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rpmemesbyarat · 2 years ago

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Deconstruction is more than parody or satire or even subversion, and it’s more than just saying something is dumb, and it’s more than doing a “dark” take on something. Some of my absolutely FAVORITE works are deconstructions, such as Shrek and Revolutionary Girl Utena, both of which point out the realistic pitfalls of traditional fairytale roles. But there still needs to be more to it than just “one really smart character just suddenly starts pointing out how all these things are unrealistic” because, as mentioned, if you just stick a character like that into one of these worlds that are played straight, it actually doesn’t work, because the character is objectively wrong. “Ah but it’s not like that in my world! The unrealistic things that happen have realistic consequences! All the stupid things people do in superhero/fairytale/etc stories don’t work and hurt people!” Then why are they still doing them? Edna Mode STOPPED designing capes because they were safety hazards. If gingerbread houses repeatedly get moldy from rain and crumple, why does every witch in your fantasy deconstruction still build them. Just so the protagonist can go, hey, that’s stupid? That’s kind of unrealistic itself. If something was built to fall from the start, how has it even lasted long enough for the hero to point out its flaws? And if it has lasted so long, how do they know it’s flawed? Hold that thought. Now, let’s talk about Shrek the character and the film. Shrek actually DOES do all the expected things for an ogre short of actually eating anyone. He lives in a swamp, he’s mean and nasty, and his hygiene is, uh, not great. The deconstructive aspect is in exploring why these things are and what their results are. He lives in a swamp to avoid people because of their reactions to him, which are also why he behaves the way he does. He explains out loud that people judge him before they even know him, and he finds it easier to just be what they expect because at least that keeps them away. He also does seem to genuinely enjoy the swamp for the same reason his hygiene is gross by human standards; because he’s not a human, so what’s “normal” for humans won’t be the same for him, and that’s actually fine. The grossness is played for laughs, but it also plays a role in showing Fiona’s self-acceptance. For instance, when she belches and doesn’t show any embarrassment, she’s stepping outside her prescribed “princess” role that she clings to, and showing behavior that is ogre-ish, something she normally has great discomfort with as it reflects the side of herself she hates. Yet, she’s unashamed of it around Shrek. So, it’s not just “omg she burped, so funny!” or “this is a clever deconstruction because see, the PRINCESS does something GROSS and princesses don’t normally do that!” It’s a lot deeper. We see that the role of being a princess is so restrictive to Fiona that she stifles an entire side of herself in shame, and we also see WHY she would do that, because it’s established earlier how despised ogres are by wider society. A society that hates ogres would surely never accept one as a princess. Her behavior makes sense within the context of her world, as does Shrek’s own, but also deconstructs it by showing the actual psychological ramifications that such restrictions and roles—the perfect princess, the nasty ogre– have on the people who are forced into them by society. A deconstruction criticizes a work by taking its foundations and following them to the realistic point, which is often a negative end. Revolutionary Girl Utena, though wildly different in tone from Shrek, does things similarly in that it critically examines the restrictive roles of fairytale archetypes–namely, the princess, the prince, and the witch—and the disastrous psychological effects that trying to fit these roles (or force them on others) has on people. It starts out with the idea of simply “Utena is a girl but wants to be a prince and save princesses” something that most people would find revolutionary enough, but then breaks down how that’s ACTUALLY still playing by the rules of an oppressive system, still using the same restrictive boxes even if you’re going into a different one than you’re “supposed” to, and still viewing others within that same restrictive system (seeing other women, namely Anthy, as “princesses” who exist for her to “save” in order to validate her desire to be a “prince” and thus dehumanizing them in the process as much as others have) Yet again, the deconstruction is done not by going “isn’t this silly?” or by having the characters simply act in ways unexpected for the genre, it’s done by exploring the realistic consequences of the tropes in a certain genre. And like Shrek, both stories show WHY these systems exist. It’s not just “everyone is an idiot using ideas that don’t work and only this super special protagonist can see how dumb it all is” in either one. Ok, most people being stupid IS a bit of a factor in Shrek, because it’s a comedy, but in both worlds we see these systems are promoted and upheld by people in power behind the scenes for their own gain. Even when fairytale creatures aren’t being rounded up and deported en masse by one noble in particular, it does seem that royalty is exclusively human in Shrek’s world, and the current king was only able to get on the throne and marry the woman he loved by making a magical bargain that made him human in the first place, even though he was sentient and speaking as a frog. Logically, why COULDN’T a sentient speaking frog with human-level intellect marry a queen and run a kingdom? Or a talking donkey? Or talking cat? Or an ogre? It’s not shoved in our face, but it seems like there is a definite “humans are a ruling class” thing going on, and the roles that people are put into as hero or monster (or just “lesser” such as Donkey) is based on one being a human or not. And our villain in the second movie, the Fairy Godmother, though not human herself, clearly seeks power by exploiting and enforcing this system. And in “Utena” the entire system of duels and ideas about roles—the Rose Bride, the Prince, etc– is confined to the small world of Ohtori Academy, which is ultimately revealed to be something of a pocket dimension magically separated from the "real" world and under the control of a formerly god-like fairytale prince who exhausted himself from saving damsels, lost much of his powers as a result, and became a conniving hedonist as a result who sets this cycle in motion again and again in order to regain that power. In other words, these deconstructions don’t just show us why these conventions would actually be bad, it also breaks down why they would exist in the first place in a world if they’re so bad, and the realistic consequences for the people as a result, and why/how it would continue despite these consequences in order to still exist long enough to be criticized at all. In a bad “deconstruction” the protagonist might simply point out that an unjust system is unjust and also stupid and that “realistically” it should all fall apart like a house of cards, which usually it then will…with no explanation as to how, if it was so flimsy and stupid and wouldn’t realistically work, it ever came to be in the first place. Which is itself unrealistic. Whereas in good deconstructions like Shrek and Utena, it shows why an unjust system would exist and persevere in the first place, and follows the natural conclusion to what type of people would benefit from creating and maintaining such a system. It’s not treated as just a natural occurrence or everyone except the hero just being stupid or bigoted, there’s an entire framework justifying why it does exist in-universe even though it harms people. Much like in our own world. The systems in Shrek and Utena also, it must be noted, are NOT “stupid”, just evil. But not stupid. They work very, very well for the people who enforce them and benefit from them. Which also explains why they exist and hold up for so long in the first place for our heroes to rail against. Deconstruction will look at something like fairytale roles or Chosen One prophecies, and go “ok, how would this get set up and maintained in the first place, and who would do that, and why?” and that usually leads to a dark conclusion as well (Dune is a GREAT example of deconstructing the Chosen One Trope BIG TIME—turns out the prophecy about one super special boy was in fact totally made up by a cult for their own ends and spread throughout the galaxy!) And speaking of railing against the system, both Shrek and Utena the characters DO originally internalize the “rules” of their own world as is realistic for people who grew up in it. Shrek, born into being an ogre, starts out the film believing he just might as well give up and be what people think him to be, because no one will see him as anything else anyway. Utena starts out as somewhat rebellious against the system of her word, having been inspired by being “saved” by a prince when she was young and therefore deciding SHE would be a “prince” and save other girls, instead of being the “princess” herself. Yet this also still constraining herself and other people into the limiting roles she’s familiar with. Both of them go on a journey in which they realize that both society’s roles and their internalization of those roles is something each needs to grow from. They don’t just automatically know better for no reason, and it’s not simply “wow, the MONSTER is the hero this time!” or “wow, the GIRL saved the day!” which is what a lot of lesser deconstructions or so-called subversions come down to. Because, in those cases, the writers don’t really seem to have thought about the conventions of the genre beyond “well this is dumb/unrealistic” and “they do things THIS way so I’ll do the OPPOSITE” and think that alone makes for deep or clever commentary. TL;DR: Your deconstruction doesn’t need to be about the same things Shrek and Utena are, nor does it even need to have any kind of real-world social commentary like they very much do. But a good deconstruction does more than say “the tropes in this genre are STUPID” It instead looks at what the natural consequences of these tropes would be if they were enforced in a realistic way—what it does to people to be boxed into roles like princess, ogre, witch– and then examines WHY those tropes would therefore exist in the first place, asking the question of who decides them, who enforces them, and why that is, with the answers often being dark ones, rather than just accepting “this is the way it is” . It’s less kicking a house down, and more dissecting a body, basically. Also, an important note: Your deconstruction DOESN’T need to be dark. Many are, because examining the realistic consequences of common media tropes often DOES lead to unpleasant places, and because the ones that don’t are often not what writers want to explore; there’s no much story in “actually this is totally fine as is” most of the time. But it doesn’t need to be. Likewise, darkness alone does not make a deconstruction. So, doing a dark take on a fairytale wouldn’t be a deconstruction, nor would a role-swapping tale where the hero and villain were reversed or the villain’s side was explored. Both are absolutely worthy routes/stories, just, they’re not deconstructions.

