blissful moments; even more so when Riza instinctively follows to close the gap. Her blush has abated somewhat, but her lips curve up into a secret smile, full of promises for later.

Instead, she contents herself with leaning back into his chest, rearranging his arms over her; he pulls her firmly against him and she hums in contentment,

“Why are you nervous about us meeting?” Riza asks after a moment. Her confidence in knowing the root of his anxiety is something he’d ordinarily want to pay greater attention to, but -

They’re a lot. Fiercely overprotective to a fault. I was selfish, and we’re dealing with those choices.

The truth is a little simpler than he wants to admit though. “There’s a right way about introducing you to all of them and this holiday wasn’t meant to be about that.”

“What’s the right way then?”

“With a bit more preparation.” He cranes his neck and checks his watch. “She just sent me a text that her plane comes in around four this afternoon.”

Riza twists to see his face, her mouth dropping comically open. “You’d better give me a summarized version then. Good thing I’m a quick study.” She pushes the sunglasses back, catching in her fringe.

He drops a kiss on her temple, guiding her back indoors. “It’ll have to be on the road once we pick up a car.”

When they finally disembark from the ferry with their luggage, Roy thinks they might have been blessed by the gods. In the terminal he can see no familiar faces and he feels himself relax. The company he’s ordered a taxi from on to take them to their lodgings is on the other side of the terminal and sweat is already glistening on his forearms from the heat of the midday sun. In his head, he begins conjuring an outline of how to breakdown who’s who and how to detangle the enormity of his unconventional family. It would take several hours to cover in its entirety and time is not his ally here.

“First things first,” he tells her as they move from the building into the forecourt, following painted yellow strips directing him towards the southern end of the terminal, “I call her my mother but she’s my aunt by blood. When I’m in trouble I’m Roy. When I’m really in trouble I’m boy. Otherwise I’m papito. She might pretend not to understand a lot of Amestrian, but it’s all lies. She just likes to be contrary and difficult because she can.”

“Sounds like someone else I know.”

He scoffs, shaking his head. “Anyway. For the most part we have a good relationship, but she’s never quite forgiven me for leaving Central. She…” he falters here, wondering if it is worth the pain to get this next piece of information out. “I think she took my and Greta’s breakup harder than anybody involved - myself included. She has a bad habit of not thinking before she speaks and I don’t want to put you-”

Riza’s hand covers his on the handle of his luggage and he slows to a halt, looking at her. “You’re very sweet, you know,” she tells him. “I know I haven’t been the most mature in regards to her but-”

“Hablando del rey de Roma.”

That coarse, near nasally call has always carried easily over crowds of people, and in the cavern-like forecourt, it bounces against the nearby walls and sunroof. He looks in the direction beyond Riza - the wrong one, because Chris’s manicured nails-cum-talons dig in sharply into the shell of his ear and pivots his entire body from where he stands to face her. From where she materialized is still unclear to Roy. His sisters titter and crowd around him unhelpfully. He hears several different sentences at once as he receives one hug after another. “You’re looking buff!” “No, he’s looking thin! Do you have eyes?” “You need a haircut!” “We’ve missed you!” “I’ve missed him most!”

Finally, the girls scatter when Chris swats them away and in the same carrying voices tells them, “All right, all right get back.” Her face is serious and grave as she looks at him. It’s that same intimidating face that lectured him when he did something stupid or dangerous or both. Roy  doesn’t say anything because he expects the signature arm cross, tapping foot, and demanding to know why hasn’t he called more often?

Instead her arms extend out and up as Roy takes half a step back. “Mi niiiiño!” she sings, an unmistakable happiness in her expression as she grabs his face and kisses each cheek. She hugs him tight and he returns it in kind, shelving the initial skepticism. “How I’ve missed you, papiiito.”

Then she shoves him back and crosses her arms. “Why haven’t you called, boy?”

Ah - there it is.

“I’ve been a little busy…” Not totally untrue, but somehow Roy doubts that will cut the mustard here. “But I should be calling more often.” He looks to the side and Riza, by some miracle, is still there and only a few steps away from him with their luggage. In fact, she has the strangest  grin plastered on her face. “But,” he continues, “since you’ve managed to get the drop on me…” Roy walks next to Riza who has suddenly changed in expression as he hugs her from the side. “This is Riza,” he says expectantly and after a moment of only faint chatter from the terminal, he adds. “My girlfriend.”

The girls look at each other and one by one he can see their lips curve upwards into coy smiles. They come closer, prowling like lionesses. The barrage of greetings begin with one at a time hugs and kisses as if handshakes were old fashioned.

“So you’re Elizabeth!” says Sofia.

Riza manages to turn her body to face Roy as she’s passed from one sister onto the next. “Elizabeth?”

“I gave you a code name.”

Her grin is knowing. “So they knew?”

“Some knew.”

“They knew?” Chris asks from the end of their man-made barrier of ladies. “Why is it then that I had to find out through other channels?” She glares between Sofia and Roy.

“Some knew,” Roy insists. “I couldn’t remember who I did and did not tell and you are all in deep shit for not warning me about this.” He inclines his head as subtly as he can in the direction of his mother.

“Roy. Please. You’ve kept Riza from us this entire time! Please, please we want to know everything.” Isabelle says.

Chris urges everyone to be prying banshees in an airconditioned car. It’s a welcome reprieve from the hot midday sun, although the subdued attitude of his mother is unexpected - and worrying.

As well as Sofia and Isabelle, Phoebe and Karina are also a part of the welcome wagon. They crowd around the two of them inside the car, waving off Riza’s protests about wearing seatbelts.

“He hasn’t told us anything about you, you know,” Isabelle laments, tying her long blonde hair into a high ponytail. “All I got told was he was seeing a very pretty woman and if I said anything to Mama we’d never get to meet you at all. So tell me everything - how did you two meet? What do you do? How long has this been going on?”

Riza giggles a little nervously at the onslaught. “Not a terribly exciting story, I’m afraid,” she begins. “I worked in the university library overnights and he would come in and make a mess of the private study spaces. We got to talking after a while and…” she gestures to the scant space between them, “Here we are.”

The disappointment from his sisters is hilarious: they seemingly deflate back into their respective seats, shoulders dropping.

“To be honest though, Roy hasn’t told me much about you guys either. He’s told me your names but it would be nice to finally put faces to them as well.”

It’s a good distraction from the other questions posed - an excellent one, actually; as Riza slowly makes her way through this small fraction of his family. His mother remains quiet, seemingly happy to watch the events unfolding with a curious eye. He lets his mind drift, gaze sliding to the view outside which shifts from the town centre to higher up, wide expanses of yellow-white sandstone spotted into the lush green hills. He fiddles with her hand in his own, and when Karina catches his eye with a knowing smile it’s hard not to beam in response.

The trip goes quicker than expected, much to his relief, but the girls won’t take ‘no’ for an answer when it comes to showing Riza the villa they’ll be staying at with Chris before letting them disappear for the afternoon.

“We’ve had a long trip from East City-” he tries.

Phoebe shoots him a withering look. “We’ve had a long trip from Central too,” she reminds him none-too-gently. “Honestly, when’s the next time you’re going to come around, let alone with Riza in tow? Last time you didn’t even bother to let us know you were in town! You owe us.”

He doesn’t have much of an argument against that, and from her new position being volleyed between his sisters, Riza nods in deferment. She winks at him from across the room, mouthing something he can’t quite make out. He moves to join them; they’ve taken her out to one of the balconies and are pointing out different parts of the island but from behind him -

“Boy,” Chris calls.

Heart sinking, Roy stops in his tracks, and dutifully makes his way back to where his mother sits, overlooking the bay. “Watch her,” he signals to his sisters, and Karina’s fingers flutter in dutiful acquiescence.

With the sun favoring the other side, there are more shadows in the parlor he’s beckoned to. The motherly air to her has vanished and her face is serious. Lips are thinned, her brow entertains no amusement and a hand on her lap and the other propped on the high table she sits next to, expectantly. A seat isn’t offered to him; instead, she nods to the door to make this conversation more private and he complies. It shuts with a soft click and the sounds of excited conversation become muffled and indistinct.

Chris is quiet. He imagines she’s choosing her words, perhaps even predicting his own, and if pensive could be deadly, then she might be the only one in the world who has mastered it. She shifts in her seat, crossing one foot over the other, and her fingers rest on her many rings, twisting them over and over. Until, finally, she takes in a drawn breath.