#writing #Writing tips #writing advice #writing tip #writblr #Deconstruction

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raven-haz · 2 months ago

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Is Earth Flat According To Islam?

Lately, there’s been some confusion among people, even within the Muslim community, about whether the Earth is flat or not. Some claim that Islam teaches that the Earth is flat, but when we look deeper into the Qur’an and Islamic teachings, that’s not actually the case.

Firstly, Islam has always encouraged the pursuit of knowledge, especially about the natural world. Allah tells us in the Qur’an to observe and reflect on His creation, and throughout history, Muslim scholars have made significant contributions to fields like astronomy, geography, and physics. Many of these scholars were aware that the Earth was round centuries before it was widely accepted elsewhere.

In the Qur’an, Allah describes the Earth in ways that align more with the modern understanding of its shape. For instance, in Surah Az-Zumar (39:5), Allah says, “He created the heavens and Earth in truth. He wraps the night over the day and wraps the day over the night.” The word used here for "wrap" is yukawwir, which in Arabic refers to something being wrapped or coiled around a spherical object, like a turban around someone’s head. This suggests a round shape of the Earth, as the day and night cycle wouldn't work the same way if the Earth were flat.

Another verse, in Surah An-Nazi'at (79:30), says, "And after that He spread the Earth." Some people misunderstand this to mean that the Earth is flat, but the Arabic word dahāhā used here means "spread out" or "made expansive." It’s actually connected to the word for an ostrich egg, which has a rounded shape. This verse is more about how Allah has made the Earth expansive and habitable, not about its flatness.

The notion that the Earth is flat doesn’t align with the Qur'an or with the history of Islamic science. Muslims like Al-Biruni and Ibn Hazm explored the concept of a spherical Earth long before it became common knowledge in Europe. These scholars used observations of the stars, shadows, and geography to conclude that the Earth was round. Islam encourages us to seek knowledge and reflect on the signs of Allah’s creation, not to deny the truths that science has shown us.

The idea that the Earth is flat is not based on Islamic teachings but is a misunderstanding or misinterpretation of scripture. Just like with many things, it’s important to read the Qur’an in context and understand that our faith does not contradict reality. Islam is a religion that supports knowledge, growth, and discovery, and science is a part of understanding Allah’s creation.

In the end, Islam teaches us to use both reason and faith. Allah encourages us to explore the world around us, and in doing so, we come to appreciate His creation even more. So, while some might believe the Earth is flat, this isn’t supported by the Qur’an or the rich history of Islamic scholarship. The Earth is round, and this fact only deepens our understanding of the wisdom behind Allah’s creation.

(keep in mind I'm not a scholar and i write these based on my knowledge.)

#Islam

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rozinaaa · 8 months ago

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Research Is My Passion

I know that I'm probably stating the obvious here, but I think that research is my passion, possibly more so than actually creating designs and other tangible objects, because once an object is made, it's made, although I think that it might be something so much more than that.

Perhaps it's due to the fact that the transcript for my degree reflects this, where I first started out by being good at the practical things, only for that to fall to the wayside a bit (especially with how my Final Major Project was perceived as a dumpster fire (a grade C) amongst a sea of A's and one B that was only a couple of marks away from an A), and for the research itself to shine through.

As I get older (and somewhat wiser), I become less interested in how things look on the surface (although it's still nice to view pretty things), and I become more interested in how the thing itself works and what was used to create the thing, since it can uncover a lot of different things that might have otherwise been unnoticed.

I'm still a bit iffy about finding some hidden meanings in art and all that, but with all of the disasters unfolding in the world right now, I can't help but look deeper into everyday objects to see how it's all connected, especially now that there's a List Of Things To Boycott (since the companies behind them are usually the cause for most of these disasters, with the items of this List essentially being large corporations, which will make me seek out better alternatives and make me become less of a consumer, which I guess is a little bit of a blessing in disguise, although the context that surrounds this is obviously awful), because taking things at face value not only seems boring, but it's also ignorant, and to me, it feels like a very mindless way to live, which probably explains why I struggle to fit in with my peers most of the time.

Apart from that heavy hitting reason, this might explain my gradual transition from illustration to creative coding and amateur web development to UI Design (although I'd still want to operate within the creative coding space, but I haven't done it for so long that I doubt I'm even a part of it anymore), but still, I'd to move beyond just creating a set of static visuals that all of the developers are going to magically make live and dynamic, and perhaps point my focus towards UX Design and Research, since I'd get to focus on why things work the way that they work, and how this can influence the overall user experience, as well as all of the thinking that goes into it.

Following on from my plan to pivot into UX Design and Research, I'd want to pick up coding again to use in conjunction with being a UX Designer and/or Researcher, since this will keep things pretty interesting for me, instead of being wedged within my comfort zone and not moving an inch.

I'm still not too sure about the future of my job at the moment (but I should find out in about 2 months' time if I'll finally get made permanent, or if I'll still be hanging on by a thread and having to play silly mind games about how much of an employee I am), but if it does happen to fall to the wayside, I'd like my next role to focus on some aspects of UX Design and Research, perhaps in the form of a degree apprenticeship (although it does seem ironic to keep dipping in and out of academia, where I'd end up going in circles and moving side ways, by essentially being at the same level that I'm at now, but in a different context, although I hope that it will be much more interetsing to me, but I'm not sure if I can do it since I already have a degree and some experience in an adjacent area), since I'd at least have the chance to learn about the basics of coding (along with research and context in general, paired with Psychology, which also happens to be another one of my main interests) in a formal and academic context, since I realise that trying to teach myself everything about everything online is doable, but it isn't going to be as effective as it could be if I actually took out the time to fully focus on a few different subject areas.

Overall, research is definitely my passion (I've even got an are.na board that now has over 38k blocks to prove it, but that's just a very small thing), and I'd want to spend more time focusing on that, especially considering the fact that a lot of my posts happen to revolve around research and context much more than having a creative practice, so I think what I spend most of my time doing (and what I tend to gravitate towards) essentially reveals what I'm actually like as a person, and for me, choosing the more interesting option (instead of focusing on the things that are easy for me) seems like a much better use of my time.

#context

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ardn716abbysantillan · 10 months ago

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The predominant genre of my photography work is more fashion photography based either with models posing, myself or my genuine lifestyle with people around me. I feel that my overall mood/vibe gives a grungier/edgier vibe as that’s what my personal style revolves around. The main contexts of my work mostly include art that provides a deeper meaning within the photos or simply contextual with clothing I’ve made or the people in my community.

The type of platform I would want to showcase my work would be either fashion or editorial photography. My past work does definitely reflect the path I want to go into contextually as some shoots are either staged or not staged so I’ve been exposed to what it’s like working with models etc but I would love to push myself further and create work at my best.

My name is Abby Santillan. I am an aspiring fashion photographer, conceptual and lifestyle work, producing high end content for fashion brands or magazines. My work provides a grungier, subversive style which also reflects my own personal style as an individual.

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abygailsantillan2023 · 10 months ago

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spaceorphan18 · 2 years ago

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Glee Musical Retrospective: Papa Don't Preach (Hairography)

youtube

Sung by: Quinn Fabray Original Artist(s): Madonna

This is the first Madonna song they do on the show. And, apparently, they do one every year until season six when they inevitably run out of Madonna songs. ;)

Story Analysis

It's not weird that Quinn would sing a song about teen pregnancy. It is weird that the show thinks this performance would somehow entice three eight year olds to shut up and watch. But this is the Glee universe we're in.

The song is fairly on the nose for Quinn's character -- and, for the first time, Quinn is singing a song that fits her actual persona instead of trying to emulate a persona she just doesn't really have. The use of Madonna is a relatively good choice to reflect on Quinn's less than innocent inner feelings and desires.

Papa, I know you're going to be upset Cause I was always your little girl But you should know by now I'm not a baby

It's an interesting use of lyrics as she's singing this post-Ballad. He father wanted her to stay a child, and did get upset when he found out that she wasn't his idyllic little girl.

The one you Warned me all about The one you said I could do without We're in an awful mess And I don't mean maybe

It's fitting that she's singing this song while Puck plays the guitar. Puck is one of those guys that women are told to stay away from, and fits the bill of this song perfectly. He's that bad boy type that does end up getting the girl pregnant.

The camera pans to Puck as these lyrics are sung, but to the point of the song (in lyrics that we never hear) the two of them do have feelings, and it wasn't just about having sex and having an unwanted pregnancy about it. Quinn and Puck share some meaningful looks just as the music reflects their situation - but it's interestingly complex. It's about the fact that they both know they have feelings for the other - but their circumstances make their love story not an easy situation.

But I made up my mind. I'm keeping my baby

And - continuing on to be right on the nose for the story - this is the point where Quinn is thinking that maybe she can have it all. Maybe her life won't be interrupted by a new child. Maybe she and Puck can have a loving and healthy relationship. Maybe they can have a nice little family -- after all -- they are getting Kendra's devil children to settle down.

While most of the songs on the show use a truncated version of the song, this one feels like it's abruptly stopped -- as if not to finish the complete thought. And, while yes, the scene does need to end, I think it's also worth noting that Quinn's inner thoughts are put on pause momentarily as she works out whether or not she really does want to try to pursue not only a relationship with Puck but also actually trying to raise her baby.

As I said above, though, while it fits Quinn's character perfectly, it's a bizarre choice to be singing to children. Maybe they just liked the pretty lady dancing. Who knows.

Technical Thoughts

One of the nice things about this one is that it utilizes Dianna Agron's lower register a little. It's not as low as she can go, but she doesn't sound like she's straining to get all of the notes, which is a nice change comparatively to her earlier solos. Madonna has a deeper and somewhat raspier voice that Agron can emulate nicely. I think it adds a layer of grit to Quinn that's always been there but not always shown.

They also allow Quinn to be teasingly flirty and a little bit sensual, when it comes to the choreography. Sure, she's dancing around a little, too, but there's a more adult layer added to this song. Quinn's not in her cheerleading uniform, and not constrained by it any longer either. Quinn's allowed to be free to be herself, for the first time in, who knows how long - and it's nice to see.

(The song is a perfect choice for Quinn, but Glee is so weird about its context sometimes... her flirtatious dancing is aimed at children, and the whole scene is weird within context.)

I kind of wonder if Mark Salling did the guitar part for the recording. Salling was accomplished on the guitar and probably could play this one no problem. I'm also not often fond of his acting choices - but I think he has some great chemistry with Agron, and the shared, layered thoughts actually play really well here.

vs. The Studio Recording: So, this is exactly the same as the show version, which means it's really short. I kind of wonder what made them decide to only do half the song. I will say - this is still early in the show, and they didn't cater to iTunes sales the way they'll do starting in the second half of season one.

vs. The Original Version: I love seeing these videos for the first time. Wow is this so 80s I can't even. The 'hunk' in this? Lol, omg. This definitely Madonna at her peak though.

The thing is - Glee finally goes far from the original arrangement, and it's actually nice. The original is a relic of the 80s, completely with synth sounds and, well, more synth sounds. The acoustic version they do on the show not only fits for Glee's attempt to add realism, but makes it a more contemporary sounding song.

Also, as usual, a lot of Quinn's choreography is inspired by the dancing around Madonna does in the video. Which I always find an intentional nice touch.

#the great glee rewatch #so's musical retrospective #glee music #Youtube

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writefightandflightclub · 4 years ago

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Somebody to love (PART 2/2): (Richard Alonso Muñoz x fem!reader)

Summary: PART ONE IS HERE. Whilst your neighbour, Richard, is in love with love, you are a little more commitment averse. When he performs a small act of kindness though, your feelings start to unravel, and you wonder if you may have found somebody to love - right next-door all along.

Richard is a sweet, gentle man, and so I hoped to create a sweet, gentle story. I hope you enjoy spending some time in it!

I HAVE POSTED THIS IN TWO PARTS, ONLY BECAUSE OF LENGTH. WHILST YOU COULD PROBABLY(?) READ EITHER PART AS A STANDLONE, THEY ARE MEANT TO WORK TOGETHER.

Genre / tropes: pining, friends to lovers (sort of - neighbours to lovers), getting together, domesticity, fluff, smut, nothing bad happens, ends happily, quite a slow burn for a one-shot, I guess?

Author’s note: This is part of my friends to lovers event, prompt requested by @foxilayde who I adore and you should too. Prompt was: he does something utterly mundane which shows how well he knows you, and your feelings hit you. I took some liberties with the prompt, and there is zero pressure to read this - IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A BLURB! :P More of these requests in pinned post!