“What are you thinking?” She asks him. Each word is enunciated and calculated in a low and gravelly tone;  a night and day difference from her earlier greeting.

“Well.” He chuckles bitterly. “I’m thinking it’s been a long trip. The weather, the sun, the beach is gorgeous.” He walks towards her and she is unflinching in following his movements. “You’re looking well and the girls look well too.”

“Don’t you play coy with me. You know what I’m talking about, bringing her around here.”

He pulls the accompanying chair out from the table and takes a seat. At this level, the light shifts out of her eyes as if to perpetuate the gravitas of the situation on her behalf. “I’d prefer if you didn’t refer to my plus one like she was a disease. She’s here at my behest, as well as Maes’ and Gracia’s.”

Her only answer is a half-chuckle that sounds somewhere between a hah and a hmph. “My boy, you can prefer, refer, request whatever you want.”

“Then, what’s the problem here?”

“She’s twenty-one, Roy.”

His eyes close as he sighs. His fingers slowly ball into a fist.

“Did it ever occur to you how’d that look? Que va decir la gente? Or rather, what are they already saying? ‘He went off and got someone younger.’” She scoffs, rolling her shoulders back. “I’ve raised you better than that. Think of the example you’re putting on for the girls.”

“It’s more than that, believe me.”

“Ah, si?” She is mocking, sarcastic. She’s daring him to prove her wrong. And she is wrong - he knows this emotionally, more so than anyone else in this room. But no matter which way he would spin it to her, it would still sound the same to her: appearances are everything at home. “How selfish. Ask yourself what your reaction would be if the girls came home with an older man?”

He meets her hard gaze in equal strength. “If you’re wanting to lecture me you can do it another day, I’m not in the mood for it now.”

“No, now is the time since you decided to cut us out from your life when you moved. You are never around anymore and quite frankly I don’t know much of you since you left.” She is measured, near hissing. “Stop thinking with your dick for once, pendejo, and use that brain of yours-”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. His heart rate elevates; he feels it in the constriction of his throat. “Ya, okay?” He swallows the simmering emotion, the telltale prick of budding tears. “I have told you time and time again - endlessly - about why things didn’t work out before.”

“You’ve given me crumbs,” she says unsympathetically. “While she’s given me entire loaves, crying at my doorstep, hoping you would be reasoned with.”

Sighing, he says, “Why can’t you come to terms with this? Respect this decision that was made years ago? Or at the very least, have trust in me that what I have to say has more to do with the truth than whatever fabrications she’s feeding you?

“I’ve told you that relationship was toxic and brought out the worst parts of me. What will it take for you to understand?”

Chris thinks for a moment and it gives Roy the opportunity to release tense muscles that were winding themselves up again from the conversation. “Did you bring her because she’s pregnant?”

A hand runs down his face and mentally he apologises to Riza. “No.”

She hums, intrigued. “Do you love her?”

Yes.

The letters pop in his head; glowing, neon letters illuminating in his mind’s eye. He does not say it. His lips curl in to stop them from giving away the smile at the thought of Riza and love and the warmth that suddenly radiates in his chest. Pensive, he tries not to give any facial cues but his mother knows him far too well and she sighs, letting a hand fall to the table.

“How?” Chris asks, almost exasperated. “Where-” And then that word chokes and dies in her throat because it dawns on her immediately, because Chris Mustang is smart and sharp and where else would he find a woman of Riza’s age to be around him long enough to catch feelings? The color drains from her face watching him as he processes his own revelation - because the only thing more scandalous than this is if she was pregnant. “You were always so, so smart, but also so, so incredibly dumb sometimes, mi amor.

“You are toying with more than just your life here, but permanently with hers.” She gets up from her seat and her words are somber. “Make sure it’s worth it.”

He’s left in the parlor by himself, to his own thoughts; knuckles to his mouth.

The subject of his thoughts enters the room and softly crosses to where he sits. He perks up in his seat and his heart skips a beat. “Hey.”

“Hey,” she greets him; her brows dipped in concern and she takes a seat in Chris’s chair. “Is everything okay?”

“Of course, why wouldn’t it be?” It’s a terrible attempt but she humours him nonetheless.

“Because you’re just sitting in here by yourself.”

“I just needed a moment of silence after being ambushed.”

She quickly moves out of her seat. “I can go if-”

Roy grabs her hand to stop her. “Don’t be silly,” he says softly.

She nods, slowly settling back in the chair - hands connected over the table. “What did you two talk about?” she presses after a moment, when he falls silent once more.

“Oh,” he says, stopping the circles he was rubbing on the back of her hand. “She was ripping me a new one for not introducing you earlier, for not calling.”

“What an awful son,” she teases. “And an awful brother from what your sisters were telling me.”

“I should probably go talk to them.”

Riza makes a face. “Actually… I came in here only because they were going to head into town for some food to keep in the house. They figured we would want to get settled first. I may have strongly suggested it. Karina was kind enough to back me up.”

“That’s right. You haven’t even seen the inside of where we’re staying, have you?”

“No, but I imagine it’s like any house with four walls and with rooms.”

He smiles knowingly, standing from his seat and an extending a hand for him to lead her. “Let me show you why I like to leave Amestris.”

With a slight hint of confusion, she takes it. After some quick goodbyes from his sisters - Chris is notably absent - they walk in comfortable silence to just a few houses down where the ocean waves hitting the shores becomes a little bit more audible.

Roy unlocks the door for her and her eyes widen as she takes in a breath.

Riza darts inside, taking quick strides between the rooms, jerking her head back towards where he stands, half-questions-half-incredulous-noises leaving her mouth in a garbled mess.

Yes, Roy splurged this time - but how could he not? There is something intensely satisfying about being able to elicit a reaction like the one she is giving him, to enjoy how she enjoys it. By the standards of his peers this villa might not be the fanciest, nor the most kitted-out, but Roy knows Riza doesn’t care about outward appearances. He chose it for the age and history of the stone walls, for the way it overlooks a portion of the island, and yet remains tucked away from the other villas in the area.

After he moves the luggage into the master bedroom, he asks into the house: “Just four walls with rooms, is it?” When he doesn’t receive a response, he finds her in a sun-filled study on the second floor, skimming through the book spines on the bookshelves.

Her mouth is slightly ajar. “You’re quite the schemer, aren’t you?”

Roy leans on the doorframe, arms crossed and feeling triumphant in his choice. “I’d prefer the word charmer.”

A reluctant grin appears on her face as she turns back to him. “You keep this up and I’ll be effectively spoiled. Surely, you understand that.” Her grin is infectious.

“Then my plan is working.”

She chuckles, shaking her head at him, and that tension from before simply evaporates. “So, schemer-charmer, what’s the itinerary for the day?” She absent-mindedly asks flipping through a book.

“Itinerary? That sounds so severe.” Roy pushes himself off from the door frame; overjoyed when she follows behind him as he opens the windowed white doors to the master bedroom’s balcony.

“You know what I mean…” She trails off and Roy feels his breath leave him from the view too. It truly is stunning - from the ocean to the lush green of the trees, the yellow-white sandstone fortifications bisecting the island cleanly in two. East City had its charms, but San Clavel was a blatant seduction by comparison.

Roy points out, “Now you can ignore me to look at the ocean from here.”

“Stop,” Riza warns playfully, darting her eyes between the ocean and him. “It’s not my fault I’m not well-travelled.” She stretches up on her tiptoes to kiss him - briefly, he supposes, from the way her hands rest only lightly on his chest. But her lips on his creates a tide of emotions Roy doesn’t anticipate. Hands on her hips, he pulls her flush to him, thrilling in the way she grinslaughs against his mouth, relishing in the contended hums from her throat. He is content to be, like this. Truly. Hours could pass, or even days - and yet how he is right now, a little sweaty and overheated, is where he wants to be.

One of his hands slides down over the curve of her arse, inadvertently hiking up the flimsy material of her sundress. His wandering fingers move too lightly against her skin, and she gasps, body instinctively moving away from the ticklish sensation.

She mouths against him “one minute” before ducking into the bathroom and door quietly shutting behind her.