Tags: (will add tomorrow)

Warnings/ Ratings:

PART ONE (Mature, 18+ ONLY): swearing; sexual themes (erotic poetry, thirsty internal monologue, sexual tension); food themes inc. mentions/ consumption; family mentions - reader has nieces but they need not be biological; brief mentions of the prison system - Richard is a Corrections Officer; exceedingly brief mention of the Holocaust in context of a non-fiction book Richard is reading (I believe this is a canon read but may be wrong); loneliness (theme, not too angsty); self-esteem issues if you squint.

PART TWO: (Explicit, 18+ ONLY): swearing; explicit sex, including - oral m + f receiving; unprotected vaginal sex; creampie; f squirting (first time doing so); well-endowed man, ahem.

Word count: 10k for part 1, 9k for part 2.

The date has been flawless. The best date you’ve had.

Richard is amazing to talk to and appealing to look at. He makes you feel safe and secure, yet also ignited and pleasantly destabilised. His laugh is music. His smile is sunshine. He is at times serious and in other moments delightfully playful. His gentle, quiet nature suckers you in to him, and once you are in the circumference of his warmth, you simply don’t want to leave.

You want to treat this special man to all the love he deserves.

You reflect, as you walk together towards your street, hand-in-hand, that it feels as though you’ve known him for years - and, of course, you have. You simply hadn’t been paying adequate attention. It is evident that Richard has, however. That he already knows you and understands you better than you could have imagined.

So, now, as you step up on to your porch, Richard stands a couple of steps below you, his cola-coloured eyes big and gentle and sparkling as he looks up at you. You loop your arms so that they rest on his shoulders, your fingers dipping into the glorious manicured curls at the nape of his neck. You had hoped that Richard might respond by winding his arms around your waist -or perhaps gripping your hips or your ass, to be quite honest- but instead, he stands there, taut with nerves, and yet his arms hung limply by his sides.

He seems so responsive; so receptive to every small touch you give him, the man humming lightly as you stroke his soft skin, and yet, he hasn’t returned the favour. You wish he would touch you, but, in resignation, you smile softly, guessing that if Richard won’t take the initiative, you will simply have to. After all, you’ve been desperate to kiss the man all evening. So, with a gentle smile and a search of his eyes, you shift one hand to cup his shapely chin, tipping his face up towards you.

“I want to kiss you, Richard. Is that okay with you?”

Keenly, he lets out a half-strangled affirmation, the weight of his plea creasing the space between his brows. “Please.”

And so, you pick up his unsure arms and you guide them around your waist, until his hands tentatively settle, polite but also firm and broad and warm around you, and you rehoop your arms around his neck, readying to move in for the kill.

Dipping your head down, you inch yourself closer and closer towards Richard’s lips, and you wonder if his heart is hammering the way yours is. You take in the beautiful sight of his eyes fanning closed and chin tilting up eagerly towards you, before your own eyes follow suit, your noses bumping awkwardly as you tilt around each other. The first sensation you feel is his moustache, the thick brush of it tickling your lips and causing you to faintly moan as you feel this small indication of his closeness. This breathy, broken sound from you causes Richard’s hands to tighten around your waist, finally, and with either a surge of bravery or a collapsing of his resolve -perhaps both- it is he who closes the remaining distance, his warm lips keenly meeting yours.

At first, it is a chaste, closed-lipped kiss that, even so, makes your legs tremble almost immediately. His soft lips are so moreish that when you break from him, leaning your forehead against Richard’s -both your chests heaving and your breaths practically one- you immediately sink back again to his lips, needing to taste him again.

You smile into the kiss as you become accustomed to the sensation of that glorious moustache, scraping lightly against your upper lip and cheek and nose, and you feel desire sink all the way through the pit of you like a stone as Richard’s tongue delves gently into your mouth. This surge of his kiss is like nothing you have felt before, and whilst Richard may seem timid, and while his ministrations may be gentle and slow, you could swear you have never felt a more assured tongue in your life.

“Do you want to come inside?” you ask urgently, your voice a broken, breathy thing, the air for your words ripped from his lips.

“Yes. Yes, I’d like to, very much,” Richard answers just as quickly, his eyes dancing with a delicious brewing heat as you take his hand and lead him into your home.

Your lips find him again as shoes and jackets are shrugged off, strewn haphazardly in the hallway, his kisses slow-moving and deliciously sweet, sending a cloying desire like warmed syrup sinking to the pit of you. Your stomach flips each time you feel his tongue against yours, as though your core intends to mirror the languid circling of his tongue, and suddenly you are already throbbing there, thinking of where these burgeoning kisses might be leading.

“You’re so beautiful,” Richard breathes, sinking on to your lips again, and your legs weakening beneath you.

You lead Richard deeper inside your home, and you vaguely consider your options, but with this hazy, hungry heat all around you, dragging him to your bedroom by the hand seems like the only viable course of action.

“Do you... want to come to my bed with me?” you ask, voice levelled with need and stomach buzzing with the pleasant thrum of nerves.

He answers affirmatively and you waste no time, until you are both seated on the edge of your bed, continuing your slow, sensual make-out session, bodies twisted towards each other. Richard kisses you deeply, opening your mouth up to him, until he breaks from you with a wracked groan, squirming with slight discomfort and apology as he adjusts himself, to better accommodate the growing bulge between his legs.

When he spreads his denim-clad thighs, like that, they look so sturdy and appealing that you want to climb him. Want to straddle his lap and writhe your heat right over his tenting arousal.

Still, you hesitate. He’s eager, you know that much; and God, so are you. However, he still seems nervous about reaching out to you or taking the lead. His hands never stray far from zones he may consider more polite or more comfortable, despite the fact he has happily allowed your hand to inch up and up his clothed thigh and towards that tenting crotch of his, his pretty, wracked moans spurring you on.

So, as he breaks from you, momentarily, you pull back to search his eyes.

“Would you… Would you like to touch me, Richard?” you suspire, wanting to progress this further, but only if he’s comfortable.

As you regard him, you note that you have never seen a man look quite so dishevelled with need - both literally and figuratively. Your hands have upset his perfectly fixed curls, mussed tendrils now draping over his forehead. His kiss-plumped lips are parted to accommodate his now ragged breaths, and he looks almost forlorn - pained with it, as though he might end if he isn’t kissing you again within moments. “Yes. Please.”

“Where?”

“Everywhere,” he responds, brow furrowed with weighty desire and eyes searching yours.

The tone with which he responds to you, sunken with need, has a hard swallow trailing down your throat. An immediate and impossible ache building between your legs.

“How about… here?”, you say tentatively, gingerly taking his hand, and moving it beneath the fabric of your dress until his warm fingers meet the bare flesh of your thighs. His thumb instantly sinks in to knead you as he works his hand up further, inching towards your core, exactly where you need him.

“God, you’re so soft. You feel so good.”

“C-can I touch you?” you ask, as he inches higher, and it comes out as a plea. You need to. Need to touch him. Everywhere. You need to feel him under your hand - feel him all over you. On you. Against you. Buried in you. Fuck, you need him.

With your question though, Richard’s hungry eyes are momentarily clouded by apprehension, and so, you take a moment to rein in your snowballing desire; to properly check-in with him.

“Let’s talk for a minute. Can I do anything to make you feel more comfortable?” your voice soft and soothing, your hand smoothing over his thigh.

Richard flutters his eyelashes and looks down at his lap, withdrawing his hand from under your dress. Your skin shivers, instantly cold with the loss of him. He nods, slowly, soberly, his face set and moustache downturned. Then, when his words come, his voice is small and sad. “I asked my buddy at work for advice. Said I had a date with someone out of my league. Somebody so perfect, and that I didn’t want to mess it up.”

Your eyebrows knit together. You shake your head in disbelief. Your one single desire now, is to set his misapprehension to rest. “Fuck that. I’m not out of your league, Richard. You’re gorgeous. You’re perfect.” You cup his cheek again, planting a kiss on that now familiar spot, right on the tip of his cheekbone, a spot perfectly contoured to your lips.

His eyes flick back up to yours, shining with gratitude, but he still looks unsure.

“Perfect,” you repeat, dipping to press a kiss to his opposite cheek. “Gorgeous.” To the tip of his nose. “Sexy.” To the corner of his lips. “Handsome.” To the column of his neck. Meanwhile, smoothing your hand over his thigh and arm and chest, keeping your desire stoked but mainly aiming to offer him comfort, and to bolster his wavering confidence.

A smile claims Richards eyes, at least, if not his lips, and he brings his hand to your face, caressing you gently in gratitude. You pull up to search his eyes and his expression says it all.

You are beautiful.

And, despite his nervousness, his timidness, when Richard next speaks, there is no hint of self-consciousness in his voice. Not an ounce, his kind eyes backlit with lust. With that now familiar, gentle, nuanced heat. “He said… Said that I should eat you out like a man starved.”

To your credit, you try to speak. You really do, your mouth opening and closing again wordlessly, but all of a sudden, you have lost language. You can barely breathe. Can barely form a coherent thought. Barely an incoherent one. Barely a -

“Would you like it? If I did that, bonita?”

You whimper. You actually whimper, as he sits there, coolly holding your face in his broad palm, caressing you with the pad of his thumb. Behaving as though he’s an innocent thing and yet making you feel like this.

“I would not be. Opposed to. That,” you muddle out, barely, your voice trembling with need.��An insistent pulse between your legs, causing you to press them tightly up against one another, just for a morsel of relief. “But… you. Ohhh.” His thumb brushes over your cheek. Towards your mouth. “Y-you don’t have to. Um.” Skims your lower lip. “Ahhh. Do. Anything you. Uh. Don’t want. To.” The pad of his thumb pushes inside, just deep enough for the tip of your tongue to meet it as he grazes over you. “Uhhh.”

Richard nods in understanding, and when your tongue fleets out to taste the tip of him, his eyes darken deliciously, pupils lust-blown.

You, meanwhile, are vapour. Your breath is ragged. Your arousal is soaking through your dress. You can feel it. Feel your own slick, a mess on your thighs.

And yet, you can tell there is more he wants to say, so you encourage him to go on. “Richard?” you plead.

“I... I want it to be perfect for you. You’re so perfect. But I...” his moustache twitches as he sucks his own lips between his teeth. His hands drop dejectedly into his lap, and he can’t meet your eyes, fixing his gaze on a spot of carpet. “I want to. So much. I‘m aching for you.”

Then what? You search his beautiful big eyes, reaching up to gently tuck a cute, hanging strand of curls away from his eyes and urging him to go on.

He reaches behind his head, to self-consciously stroke the nape of his neck. “The last woman I was with... It wasn’t... She didn’t like the moustache. And she... she said I was... too big.”

Fuck.

Your hand drops from his face into your lap, and your jaw slackens in shock as you let his words sink in. Meanwhile, his face becomes tinged again with that undertone of crimson you’re becoming rather familiar with.

Too big?

“Fuck, Richard,” you breathe -or, rather, can barely breathe- as he looks up at you from beneath his lashes, nervously, humbly awaiting your reaction. He really has no idea what he’s doing to you, does he? How perfect he is? You can feel the heavy pulse of desire throbbing between your legs once more - even more so now. A slow-crawling heat under your skin.

Can he really be so... endowed?

Can he really be so shy and so hot at the same time? (Yes, apparently, he can.)

You gulp. You take in a breath to speak and then literally say nothing. You consider, so help you, burying your face in the mattress and silently screaming. But, somehow, you hold it together.

“That’s. Wow. Well, we can definitely figure that out. Together, Richard. Can work around… That,” you reassure, your blood rushing in your ears, your hand slowly trailing back up his thigh. “Will you… will you let me take care of you?”

Looking reassured, he nods. He smiles softly. His eyes ardent as he looks at you.

You reinstate your hand on to his sturdy thigh, and you begin your slow, languorous crawl up towards his crotch, following the seam of his pants like a trailing spark along a fuse line. As you inch further, his eyes flutter shut and he groans when you reach the junction of his legs, lightly ghosting your fingers along his straining zipper.

“Can I... see?” you purr. “Are you hard for me, sweet man? Can I take you out of your pants?”

“Yes,” he nods. “Yes. Please.”

You proceed when Richard eagerly shifts position for you, parting his thighs for you and leaning back on his hands so that you’re able to unbuckle his belt, and to slowly release his zipper.

You’re playing really well at having any shred of self-control left, for his sake, but in reality, you’re a trembling, wet mess, overtaken by a furious, barrelling need. You simply can’t take this. Shit, you wonder if you will actually, very literally, be able to take this. Take him. Still, you certainly don’t want to stop, and so, with Richard’s cooperation you tug his jeans and his boxers down on his hips, and, biting down on your lip, you release his proud length.

“Fuck,” you say, almost inaudibly as you drink the sight of him in.

He wasn’t exaggerating. He is big. He’s long, but perhaps not the longest you’ve ever had – a fact you are honestly thankful for. He certainly is thick too – especially thick, his contoured head ruddy and gleaming for you. Launched on an urgent breath, you ask if you can touch him, and when he encourages you, you wrap your fingers around his shaft, his length warm and heavy in your hand. He fills the circumference of you in such a pleasing way, hard and velvety and thickly veined. He eagerly strains against you; engorging even further against your touch.

“What do you think?” he asks shyly, intently watching your fingers tease and skim and squeeze him. “Can you work with this?”

“You’re perfect. Fuck, Richard. This is the most beautiful cock I’ve ever seen.”

“You mean it?” he asks, modest as ever.

“Every inch of you is perfect, sweet man.” You want to prove it to him. And you know exactly how. “D-do you… Do you want to feel how wet you’ve made me? How much I want you, Richard?”

“Please,” he begs hoarsely, his voice quaking, desire knotting his brows, and, you stretch out on the bed beside his already half-reclined form, the mattress dipping beneath you. Eagerly, you return his hand to your thigh, where his girthy fingers resume their slow path towards your core. This time though, Richard doesn’t stop. Positioning himself, propped on one elbow, he turns on to his side, his other hand travelling under your dress - inching, achingly slow, all the way up your thigh. He traces a warm, steady, torturously slow pressure along your clothed slit, over your aching nub, until he reaches the top hem of your panties -silly, silky little things- and then, he pushes the elastic hem aside, dipping his two, thick middle fingers down into your folds, gliding effortlessly through your slick until he curls towards your entrance.