Roy turns back to the balcony and walks out onto it proper, inhaling the sea breeze. The red carnations that dance around the sandstone pillars of the villa greet him as he steps outside. He’s missed this terribly, too. The temperature straddles a certain perfection of warmth with just enough wind to roll off the heat from lingering on his skin. In the distance, the ocean shifts below him, a mesmerising blue that softly crests until it blankets the alabaster coast; its surface is broken into fractals of light from the late afternoon sun, reflecting lazily like pieces of jewels over the water. The view is a welcoming sight and something about it breathes sunshine into his soul.

Years have elapsed since his last visit, and yet, San Clavel seems timeless; untouched by modern architecture common in Amestris and locked in a perpetual season of summer.

The air, the view, and the entire island may have remained static, but change was now a certainty for him. He looks out to the sea now with a different mindset altogether than even just hours before. He is far from the formative years of his youth, and the time he had spent here previously, saturated in alcohol, smoking Clavileño cigars, drunk on overconfidence and basking in his immaturity. Though, now he’s not so sure how much of that has changed.

“Interesting.” He hears behind him. “I can’t tell if you’re brooding or just enamored with the sight.”

A quick smile appears on his face as Riza rests her hands over the stone balustrade. There must’ve been a witty response to her tease but blown away by the wind when he manages to drink in the sight of her in the sundress. From where she stands, the midday sun hits her from behind, encasing her in a halo that filters drown from her hair into the soft white of her dress. There’s still a ghost of a grin on her face, and he’s tempted to bridge that space between them once more to kiss her, to see if the sheer warmth she’s radiating might transfer to him, even if only a little.

If he thought the sunlight on the water was mesmerizing, then the sunlight on her - the sunlight was made for her.

Her hair glows golden as it sways and brushes her pale skin. She puts a hand up to her face to stop her hair from flowing wildly with a squint in one eye.  The white dress hugs all the right places and somehow an ethereal aura surrounds her.  Roy composes himself, collecting his slightly ajar jaw, and eyes her up and down. “Well, enamored by the sight now.”

She grins at his response. “It’s beautiful out here,” she says finally. “Thank you for bringing me.”

Roy inclines his head in acknowledgement, his fingers drifting over hers; as if on instinct, her hand flips over to meet his, palm to palm. It’s a simple enough gesture, borne from repetition as much as affection. It tugs at his heart in a pleasant way. Tucked away in her words isn’t an I’m sorry, not quite - but an acknowledgement that goes beyond just saying thank you.

“You are very welcome,” he begins, shifting his weight to rest against the balustrade fully, pulling Riza into his space a little more. “This would be nowhere near as fun if you didn’t come.”

Her hands slide up his forearms, over his shoulders and curl loosely around his neck. She smells faintly like his soap and blinks demurely under dark lashes. “You take pleasure in me gawking at things, do you?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Riza flushes visibly, immediately. There’s an attempt to push away from lightly but he holds her in place and she stays. “All this natural beauty and instead you’d be a slave to your phone, waiting desperately for me wake up.”

“I would be,” he tells her, enjoying how his honesty throws her for a moment. It is the truth. He would’ve still attended - Maes would have had his guts for garters otherwise - but at best he would only stay for a few days, and certainly not make a meal out of this trip, surprise family be damned.

“I’d be very demanding, you know,” Riza tells him matter-of-factly, tongue poking out to wet her lips briefly. “Video calls as soon as I wake up. A million souvenirs. That sort of thing.”

“If that’s your idea of demanding, how about a quick refresher?” Her eyebrow lifts momentarily, urging him to go on. “You storming into my office about a grade? Now that was demanding.”

Scandalized, she says “If I can recall correctly - and I do - there were ulterior motives for that changed grade. It was well warranted given the circumstances.”

Roy adjusts his hands on her hips, the thin material of her sundress rising a little once more as he brings her closer to him. He officially loves this dress. A finger lifts her chin. “I beg to disagree, avecilla. Not that I don’t appreciate the fact that we’re on the same page nine times out of ten, but I’d be a little disappointed if all you asked for was a call. In fact...” He pushes himself up from the balustrade. Riza cranes her neck a little to continue meeting his eyes. It’s perfect for what he wants - his hands leave her hips, and instead cup her jaw fully, thumbs resting against her cheekbones.

Deliberately, he kisses her temple, and then the other. Her eyelids follow, then her cheeks. He intentionally ignores her lips, barely grazing against them as he opts to leave soft, unhurried kisses against every part of her face bar her mouth. Her fingers twist themselves against the shirt he’s wearing.

“You’re mean,” she tells him breathlessly, brown eyes fluttering open after a kiss that skirts the edge of her cupid’s bow. “You never mentioned what’s going on today.” Her voice is barely above a whisper.

“A dinner. Nothing important.” With his mouth brushing against the edge of her lips, he says, “It’s basically tradition to be late to these things anyway.”

“I think you’re lying-” she responds, nearly cut off as he takes her lips onto his own. She tastes sweet as she always has, but the sound from her throat hints at something more mischievous. Any items on any itinerary ever is eviscerated by what is in front of him: Riza, his Riza, in a sundress and slowly eroding what sensibilities he still has left.

“Mi reina… you wound me. I would never,” he answers coyly. The aftershocks of their kiss still thrums on his lips. He feels electric, fizzing with the knowledge - the freedom - that he could have her here, that he could potentially love her here as her fingers grasps his shirt and she gasps over his fingers. She would let him, he thinks, with the way her lips seem to brush against him with the lightest of pressure, barely enough to feel but more than enough to tease. It’s beyond tempting to give into that baser desire, to have her as he wants her; but here he stills, thumbs drifting over her now-flushed skin.

He can feel the words on his lips, waiting to be said. There’s simply so much he wants to say to her, to tell her, divulge in her, that words fail him here. He hasn’t the faintest clue of where to even begin.

“Mi reina?” Riza asks, a flirtatious smile curling her lips upwards. “I guess that would make you ‘my king’, no?” She chews the inside of her lip, thinking. “Mi…”

“Rey.” He finishes for her. He doesn’t usually have a possessive streak a mile wide but for this nickname, Roy might make an exception.

“Quite a promotion you’ve been given, sir.”

Roy chuckles darkly - a reminder that she knows him well too. He tilts her head back slightly, enjoying how her eyes flit between his gaze and his mouth rapidly. “I think it’s deserved. An upgrade from the previous one you gave me.”

Riza swallows, focusing on something beyond his face. “The ones that I..?”

He tilts his own head to the side, to her exposed skin and in between kisses on her neck he tells her, “Back in East City. With your father.”

Understanding crests over her face. “Was I wrong?”

He pulls his head back. “No.”

“Because I happen to like that one,” she tells him, drawing back from his grip after a moment. “Still feels weird saying it though.”

“Then practice.”

Riza’s reply is shot out automatically with only a lick of her lips to prime it. “Make me.”

“Make you?”

She tightens the grip on his shirt, pulling him closer to repeat herself in his ear. “Make me, sir.”

Static screeches in his brain for a moment and he looks at her, amused, and she, so daring as she dons the smallest smirk on her face. “I think you and I both know I can make you say many things.” He breathes out through his nose, slow and deliberate.

“That was then.” She bites her lower lips. “This is now. In a completely different country.”  

“Is that right?” A brow flits up in her small act of defiance. His gaze drifts down to the thin straps straps of her dress and looks back at her; blood pounding in his ears. Riza takes a cursory step back and he steps forward. She seems to understand, quick study that she is. Wordlessly, he begins to unbutton his shirt and she never takes her eyes off him as she walks backwards towards the bed. She stumbles a little when her calves hit the edge of the mattress, releasing a tiny gasp, and he takes this opportunistic moment of her distraction to coax her onto the bed.

She moves deeper into the bed on her elbows to give him space to join her, and he does as his belt hits the floor.  

There is something deep and dark about how he likes her like this. Riza doesn’t show lust in an overt way: flushed skin, lips a brighter shade of pink, almost entranced when she sees what she wants... or perhaps it is him that’s been entranced by this very look the entire time. One loose strand of hair curls over her shoulder - perhaps by design - and Roy leans in to hungrily kiss her, situated in between her legs; hands roaming up her legs and he feels the goosebumps rise on her skin, under his fingertips. His kisses consume her, drinking greedily from her like a man dying from thirst. The straps of her sundress are pushed to the side as his hands shift up to her neck, thumbs splaying across her pulse point. She’s breathing hard when he pulls back.