You shudder from his touch, submitting an open-mouthed moan to him already as he skims through your wetness, his half-bared cock twitching against his soft, rounded stomach in response to the feel of you. The sound of you.

He pulses and swirls his fingers up and down over your heat, simply gathering and playing with your arousal, and you can imagine what he is feeling beneath his fingers. You can hear your own wetness, your sweet nectar aiming to sucker him in.

It works.

“Please. Can I taste you?” he asks, in that wrecked voice again- the one which ends you.

Your eyes traverse him, hungrily. His mouth tipped open, needy breaths circling beneath that flourishing facial hair. His forearm exposed and veins popping as he works his fingers against you. His cock. Fuck. His delicious cock looks so hard and ruddy, the head of him practically crimson -fit to burst already- and the man must need some relief, and yet all he can think of is sinking his mouth to you? Not that you’re complaining, mind you.

What most gets you though – still – are his eyes. Those gentle, heat-infused, heavy-lidded, lust-laden, adoring, cola-coloured eyes.

Still, you throw your head back, as his fingertips continue to haphazardly explore your folds, your hips bucking and writhing readily, messily against his fingers. “You… ohhhh. You don’t have to do what your buddy said, you know? Only if you want.”

“I want to. I want to taste you, please. Hermosa. Please.”

Fuck, those beautiful brown eyes.

You never imagined you would end the evening with this handsome man begging to eat you out, and you don’t have it in you to resist, not even for a moment. Instead, you nod eagerly, scrambling to spread your thighs for him and hitching your dress up over your hips, opening for him with slick and eager hinges. Richard’s exposed member gleams for you, peeking out from his jeans, and each item of his clothing now looks like it is an impediment; however, he wastes no time on that. Instead, he simply begins a slow, deliberate peel of your panties down to your ankles, and, as you expel a string of affirmatives and pleas into the air, he sinks his face towards your heat.

You weren’t ready for it. You weren’t ready for the feel of his supple, eager tongue writhing against you, nor the feel of his lips engulfing you, his moustache scraping your sensitive skin ever so slightly as he munches over your clit. You weren’t wrong either - he is definitely, unequivocally not afraid to make a mess of himself. At all. In fact, you wonder if he has forgotten this is for you, as he truly does seem intent on tasting you, drinking from you as though he’s slurping on a milkshake, or relishing a cherry sucker. You think he might drink you dry. Or, you would think so, except you are getting wetter, as his assured, quietly confident tongue laps and probes and licks at everywhere it counts.

“Unnng. Dulce. Como duraznos en almíbar,” he praises into your heat.

Sweet. Like peaches in syrup.

You mewl for him. You writhe yourself desperately, embarrassingly, but this man moans eagerly into your heat as if he’s gaining as much pleasure from this as you are. That can’t possibly be true, however. It can’t be true because you are positively alight with ecstasy. You are experiencing such an abundance of it that you can scarce handle it, pleasure both balling and knotting tightly at your centre, and zipping out to every extremity. Your body bows and bucks under the weight of it and at the same time soars, weightless, to another plane.

When you think you couldn’t possibly take any more, Richard’s thumb begins a slow circle of your entrance, tracing around you. Dipping in to you. When his thumb slips in to fully puncture your heat, your juices spill over him, like you truly are a ruined peach, your fists clenching wildly in the sheets. You are his fruit. His ruined, ravaged fruit, existing and perishing only on his tongue. Coming to life and ending when he tastes you.

“Fuck, Richard!” you exclaim, as your peak threatens to overtake you so soon, and you worry that the sound was too weak for him to hear it; however, the man is apparently attentive as ever, even when he’s lost in between your thighs. He stops immediately, lifting his pretty eyes to yours, running his hands up and down along your quivering legs, trailing his fingers reverently over your mound and your patch of hair.

“You’re shaking, bonita,” he says, sounding awed.

“F-feels too good. But I want you inside me. I need you. Please. Will you – W-will you undress and lie down for me?”

It’s all you want. He is all you want. And you can’t explain why, but when you do fall apart for him, you need it to be together. Perhaps, so that when you unravel, you can bind yourself to him. You will tie those knots so tightly, you think, that they will not come undone.

In response to your request, Richard looks positively wrecked with need -and still a little nervous- but he obliges you, and your eyes keenly watch him as he slowly relinquishes his clothes. First his lower half, jeans kicked off to the floor. Then his shirt. He hesitates, when it comes to his white undervest. He looks so appealing in it that you wouldn’t mind if he kept it on; and yet, you are endlessly pleased when he peels it over his head, revealing his smooth chest and stomach and arms to you, your hungry eyes wandering over his form.

“Mmm. Gorgeous man,” you praise, rolling onto all fours with a surging, tidal wave of desire, trailing kisses and skimming your hot, wet mouth all the way down his bared torso as he kneels on the bed. He tastes faintly of sweat; salt on your tongue.

“Tell me what you want, Richard.”

“I… I need to feel your skin. Feel all of you,” he pleads hoarsely, and so, you follow his lead, tugging your dress over your head, and, with a ravenous, seductive stare, slowly releasing yourself from your bra. Richard’s jaw actually goes slack as he takes in the sight of all of you, entirely bared for him, the word “wow” gently suspiring from the pillow of his lips.

You smile as you guide him on to his back, and, tucking your body into his side, propped on one elbow, your hand smooths over his chest as you kiss him deeply. You taste yourself on him, a sweet, heady musk lingering on his moustache; and then, your hand traverses his chest and soft stomach, inching closer to where you crave. His body shivers under your hand as your fingertips stroke him at a spot where he’s evidently a little ticklish. He half-giggles, but the sound transforms quickly into a stuttered moan as your reach his arousal, a single finger circling the head of him.

Your fingers have barely so much as grazed him there and his cock is twitching, his hips bucking in search of your hand and his shapely chin tilted up towards the sky.

“Fuck. Are you sensitive there, baby?” you purr, and, as your fingers curl gently around him again, he nods vigorously – desperately- his expression almost tortured and his arms pinned by his sides.

“Yes, Ma’am. It feels so good when you touch me. Please. Please don’t stop.”

He shivers again -in a whole new way- as your thumb swirls, gingerly, spreading the glistening pearl of precum around the head of him.

You believe the man – that you make him feel good. He expels a breathy, gasping moan, or a tortured half-chuckle every time you so much as brush him. His might even be the most sensitive cock you’ve had, you think, and you watch, enraptured, as his pleasure plays out over his face, his hands fisting into the sheets at his sides as his body writhes for you. Still, you want more. You are greedy for him. Want to feel him everywhere.

“Can I take you in my mouth, Richard?”

“Do you want to?” he asks, and you nod, slinking cat-like down the bed, until you are in position, your mouth settling over his cock.

“You look delicious,” you purr, and when he pleads with you, you dip your head, your tongue laving out to encircle him in a wet, writhing embrace. He’s moreish here too, and so, you sink your lips down around his straining mass. He’s big, and he stretches your capabilities. You can’t even take all of him right away, but you give it your best effort as he moans beneath you.