“Take it off,” he orders quietly. To elicit a quicker response, his hand dips in between her legs, ghosting over the fabric of her smallclothes. Without needing to ask twice, she sits up and they both work to get the sundress over her head and he helps in freeing her of her bra.

Riza lies back down and is a sight against the sheets. Creamy thighs beckon to him like a ship to wreck, but instead he lets his fingers drift along her torso, up over the bones of her sternum and collarbone. He studies the edges of jawline, committing it to memory, before tracing the outline of her lips with his index finger. She trembles underneath his touch, and whimpers when his other hand slips under her underwear, slipping into slick folds. His fingers are coated in her sex with a single stroke. “Excited, are we?”

“I love a good menacing walk towards me,” she jests, grinning and arching her back as he toys with her.

“Tell me what you want, avecilla,” he murmurs against her lips, barely exerting pressure.

“That would be too easy, sir,” she manages between sighs. Her fingers fumble over the button of his trousers and he takes satisfaction in the fact that he’s reduced her to this state: hips gyrating in the hopes of some change in tension. She brings her palm to her forehead, mouth open and gasping.

His hand pulls back from her completely.

Riza opens her eyes in curiosity, concern or both and his fingers tug at the edge of her underwear. Her hips move up carefully to help him remove them: first through one leg and then on the other, he holds her leg as he glides it off her, kissing her calf gently.

“You have to tell me what you want. I could have you on your back and fuck you so slowly you’ll be begging me to let you come. Or should I eat you out instead, or fuck you so hard into the bed that everyone at dinner will know exactly what you’ve been doing and not just because you’ll be walking funny? Or if you really want, do all of the above and not recover until tomorrow?”

His fingers place her leg down with delicate care next to him. “But until then, we won’t start.”  

“Fuck you,” she manages in a sigh.

“Clearly. But how?” He moves in closer to her again and she watches him inch closer to her face. He closes his eyes, mouth hovering over her lips just so that they brush against each other as he speaks again, softer this time. At this distance he can feel the heat of her skin under his. “Avecilla, you have to tell your boyfriend how you want him to fuck -  you.”

-------

They finally arrive when the sun is melting into the ocean; its bright orange remnants are painted across the sea and gives everything else a deep red-orange hue.

Roy takes a moment to survey the view before him. Aerugo on a good day really didn’t disappoint, and San Clavel was certainly no exception to that rule. Despite the earlier heat of the day, it was getting cooler now and out of instinct he pulls Riza closer when she rubs her arm from a wandering breeze that passes through.

Riza hums in gratitude, casting a quick complementary glance at him, before she’s pulled back again to admiring the venue. It’s a converted battlement: the familiar white sandstone forms a parapet overlooking the eastern side of the bay, before dropping down into a garden seemingly overgrown with roses in every shade and hue of red. Beyond is where most of the party guests are congregating, on a raised terrace that hugs a large hall. The exterior is covered in dark green ivy, looking classically timeless rather than unruly.

Strings of fairy lights guide them towards the center of the terrace with a view of the sea, no doubt intending to create a glowing effect when the day’s light was finally extinguished. Soft, instrumental music plays from a quartet tucked away somewhere - a vast change from the stereo system and an mp3 player playlist manned by one of the cousins - behind round tables topped with plates and silverware and intricate flower arrangements for centerpieces. They are decorated with pristine white cloths that blow lightly with the breeze and the chatter around is light and pleasant.

Riza shivers again and she scoffs. “I think I underestimated how cool it would get.”

“Do you want me to go back for your cardigan?”

“No, don’t be silly. You can’t leave me alone with these people.” She points an index finger at him. “Not again.”

“They’re not so bad.”

She looks away with a noise that neither affirms of contradicts his statement. Roy grabs her hands, looking down at her with a smile. “I can understand that you’re anxious, but I’d also like this to be for us. It’s not every day we can do this without looking behind our backs and I have to say, I’m a little excited for it.”

Riza looks down to where he’s rubbing circles over the back of her hand and she laces her fingers with his, squeezing. “You’ve been giving this a lot of thought?”

“Have you not?”

She grins and turns away slightly like she does when she’s been caught red-handed. “It might’ve crossed my mind once or twice, yes.”

He smiles back at her and nods over to the bar set up from a market stand. “Then why don’t you go get yourself something? If not for the nerves but to help with warming you up.”

Her eyes narrow suspiciously. “You’re being awfully thoughtful today.”

“As if I’m ever not.” He pivots her shoulders as she cracks a laugh and he waves her on.

She hesitates for a moment, turning her head back towards him. “What do you want?”

He takes pleasure in making a meal out of admiring her; the affected way her gait has changed for the moment more than anything else. As if she could read his mind, Riza blushes a deep red. “Surprise me,” he tells her finally.

Roy watches as she disappears into the small crowd. It’s later than the start time but true to fashion, people are still trickling in. Some greet him with a courteous hug and a kiss on the cheek but thankfully, no one stays for a proper conversation as they make their way to the stars of this whole event.

Maes and Gracia stand near the parapet with a group of people around them. They are positively glowing in spite of the backdrop of the deepening sunset. Elicia is the most entertaining part of that picture, however - for every kiss and hug that’s transferred between the adults above her, Roy watches as she demands her own set. Maes is dutiful to the point of smothering, and her squeals of protest about his scratchy beard carry far over the gardens.

It’s a far cry from the family he knew three years ago, and he couldn’t be prouder of them for what they’ve endured and risen up from. He’d never tell the two of them out loud for fear of Maes’ ego never recovering to a normal size, but if he could get something even close to what they had found in each other, he’d consider himself lucky; amongst valued peers and someone to share successes and trials with.

Part of him thinks he may have found it; a smaller part of him whispers that he’s been wrong before. He’s even less sure about how to even approach the topic with her: they haven’t discussed it in any serious capacity and he’s loathe to bring it up in a space where she isn’t on equal footing with him.

The conversation with his mother from earlier floats to the forefront of his mind.

Large, neon-colored letters. Yes.

Maybe he was overthinking it. Maybe it really was that simple.

Behind him, he can hear approaching footsteps and the warmth in his chest reemerges as her hands wrap around his torso. Contently, teasingly, he says, “I thought you were going to bring me a surprise.” His last word is tapers off in emotion and volume as he notices the contrasting difference in skin tone on the arms around him. The breeze picks up once more, carrying a fragrance from a guiltier time. The warmth ices and turns into a quick-drop feeling of dread from his throat to his gut.

She doesn’t resist when he jerks himself out of the embrace, but her dark eyes are still locked on him, amused. Hand on her hip, she stands there in a red dress complimenting her deep, sun-kissed skin and dark loose ringlets of hair; the matching blood-red lips curl up into a self-satisfied smirk.

Greta sighs dramatically. “I am the surprise.”

next

[kimletaon]

The Broken Friendship

We are the past men

We are the present men

we are lost men.

We are men who lost their merit

instead of past and present times.

We are the ones who talk post-modern

like its linguistic basis measures lives.

Here is a little fellow.                        

He waits for summer,

knows his rights.

Last time you wrote to me,

you signed as Mary,

so I decided to ignore the tact;

I’ve got rid of the formal customs;

I address you now as a friend.

Sometimes I have to set reminders

to call you not my sister, but

those who craft the kinships,

must have had learned the bureaucratic art.

They are mistaken. Bonds are a glimpse.

Unless we want them to re-form the meaning.

Formality.

Formality.

Formality and all.

The autumn is getting older. It is confused

because it ages inappropriately.

Its elder formidability causes its enigmatic confusion:

the autumn sometimes thinks it is summer.

But the mountain slopes that face you

most certainly agreed –

the winter is upon us.

Beware of colds and fever.

The gardens here proclaim the right

for the thought that the autumn keeps imposing.

The roses flourish, flourish, flourish,

like a sound of an Italian opera song.

Senza di te languisce il cor.

They enjoy the sun

and

the bliss of being

Da-sein

Da-rain

Dah-брен

Duh.

Tanto rigor.

Since we’ve arrived here,

I do nothing.

I talk, I eat, I look and sleep.

I gained some weight,

I gained some rigor,

I gained some powers

and some vigor—

you might not see to recognize.

Today we, like some English tourists,

had a picnic on a lost crossroad.

The view here worth a silent bow.

I have enjoyed it, lying down

and hiding my head in a lavender bush,

with my hat on my nose.