“Unngg. No-one has ever fit so much,” he praises in disbelief as you take him deeper, humming around him, your head bobbing languorously over his shaft. Richard bucks his hips up ever so gently into your mouth - very careful not to drive into you further than you can take him. His hands come to rest tenderly on your head too, and his fingers smooth so delicately over your hair - reverently even. He doesn’t make any move to grab you to push you down on him- even if you might like that, or he might like that, at a later stage. Right now, you are more than content with this rare, unparalleled gentleness. This delicate, tender joy.

With relish, you continue. He makes such pretty sounds when you have him under your tongue, and yet, for how sensitive he is you are certainly impressed with his stamina. After a particularly deep bob down on to him, you surge off his length, using your hand to rub your slick into him as you look up at him, finding you have him transfixed.

“Need you inside of me, Richard. Can I get on top of you?”

This ache between your legs is becoming untenable.

“Unngg. Want to be inside of you so badly, bonita. Are you ready for me?”

Indicating your readiness, you shift yourself to straddle his hips, your core practically dripping over him as you settle your arousal over his. You writhe him along your folds, coating him in your juices, before rising up on your knees. You have to rise a little higher than you’re used to, to reach the tip of him, and eagerly you settle the blunt pressure of his ruddy, gleaming head at your entrance. You can barely steady yourself in position as your thighs and core tremble for him, in mere anticipation of him filling you. You are grateful when Richard’s hands come to lightly grip the meat of your hips -steadying you, supporting you a little- thumbs caressing your soft spots.

You tug in a breath as you prepare to spear yourself on him, the air faltering in your lungs as you pause where you are, just for a moment, Richard looking up adoringly from under you.

“Soñé contigo por tanto tiempo,” Richard whispers, barely audible. I have dreamed of you for so long. You’re not sure whether it is his sincere, heartfelt words igniting this pleasure within you or the slow inch and drag of your wet heat down his thick, veined shaft. Likely both, but either way, you know you want more.

“Uhhh. Slow. Slow, bonita,” he groans, as you begin to sink all the way down on him, his steady hands guiding you, now cupping your ass, staccato breaths escaping his parted lips as you engulf him. You take him, slowly, gradually, feeling him inch by inch as his girth and his length stretch you open. As you take him to his base, all the way, the full weight of you settling on his hips, Richard’s eyes practically roll back into his head. “God, it feels so good inside you. Can you take me like this?”

Your teeth clamp down on your bottom lip and you nod, stilling as you adjust to his size. He’s a lot, but it’s a pleasant kind of pressure as he strains against your walls and all your sweet spots. “Can you… take a little bit more, hermosa?” Fuck, how does he have even more to give?

“Say stop if it’s too much,” Richard pleads. “Promise?” When you nod, Richard slowly plants his hands on your hips and pulls you down on to him, just a little, as he bucks his hips up, ever so gently. You cry out, your face contorting in disbelief and your head arcing to the sky as Richard fills you to your limit. Meanwhile, Richard is studying your face with gentle concern, feeling it out, checking you are comfortable, letting you slowly reconfigure your insides to the shape of his girth and length. He’d never hurt you. He’d simply never.

And, even though he has filled you all the way up, it feels so good.

Richard stills under you, until you are ready. His fingers trail tenderly over your thighs and belly and breasts. Over the mound of you. Your legs are shaking, folded and clamped down around his hips, and you’re not sure that your weakened limbs have the strength to allow you to rise on his length. But damn it, you will give it a valiant try.

“I need to move,” you beg, even though you are in the position of control, and Richard looks up at you with big pretty eyes, and God, he’s buried in you that you can feel him all the way in your guts. You gasp, whimper, as, gingerly, you rise up, feeling the fullness and drag of him against your walls as you start working and undulating against him, feeling out all the angles which feel best and…

Fuck there are no bad angles.

As you melt, become molten, Richard is your stiffness and he gives form to your boneless, bodiless flesh. You are full, all the way up. You are so full and it could feel urgent and dirty, having his cock deep in you like this, but it… doesn’t. It feels… Fuck. It just feels…. right. You can only describe it as a caress, as he comes to be held safely and tightly inside you, and you begin to move slowly, wanting -somehow- to imbue each drag of him over your walls with the care and affection you feel for him. The adoration you feel so deeply; as deeply as he’s buried in you. Deeper.

“Richard,” you plead, and you hinge forward at the hips, until your chest sinks down to his, your lips on to his lips, and as you undulate on his body you cling to him. Bury your face and your tongue and your hopes and your dreams in him, as though, if you plant them deep enough you can take root and call him home. As if you are a fruit and you need his ground to grow.

In turn, he holds you, arms wrapped around you, fingers caressing your back, moustache scraping against your cheek, your lips, your neck as speaks honey into your skin, nourishing you with sweet, wholesome praises. And, when he’s content that you can take him, when you’ve shown him how you can, Richard starts moving too, working in tandem with you as your bodies roll and heave together.

You show him not only that you can, but how much you enjoy taking him. There are sounds of pulverised fruit, leaking over him, his cock pushing your juices out of you, as though there is no room inside you for anything else but him. And, as your tightness surrounds him, his arms surrounding you in turn, he bestows you with simple yet jewelled praises, calling you all the beautiful names under the sun in both of his tongues.

It’s sweet, and it’s slow, and you both embody tenderness, all caressing fingers and lips and sugary, grateful noises. Clutching hands and arms, drawing the other closer, deeper into this tangle. As he stokes you, you can barely stand these sensations. You can barely comprehend something so pure and so perfect.

He glides into you now, your slick everywhere, your sex increasingly loud and obscene as his beautiful cock is suckered into your wet, liquid heat. As you quicken your pace, Richard’s mouth settles over your shoulder, teeth lightly gripping your flesh as he stifles a moan into your skin. Then, his breaths are billowing gusts fanning over you, and you can guess that he is trying to bring his approaching release under control.

By this stage, you are overwhelmed, your legs spent and tremoring, and you can barely rise and sink on his length anymore for shaking. You have become weak for him, practically liquid from this slow, torturous build. You need Richard to be your stiffness and your joints. You need to be a fluid thing beneath him, or else, you think, you will perish.

“Lie down for me, bonita?” Richard whispers sweetly, so attuned to you, and, seeing, as you flounder with need, your full weight almost limp on top of him, that a change of position is in order.

He draws out of you with a shudder and rolls you, carefully, his own body following and chasing yours. Richard’s weight settles pleasantly on top of you this time, and, as you fumble into position you spread your legs for him, wrapping your thighs and arms tightly around him. You hold him close to you, your hands cradling his head, fumbling through his grizzled curls, now mussed wild tendrils falling around his face. Then, ever so gently, dipping to kiss you sweetly with that assured tongue, Richard re-sheaths himself, sliding easily inside you now with a divine caress of skin. He feels overwhelmingly good. He feels like heaven reaching inside you to kiss your soul and you pray out loud, your moans greeting his kiss.

The angle and the pressure like this is something else, the press of Richard’s soft stomach and hips and the driving of his cock pushing you pleasantly down into the mattress, your body given a little bounce from the springs which helps you set a perfect rhythm together. You are moments away from unravelling, already, as Richard pistons in and out of you, over and over, a glorious pressure building as you are wrapped up safely in the warmth and scent and sound of your sweet, perfect man. You are lost in the feel of him, both of you clammy and breathy and sheening with sweat as you writhe and combine; and fuck, you want to unravel. You need to.