They think I slept.

I have, but later

I will proclaim I listened to the lark.

Now, I sit on the edgy rock

above the road

above the sky

above the people

above you.

The only cloud clouding my mood

is a little puff, produced by a sudden farmer.

I think she is a farmer,

but she as well might be

a mere recipient of the farming goods.

She’s old, she’s wrinkled, she has a load

covered by an ancient fabric

over her little bogie cart

behind her donkey.

I want to bet that all she has is onion.

I want to believe that she has ambrosia and nectar,

but onion, I bet, is all she has.

On such a flourishing day

she has to have the nectar and ambrosia.

(at least some grapes and peaches)

So the cloud, bursting by the wheels

of the bogie cart,

can make some sense.

But we are honest men:

she only has some onions.

The dust settles down.

We are at the present.

The present shows:

We are at the crossroad

at the center of tweeting mountains.

Behind us is England,

France and Europe are at the right,

Russia and Asia are at the left,

In front of us — the Ocean of Peace.

And above us is a dome of sapphire.

And all five are in such proximity,

so I can reach my hand and

pluck any of them to send you

as a gift.

Even if the postal service

won’t obstruct my gift,

citing some regulations

and laws

that prohibit us from sense and peace,

(Formality,

formality,

formality encore)

the beauty of any of these five

will cease to mean a thing

while in transit.

They will become terrifying,

awful, daunting, fierce, and false.

Instead, I better send you

a branch of rosemary

and a fragrant twig of lavender.

I am still angry with the old owner of the onion cart.

She interrupted my thought right in the middle of a tale

I had come up with.

Have you ever

ever ever

told a tale

to your sad self?

Have you ever,

ever never,

never liked

a thought you felt?

Are you too old?

My tale looks like a fresco

made by Benozzo Gozzoli:

a little king,

overly dressed and superficially gallant,

accordingly to the noble domain,

goes over the hills

and over the bills,

through a thoughtful and

overly cautiously

well-prepared lane,

as the jagged crown

shines over his head.

I love the old masters

because they were crafters

that never refused real gold.

They never were fooling

their respectable public

with the yellow shadows and lights

like post-modern wits do.

My kings are more real

and their ordeal

would refuse even the plainest golden crest.

Their clothes’ appeal

with a fanciful zeal

was restoring the path of oppressed.

But this is only but a tale,

and a rosemary dale

has enough branches to start a blaze.

Or a little campfire

that revitalizes

our picnic’s preoccupied aim.

We need to start one

before the onion farmer and the kings reach their lands.

We are the lost men

We are the present men

we are gilded men.

Sometimes I have to set reminders

to call you not my sister.

For we were nursed upon the self-same hill,

fed the same flock; by fountain, shade, and rill.

We are singing,

as did the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills.

While the onion cart went out with the dust of gray;

we’ve touched the gilded crowns of selfish quills,

with eager thought warbling our modern lay;

and now the sun has stretched out all the mountain hills,

and now was dropped into the western bay;

at last, I rose and twitched my tale and dream in lieu

of tomorrow fresh thoughts and pastures new.    

[yoiotdfics]

Fic Recs for January 2017

Call First by  bmmboo

Summary:

Key or no key, calling ahead before you visit someone’s house is a courtesy that shouldn’t be forgotten. - “To be fair it IS their house.” “Beka.” “…and they’re married, so I mean…It probably isn’t just the couch, you know?” “SHUT THE FUCK UP.”

Along With the Stars by  inwhatfurnace

Summary:

“You picked the duet,” there’s a reassuring squeeze of his hand. “Why?” “I want –” he stops, voice shaking, and tries again. “I want you to skate it with me?”

The Poodle and the Noot by  the_ol_razzle_dazazzle

Summary:

There was no summary, this is pure utter crack fic.  It is a Pingu/Makkachin fic.

in a palace of cracked marble by  clxude

Summary:

Jean-Jacques Leroy is strong. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t break occasionally.

Darling by  ClockworkDinosaur

Summary:

Victor and Yuuri are not fluent in the others native language.

Easy as Raz Dva Tri by  azriona

Summary:

Yuuri wants to surprise Victor. Victor wants to surprise Yuuri.

Well… at least they’re surprised, right?

Beside the Dancing Sea by  lily_winterwood, MapleTreeway

Summary:

He’s finally here in this lovely and quiet little beach cottage, and the rest of the year seems to stretch out infinitely before him. Time will pass, though, and it will pass faster than he realises, but in the meantime he will stop worrying about writer’s block and deadlines and not even having the foggiest clue what his next novel’s going to be about, and live.

New York Times-bestselling author Viktor Nikiforov arrives in the sleepy seaside town of Torvill Cove to cure his writer’s block. After encountering local wallflower Yuuri Katsuki at a party, he discovers that this mysterious dark-haired man has a couple secrets up his sleeve.

And Viktor will be damned if he doesn’t find out just what those secrets are.

Thank Goodness for the Internet by  MadameFolie

Summary:

Yuuri Katsuki has nearly inhuman stamina. So sometimes Victor needs to get a little creative to even the playing field.

That Would Be Enough by  anteachrist

Summary:

“Hey, it’s gonna be okay buddy. You’re gonna be okay. You did such a good job okay? You lived a good life, a great one in fact! You’ve been the best best friend I could ever ask for. You and Yuuri, you’re my family okay? You’re all I’ve got and I love you so much bud.”

Or: Makkachin dies and Yuuri helps Viktor cope

Good Boy by  ayyyywhatsup

Summary:

Viktor has a not so small praise kink. Yuuri’s a bit clueless at first, but once he finds out, he takes advantage of it like there’s no tomorrow.

Or the praise kink fic that quickly spiralled down into overstim territory

Minor Incidentals by  aurons_fan

Summary:

When the topic of money comes up in a relationship, it’s best to know where you stand before mentioning a little thing like coaching fees.

proper poise by  demistories

Summary:

“Popular!”

Yuuri groans as the familiar ringtone wakes him from a dream that was probably really nice, but is already slipping away. Goddammit, Phichit. Today is supposed to be a rest day, which is supposed to mean sleeping in.

Yuuri Says  by  breathedeep222

Summary:

This stemmed from thinking about Yuuri being naturally dominant and ordering Victor (who totally loves it) around but being completely oblivious in the process.

I know it’s tagged Dom/Sub but there is like barely anything kinky in this fic lol. It focuses less on any actual kink and more on Yuuri being fucking clueless to how much of a sub Victor is.

Sharing an Umbrella by  Ellie_Rosie

Summary:

Three times Viktor and Yuuri share an umbrella.

At the Rink by  Velvedere

There are showers in the locker room at the local skating rink…

singularity by  springsoldier (ladydaredevil)

Victor Nikiforov, Jedi Knight, does not struggle with attachments. It’s only that Duke Katsuki of Hasetsu is unfairly attractive.

Love in Exile by  MartyMuses

Once a well know ballet dancer in St. Petersburg, Victor Nikiforov finds himself exiled to Sakhalin Island as a political convict in 1881. As a man sentenced to katorga he will never return to European Russia or his life on the stage. Known as the “Edge of the World,” his life on Sakhalin could not be further from the life he once knew. Strange circumstances lead his path to cross that of a young Japanese man, one of the very few still living on the island. Katsuki Yuuri leads a life of exile of a different kind, one that is largely self-imposed. Drawn to each other, despite their differences, something slowly begins to grow between them. When a narrowly avoided tragedy leaves them stranded together for a long, cold Sakhalin winter, they are challenged to face what their relationship really means, and what future it could possibly have.

put my heart on my chest (so that you can see it too) by alien_panda

Summary:

Yuuri never ceases to surprise him, especially at the exhibition gala.

reel against your body’s borders by  phichit-chu (howtobottlefame)

Summary:

The leaves change color and fall when he meets him, like a force of nature unlike anything he has ever seen.

I’m Phichit. Nice to meet you, Yuuri! and his smile is so bright, so warm it makes Yuuri forget he was on the ice.

The Kids Aren’t Alright by  bdol

Summary:

Coming in sixth place isn’t easy, even for someone as optimistic as Phichit. Snuggling with his best friend helps.

feat. That thing they swore never to talk about

The Carrot Of My Dreams. by  Albrecht

Summary:

Yuuri turns into a carrot.

Ignorance & Bliss by  scribblywobblytimeylimey

Summary:

Yuuri is toying with Viktor’s feelings. Trouble is, he doesn’t even realise it. Soon, outsiders start stepping in to help.

As though he’d realise what they were trying, either.

You can have everything… by  shysweetthing

Summary:

AU. Before the Grand Prix Final starts in Sochi, Yuuri finds Victor’s phone. He returns it–and hijinks and heavy flirtation ensue.

For a Good Time by  Val_Creative

Summary:

Everyone’s (gladly) had a piece of that.

(Victor x Pretty much everyone at one point or another.. check the tags before you read.)

Stir My Batter by  Resmiranda

Summary:

Victor hums soft and low. “Butter?” he questions, like Yuuri had just told him he needed to get the lube.

This is doing nothing for his concentration.

Today and Every Day by  Resmiranda

Summary:

Hungry and unable to sleep, Yuuri just wanted some cake. Victor helps. Kinda.

Yuuri!!! on Floor by  thehandsingsweapon

Summary:

The gymnastics edition, in which Viktor is still a skater because he’s too pretty on ice and I couldn’t take it away from him. A story about how sometimes love comes slow and soft, and how hearts get bigger when they break.

Phases by  neuroglam

Summary:

Victor teases Yuuri with a costume from his junior days–one which Yuuri remembers very, very well.

Rinse and repeat by  espritneo

Summary:

Victor and Yuuri are stuck repeating the same day over and over again. But we’re going to talk about Yuri.

(8 days Yuri Plisetsky never remembers and one that he does.)

Oh, But This Was Dancing, Too by  Nemamka

Summary:

Yuuri got reaally excited about landing a quad, and the rest is history.

I can’t even write proper smut because I get too poetic but um.

All that there’s in a name by  GwenChan

Summary:

“Above all Yuri discovers how important names are for Victor. Maybe it’s something cultural; maybe it’s just him. Victor catalogues moods and situations on a strict name-basis.”

A story about how names can affect a relationship.

Death and Love by  DefiantDreams

WARNING: MAJOR CHARACTER DEATHS (a lot over the course of Yuuri’s life..)

Summary:

For a moment, Death doesn’t want to take the life of the beautiful, bed-ridden man with the striking blue eyes.

But he must.

Or

X times Death takes from Katsuki Yuuri and the one time that he gives.

A Love Most Unique by  heartsdesire456

Summary:

There were a lot of things about Yuuri’s relationship with Victor that was unique. It was especially unique to be someone who had never found any appeal in the thought of sex and found such ready acceptance from a partner who very much enjoyed sex.

(A look into the unique relationship between asexual Dom Yuuri and sub Victor)

Such a lot of world to see by El Staplador (elstaplador)

Minako is showing off Barcelona. And showing off, a bit. Mari is just trying to keep up.

Just A Cold by DalishCheese

Yuuri’s in bed with a cold, and Viktor insists on taking care of him.

Instructions Unclear by  thoughtsappear

Summary:

Next time, go to Ikea.

[withinthescripts]

Season 2, Cassette 7: Sree Chitra Art Gallery (1979)

Jeffrey Cranor: Hey, the holidays are fast approaching, so maybe get your podcast-loving friends and/or family members some cool new Within the Wires shirts and a fabulous art print of Claudia Atieno’s “Child With Damsefly”, created by artist Jessica Hayworth. These are available at withinthewires.com. And now, an audio guide of the Sree Chitra Art Gallery, 1979.

[tape recorder turns on]

Hello and welcome to the Sree Chitra Art Gallery. I am the gallery director, Clarissa Nair. If you are listening to this audio guide, then you are currently experiencing our Reflections exhibition. We have dedicated ourselves to find a range of works by some of the world’s most highly regarded contemporary artists. With this exhibition, we aim to confront art’s role of a reflection of the society in which it is created, by featuring a series of works that depict a reflection themselves. If art is itself a mirror, what can we say about what we see contained within art? It is up to each of us to decide for ourselves. All of us at the Sree Chitra would like to welcome celebrated artist and scholar Roimata Mangakāhia to provide her insights on this audio guide. As this series includes two of her own works, we hope you will find a glimpse behind the process enlightening.

[bell chimes]

Humanity has always been obsessed with its reflection. The famed tale of Narcissus is remembered so well, in part because it is the tale of all of us. We look for reflections of humanity in the movements of the stars, in a tree that grows through a trick of chance to embrace another tree, in the cat that defies its stars to become best friends with a dog. We anthropomorphize wildly, perhaps from a desire to feel that we are not alone, that we are not the only thinking, feeling, planning beings in the universe. But because we look so hard for our own reflection, we can never really trust its view. Do otters hold hands when they sleep because of intimacy, or is it simply the instinctive awareness that if they lose each other in the moving waters, they will be more likely to die?

It is a question that doesn’t matter to the vast majority of the population, of course. Who would want an honest answer, when willful ignorance makes the world so much easier to deal with? But it is worth considering the fact that our view of ourselves as we see it reflected in the world around us is subject to the most determined of biases. 

It is not necessary that you consider these issues while viewing this exhibition. You are here to enjoy yourself, after all. And thoughts like this can lead to melancholy. They shouldn’t really when you think about it. The instinctual drive of animals doesn’t lessen the choices and feelings of people, but there are thoughts worth pondering at some point. So perhaps you will save them for some melancholy afternoon, when the sun is low and the air is still and the world demands nothing from you.

For now, let us consider the works on display.

[bell chimes]

One. “Women Alone” by Vanessa Wynn.

I have always believed that Vanessa Wynn has never had the kind of attention she deserves for her work. At the beginning of her career, one or two key critics described her work as derivative, and she became rather unfashionable. With the distance of time, however, and with a bit more information, we are perhaps better placed to question that assessment.

This particular painting features a group of three women. They are similar looking, perhaps sisters, grouped around a pool of water. Notice the bleak sky above them, and the skeletal trees. But the women themselves appear happy and comfortable, with their dark hair shining and their expressions peaceful. The woman in the center even has her eyes closed, not in sleep, but in bliss.

Their reflections in the pool, however, tell a different story. Look into the pool, deeply. All similarity between the three women is gone. The woman on the left has grown tall and imposing. Her hair has a vibrant silver, her face haggard and haughty, her eyes accusing as they gaze out at the viewer. What is she accusing you of? What have you done?

Opposite her, the woman on the left looks faded. Her entire being is cast over with a sheen of grey. There is an absence about her. She gazes out of the canvas, but not quite directly at the viewer. See how her gaze is unfocused. She is small and weighed down by hair that, rather than being the glossy black of her original is a muted, faded brown.

The woman in the middle, the one in sleepy bliss, has changed the least at first glance into this pool. You can see how her hair is still glossy, her arms are still plump, her body still seems relaxed. Her eyes, which are closed in reality, are open in the pool. In fact, they are widened. The irises are bright red and seem almost luminous. The widening of her eyes in a face that still seems calm lends a certain manic energy to the figure, don’t you think?

Look at her eyes. What can she see that you cannot? Do you wish you could see it too? Or is it better not to know?

Painted in wide strokes, the images in the painting seem almost to blend into each other. With a careless glance it’s easy to mistake the reflected image for the real. Look at the painting with great care.

The first time I saw this painting, I took it for the copy of one I’d seen many times before. But this was painted much too long ago for that to be possible.

[bell chimes]

Two. “Self-Portrait” by Roimata Mangakāhia.

It is never easy to discuss one’s won work. It is difficult enough to reduce the grand visions that flow through your head into oil and canvas. Trying to find words to talk about the oil and canvas of it reduces it further still. This is made all the harder naturally when the work in question is a self-portrait. A self-portrait is an inherently introspective work. It is an artist’s attempt to better understand themselves. It is not necessarily an attempt to explain. It is not necessarily an act of communication.

Nevertheless, I started this self-portrait when staying in my friend Claudia Atieno’s house off the coast of Cornwall. I was there for some time, and during that time, I became much better acquainted with the artists I talk about on this guide. The painting was done in my own room in the house, a small room on the top level, with a small mirror. The painting shows my face partially reflected in the mirror. I’m not looking at myself properly. It’s as if I’ve just glanced up and there it is, reflecting half my face back at me. I look casual, careless, as if I am moving swiftly through life. This is just an effect, of course, I studied my attitude and expression carefully as I made this painting.

Study. My. Attitude. My expression. Study it with whatever care you can muster.

Over my shoulder, you can see some of the room. A bed haphazardly made, a chair playing at being a coat rack. A window. It is a simple picture of a simple person in her simple room going about her simple life. But no life is really simple when you pay attention to the details.  

Look through the window and you can see grass leading to the edge of the island, with the sea beyond it. there are a few trees scattered around. At the very edge of the cliff. Slight and indistinct from this distance, just a dot in the middle of a reflection, there is a figure standing, waiting to jump.

[bell chimes] [tape recorder turns off] [ads] [tape recorder turns on] [bell chimes]

Three. “The Three Sisters” by Claudia Atieno.

“The Three Sisters” was one of Claudia’s most successful works in the middle of her career. It is presumed to be inspired by Shakespeare’s “Macbeth” and is certainly far from the only work depicting that particular play. The three women are placed around a low pool of water on a bleak moor. Their figures rendered in bold, wide brush strokes, and it’s difficult sometimes to see where one figure starts and one ends.

The women all look alike, comfortable and happy in their barren surroundings. Their hair is long and unbound, flowing in black waves over their shoulders. They smile softly, and the one in the middle has her eyes closed in something like bliss.

The women, or something like them, are reflected in the pool in front of them. Their reflections tell a different story, a story of three witches. One of the witches, as you can clearly see, has grown tall and gaunt, her reflected face distorted by the ripples of the water is full of malice and rage. Her iron colored hair is tangled, and her lips are curled in hate. Opposite her reflection is that of one of her sisters. She appears small and wizened, with a look of great cunning on her face, with a faded appearance. She gives the impression somehow that she is sneaking into the background of your life to wreak havoc without even being noticed. Her countenance is distorted and wry. She looks like a person who likes to hide in kitchen cupboards. You can see her. Do you agree?

The woman in the middle, the one with her eyes closed, is the only one reflected at all close to her original form. Her hair is still a gleaming black. Her face still smiles slightly, her body is still plump and relaxed. But her eyes are open, widened. Her eyes are a terrible blinding red.

Look at her red eyes. What does she see? Does she see her doppelgänger across the room? Is she confused as to who was born first? It is difficult to say what begets what.

Looking at the whole painting, this could be simply a trio of witches from a play. It could be about the inherent duplicitousness of human nature, the attract of serenity we show to the world and the turmoil we conceal. It could be about the risks of trusting anyone too much. Of the impossibility of guessing at someone’s true nature or motives.

What is trust? Can you find it in a painting?

You will think it odd perhaps to have two such similar paintings in one exhibition. “Three Sisters” is considered by many to be one of Atieno’s definitive works, so its presence here is hardly mysterious. As to Wynn’s piece that is on loan from my own private collection, I felt it was important for you to see it. Feel free to pause the cassette and go look at “Women Alone” again on the opposite wall. Or just wail til the audio guide is finished. It is almost finished.

It is an interesting thing to have loved and admired someone so much, to have stood in awe of their work, to have enjoyed their company, to have trusted their integrity. When you lose that feeling of admiration, it is as if you have lost the person themselves. The person you loved is gone, and in their place stands a stranger who wears their skin.

Is it only when someone has betrayed you personally that you are allowed to feel betrayed? If your affection and admiration for someone is bound up in an image of them that turns out to be false, are you not right to feel anger?

Vanessa’s career was ruined by the suspicion that she copied Atieno’s work, but it’s simply not what happened. I do not know when Atieno began work on “The Three Sisters”, but it did not premiere until 1967. “Women Alone” was being painted as early as 1963. I saw it unfinished at Vanessa’s studio in Cardiff. I remember this because Vanessa told me that Claudia Atieno had attended an exhibition of Vanessa’s work at a gallery in Munich. Vanessa and I were young artists, swayed by celebrity. We swooned and smiled about this fortuitous moment in Vanessa’s young career.

Claudia asked Vanessa what else she was creating. Vanessa told her about “Women Alone”. Claudia told her it was a brilliant concept, and that Vanessa was just the artist to pull it off. “But I do not like the title,” Claudia told her. “In art, framing is all.”

I’ll never forget that. Framing is all. I took it to mean that how you title your piece sets the tone for the viewer’s experience. But as I saw “The Three Sisters” go up at the grand opening of the Musem of Contemporary Art in Chicago, I knew she meant framing literally. Getting it on the wall. Get the idea into a frame and it is yours. Framing. Is. All.

Vanessa showed “Women Alone” at a private exhibit in London, and Alphra Bond of The Times ridiculed the young artist, calling her a plagiarist, stealing from an artist too famous to be copied without people noticing. Bond thought Vanessa should have at least taken an idea from a lesser known but more thought-provoking artist. Bond conceded she liked Vanessa’s version better, but the implications of thievery and the fact that Vanessa refused to admit anything, nor apologize, led to fewer and fewer showings of her work.

I bought “Women Alone” from her two years ago. I know its truth. I know what the reflected woman with the red eyes sees.

I’m sorry. This is perhaps a debate for a different medium. We are here to talk about art, after all. But then shouldn’t art concern itself with honesty? A discussion for another time, I suppose. Did you go back and look at “Women Alone” again? Well, do that now.

[tape recorder turns off]

“Within the Wires” is written by Jeffrey Cranor and Janina Matthewson, and performed by Rima Te Wiata, with original music by Mary Epworth. Find more of Mary’s music at maryepworth.com. The voice of Clarissa Nair was Lily Papkin. [ads] And forget your holiday shopping for your podcast-loving friends and family by going to withinthewires.com and checking out our new T-shirts and Claudia Atieno artprint.

OK, our time is done. It’s you time now. Time to stop by the museum gift shop, grab yourself a souvenir book of paintings about [Hollandaise sauce]. Pick up a poster featuring [Elton John touching your face], and buy a commemorative vase made out of [your own butt].

[warnercreations]

“Ignorance is bliss ‘tis a folly to be wise”

These words by Thomas Grey referred to the inevitable suffering that resulted from “growing up”, he urged youngsters to stay innocent as long as possible.

But this is no Neverland, here we DO enter adulthood.

I love reading, but I am also a huge movie fan, and in my personal collection I own copies of “The Matrix” and “Pleasantville”. If there are any who have not watched both of these movies, then I would urge you to make a plan to do so. I was recently inspired to write a blog entry based on “Pleasantville”, but I’ve made dozens of false starts with this entry, and the words have not flowed… Then I realised something the other day, “Pleasantville” and “The Matrix” actually share a common theme.

Let me start closer to the beginning of this story;

I’ve been sorting out my life, reducing the clutter, organising those things that I choose to keep. I’m sure everyone who lived in the era of film photography has a box of photo prints lying around? Mine has been with me since the last photos I had taken somewhere around 2001, many of them have been water damaged during my homeless times, and others were of memories that up until recently retained enough painfulness for me to shy away from exposing them often.

But things change, and I’ve got to the point where I don’t mourn the loss of those “good times” as much as I enjoy the memories of them, so I started organising them into collages, and as I did I took photo’s of some of them and shared them with friends on social media.

Many people responded with “you looked so happy then”

I immediately got on the defensive!

It was my self analysis regarding WHY this got me on the defensive that led to this train of thought.

“You looked so HAPPY then…” ;

These days we have a camera embedded in a little device we carry with us all the time, not only that but the pictures it takes are of a high quality, instantly available and free! Back in the Jurassic Era I grew up in, cameras were not always on hand, film was expensive and so was processing that film into prints, and to top it all off, one waited a week for the film to be processed after handing it in at the newsagents or pharmacy. So having a photo taken was an occasion! And you only really took the trouble to carry the camera when there was a REASON to. And no, we didn’t take a photo to show how miserable we were! So largely old photo’s were a record of the good times! This accounts for a proportion of the apparent “happiness”…

In my reality MANY of the “occasions I refer to above were the times spent with my now ex-wife as we progressed from dating, to courtship and into marriage. She and I were separated by 1,100km (700miles) for the first 7 years of our relationship, not only that, but the cult religion she and I were born into forbid dating among those “not yet ready for marriage”; so for much of that time we conducted our relationship in secrecy. We would spend a few weeks together every six months during school vacations, and obviously these were wonderful times as we made up for the months of pining and misery in-between, and we took photos during those happy times to remember them and each other. We didn’t take photos when we cried during farewells, nor of the stress and worry inflicted on us by the punishment from the church elders for indiscretions like “holding hands”. So many of these photo’s were of short periods of intense happiness separated by months of misery and despair.

But, eventually we married, and set up home together, we progressed in our respective careers, we accumulated material possessions, and took full advantage of the glamour and entertainment available to a pair of yuppies in Cape Town during the 1990’s. We drove sports cars and motorcycles, we lived with a sea view, we dined at some of the finest restaurants in the world, we frequented the theatre, the Opera House and the music concerts. We hobnobbed with the rich and the famous, the beautiful and the talented. There was little reason NOT to be happy!

Some people pursue that lifestyle their whole lives, they sail through mild seas and keep close to the shore, where life is easier and safer, and more secure. They come home to the boring spouse and hide the secret lover, they live cautiously and retire comfortably. There is nothing WRONG with these choices, except that these individuals generally lack the imagination to empathise with what the “other people” go through.

I speak from experience here, I used to judge others harshly, as compared to my own frame of reference. I knew a girl who had had an abortion while she was a teenager, illegal back in the puritan “Old” South Africa, she lied to her parents and the authorities and claimed to have been raped by “a Black man”, which of course ensured a legal abortion. My then Wife and I were extremely judgemental towards her and her morals. I would publicly attack smokers whose smoke intruded into my space. I would proudly assert that our Christian morals and stance against blood transfusions made us immune to the AIDS epidemic of the time. I judged those who were unfaithful to their spouses as hypocrites and sinners. I believed that only those of my Religious Sect would be saved from imminent destruction! Those who were not able to pay their monthly bills were wasteful and undisciplined.

When my wife admitted to having had an affair, I felt somewhat less invulnerable to STD infection. When I was comforted by that same woman who had had the abortion and ended up in her bed, I felt less self-righteous. When the divorce blew down the house of cards of my debt-based finances, I felt less fiscally disciplined. When I got hooked on tobacco during a drunken party I felt ashamed of how I shouted at those whose smoke drifted my way. When I ended up in a relationship with a separated, but still legally married woman, I felt hypocritical.

Unlike Neo in the Matrix, I never made the conscious choice to swallow the Red Pill, someone must’ve slipped it into my drink while I wasn’t watching!

“Spirituality” is somewhat of a fad at present, people wear it like a religion and they believe that “Spiritual Awakening” occurs wearing Yoga Pants, sitting in the Lotus Position chanting Ohmmmm.

In my case it came disguised as depression and self-destruction.

For Me, “Spiritual Awakening” wasn’t building a temple in the mountains, it was tearing down and setting fire to everything I owned so that something new could be built on the scorched earth left behind.

I found a major flaw in much of the teachings of The Law of Attraction, it is this concentration on consumerism. Much of the focus of many of the teachers is on Material Wealth…

Actually, maybe that is all as it should be, because again, I must correct my line of reasoning, The Law of Attraction is of itself not about spirituality, it may borrow from many of the practices of Spirituality such as Meditation, and entering into elevated states of consciousness, but at the root of it all, it is about manifesting change in our lives, rather than about embracing change in our lives. Do you pick up the difference? MANIFESTING change is about making a choice as to what we choose, EMBRACING change is about adapting to changes in our lives.

We live in a global society that has manufactured a set of standards to which we are expected to conform. This I guess is what we refer to as our “civilisation”. Consumerism is the central ideology of this global civilisation, and it is imposed upon us from the moment of birth, some may argue that it begins even before that.

The best neo-natal care and nutrition creates physically superior bodies

The best educational toys creates superior intellectual abilities

The best dental care creates an attractive smile

The best juvenile nutrition ensures a pattern of healthy eating

The best schooling ensures qualification to attend the best Universities and Colleges

The best Universities and Colleges ensures superior earning potential

The best Looking, best educated and higher earning individuals attract the best Looking, best educated and higher earning spouses.

The best Looking, best educated and higher earning couples have the potential to breed superior offspring…

The unfortunate results of the rutting of the less privileged start life with a disadvantage…

And how do we show that we are successful in this civilization? By what we own, by what we drive, by what we wear, by whom we mate with.

A year ago, I found myself in a very dark place. I was chronologically in the middle of a conflict with a family member, what started out as a simple disagreement over taking sides in a couple’s divorce escalated as neither of us was prepared to back down. Insults were traded until eventually he struck the blow below the belt that knocked me for the count… He asserted that I am a failure in life, and while I intellectually knew that to be rubbish spouted by an ageing narcissist, I saw myself through his eyes and that was very painful for me.

For some time now I believe that I have seen through this whole Zeitgeist, I see how we are manipulated into what to wear, and how to act, who to have sex with and where to live, what to drive and where to drive to. I came to understand how we are manipulated into religious, nationalistic, racial and cultural divisions so that we can be controlled and played like the pawns that we choose to be.

Once you understand these things, then clothes become something to keep us warm and protected, covering our nakedness because the alternative is legally and culturally unacceptable. A vehicle becomes a tool, a means to travel and transport goods from place to place. A cellphone ceases to be a status symbol, but becomes a communications tool and portable computer. A dwelling becomes a shelter. A life partner is chosen on merit rather than the standards of physical beauty created by the fashion industry.

But this person asserted that I was lazy, that my “messing around building furniture” was not an acceptable vocation, that my vehicles and my appearance are a disgrace. More than that he announced these things on public forums from where I conduct business.

Now as I said before, INTELLECTUALLY I understand that all of what this person was accusing me of was based on his own desperate clinging to the illusion he believes to be reality.

“Those still invested in the illusion hate those who have woken up” – Kim Warner

But my own self-esteem was fragile enough to take this to heart, and I did!

Healing was a slow process because as ones self-esteem is damaged so things collapse, and no matter what we may or may not believe about the Law of Attraction, when we feeling bad about ourselves, bad things seem to happen to us.

Self-Love is not vanity, that was something I had to teach myself ever since my mother and her Cult indoctrinated me to the contrary. No, Self-Love is vital, it it taking care of yourself first because when you give everything to someone else and have nothing left for yourself, then no one is there to help you. Self-Love is taking a vacation so that you become recharged. Self-Love is spending the money to go to the Doctor and the Optometrist so that you can function better. Self-Love is building something beautiful for YOURSELF

Self Love is making Collages out of your old photos so that you can remember the happy times.

This brings me back to those two movies, The Matrix was about seeing through the artificial, superficial illusion that we are conditioned into believing to be real. Pleasantville is about two modern teenagers who are transported back into the black and white world of a 1950’s television sitcom. In Pleasantville, everything was “pleasant” the Fire Department’s only task was rescuing cats out of trees, because fire did not exist, sex didn’t exist, art didn’t exist, not as a form of expression anyway, music was “pleasant”, everybody was “pleasant” to each other and even the weather was “pleasant” all the time, it never even rained in “Pleasantville”.

As these two teenagers interacted with these “pleasant” people they caused a chain reaction. The girl, played by Reese Witherspoon was a stereotypically sexually promiscuous cheerleader, and she introduced the “Pleasantville” teenagers to sex, Tobey Maguire, who played the nerdish boy introduced the citizens of “Pleasantville” to such concepts as art appreciation and taught the Fire Department how to extinguish a fire…

As people were influenced, they appeared in full colour, some were ashamed of this and tried to hide their “colour” behind makeup and clothing, others flaunted it. Life became less and less “Pleasant” in “Pleasantville”, adultery, rioting, fires, mob-justice, segregation all became part of life in “Pleasantville”, but the other side-effect was that people grew, that while life was no longer always “pleasant”, it could also reach heights of bliss and valleys of despair.

The hero of “The Matrix” chose to take the Red Pill, and as a result he was ejected from the comfortable illusion and subjected to the harsh life of a resistance fighter. Like me, the residents of “Pleasantville” never got to consciously choose, but each of them grew exponentially as a person.

I reacted SO defensively to “you looked so happy then”, because that was the bliss of ignorance, not the satisfaction of being fully awake in a world of sleepwalkers.

Go Forth and BE AWESOME

All My Love

Kim

Happiness and the Illusion “Ignorance is bliss ‘tis a folly to be wise” These words by Thomas Grey referred to the inevitable suffering that resulted from “growing up”, he urged youngsters to stay innocent as long as possible.