You want to unravel so you can bind yourself to him with more than this ephemeral tangle of limbs. You want to get lost in him, in a way that makes you feel found.

“I’m going to lose it for you, Richard. It feels too good. I... can’t take it. I… It’s too much. I’m… Harder. Deeper. Please.”

Richard is spurred on by your praises, his pace becoming quickened, his thrusts slightly harder. He sinks into you with vigour, though not with any need to dominate or take from you, you think. Simply as an expression of the overwhelming need to be closer. Deeper. More held by you. To hold you in return. It’s not close enough, even as you hold him tightly in your arms. You are so greedy for him that you don’t think you could ever get enough, even as it’s all too much.

You moan. You moan like a sob. Like a plea. Like a prayer. And he shushes you. Soothes you. He shushes you while he’s buried so deep in you -burying himself so deep in you- that you are fucked wide open. There’s something so pure and yet so wicked about the contradiction of his gentleness and this huge, undeniable force in your centre. You feel that he has crawled so deep up in you that he can never leave; and you want it that way.

“Can you take a little more, hermosa?

Fuck. No. Can you? But, yes. Please, yes. God yes.

“Yes. Please, Richard. Give me everything. I want all of you inside me. Need you.”

He thrusts his hips forward. He’s been holding out on you.

“Ohhhh, just like that,” you plead, voice ragged and your moans escalating, both your bodies slick with sweat now as you tangle together. “Right there. Don’t stop. Don’t stop, Richard! I need. Unnggg. Fuck. Need you deep inside me, just like that. Please don’t stop. Don’t stop!” You plead desperately with him -as if you even need to bargain- your teeth clamping down on your bottom lip and your hands reaching for him, tugging him closer to you as he drives his length into you over and over, pressing you harder into the mattress as you sucker him into your tightness.

His lips sink to the column of your neck, that moustache grazing you there, his own rich sounds of pleasure reverberating against your skin, his voice humming so close it sinks into your bones.

“N-never want to stop,” he gushes hoarsely into your skin. “Always want to be inside you- feel you wrapped around me, preciosa.”

His words are sincere. Earnest. And, with his words, and the repeated drag of his perfect cock, and his warmth enveloping you, you finally cry out, omitting a wracked, disbelieving moan as your pleasure pulses through you; toes curling, head thrown back, body jerking and spasming beneath him. This is an orgasm which keeps on giving, deep and strong; waves of bliss rolling through you whole body. A star bursting out from your centre. A flood. Quite literally a flood, intense and urgent and everywhere, and you look down at yourself. This is something else. Something more. A bigger heaven. You hear a new sound even, and you look down, realising that Richard’s cock has you squirting all over him, your release gushing and sloshing wet between your bodies as he continues to thrust into you, coaxing you through your peak and deepening your earth-shaking orgasm with every single movement.

“Ohhhh fuck... Richard-” you cry out, in what can only be described as awe, almost sobbing with ecstasy, your legs violently twitching and trembling as they wrap more tightly around him “-no-one’s ever made me do that before!”

Despite his gentleness, his control, this flood seems to overcome Richard too, and his thrusts become sloppy, as though he can barely stave off his release long enough to keep going, his body going near limp over you for a moment. You even swear he gets harder and bigger and deeper -if that was even possible- when he realises exactly what he made you do. When he realises that you soaked him. Flooded him. Your liquid and your juices shining on his stomach and coursing down his sturdy thighs.

You worry for a moment- you wonder whether he minds or if he likes it, as your release coats his skin and the tangle of sheets, but you needn’t worry for anything more than a moment. In response to your deluge, Richard looks at you as though you are a divine being, and, if you thought he seemed dishevelled with need earlier, this is something else. He’s undeniably into it. Indeed, as he takes in the sight of you below him, bared and writhing in ecstasy amidst a tangle of wet sheets, he stutters moans into the air, his thrusts become more determined, his cock pumping into you with refreshed vigour.

“N- never done that b-before?”

“No, Richard. Fuck. You made me-”

“-I’m going to make you do it again,” he purrs, and it is not a command at all. He never loses his characteristic gentleness. It is half a plea and half a promise, his sincere as ever. “Do it for me again, Bonita,” he coaxes, and he sounds thoroughly levelled by you. He sounds like he can’t get enough of you.

Fuck. You don’t know if you can...

“You can do it, baby. Please. Soak me again.”

You don’t think you can, until Richard is talking to you like that, with profuse, sugared pleas, and until he is hitting you exactly where you need, how you need, all over again.

You practically scream with it, weep with it, curse with it, sending a hoarse, high-pitched crescendo into the air, the keen punctuated by quickened, spent grunts Richard expels into the air with each deep, thick, purposeful thrust into you. You don’t think you’ve ever felt a more assured cock.

You don’t think you can, until-

When you gush over him a second time you are more prepared for it. Prepared enough to watch as you spill over him. Prepared enough to catch the positively awed, sunken expression which spreads over Richard’s face. To appreciate the sound of your release squirting over him and sloshing, wet in-between your bodies, liquid slapping against the roundness of his soft stomach as he thrusts into you faster; more urgently. This time -how can he help it- Richard comes undone with you; and, suddenly it seems everything is liquid, like a flood.

You can feel him fill you up, can feel his hot seed pulsing all the way from the base of him and coating your walls with thick ropes of cum as his hips stutter, burying his length into your heat as deep as he can go. He goes practically limp on top of you, hips collapsing into yours, and you feel him filling you -once again- to your limit, as the motion drives him just a little deeper, just a little closer. Meanwhile, you twitch and shudder and writhe and clench through your aftershocks with Richard still balls deep inside of you, barely able to comprehend the new heights of pleasure you have reached together. Awed, by the way your bodies are speaking like they’ve known each other for years too - despite that this is their first encounter.

There’s this wetness. This wetness everywhere; inside you, on you, under you, and for several moments you feel you too could be liquid, melting and pooling and coursing from the bed. Becoming vapour and evaporating from his hot, sweat-slickened skin. You might, if it wasn’t for Richard - his weight settled on top of you in a pleasing crush. His head settling in the crook of your neck, his length still inside you, his tongue laving to bury itself in your mouth too in a desperate, haphazard motion. He means to bury himself in all ways he can, you think, and you let him. You let him become your stone heart, as you are nothing but boneless, bodiless flesh; an oiled thing beneath him like pulverised, spent fruit - all your juices squeezed out.

You coil your limbs fluidly around him, and you engulf his sturdy form with your softness, holding him at the centre of you. Still buried -softening too- in your centre. Held in this intimate circle of your arms. Becoming the centre of your universe.

You bind yourself to him. You become his. His fruit.

Still panting, spent, hot, Richard rolls off you then, his stiffness gone and his body boneless now too, his stomach and his thighs sheening with a concoction of wetness. His smooth, hairless chest slick with sweat. He collapses beside you, but he immediately reaches for your hand and presses his body to your side. Immediately checks that you’re alright, as you truly become corporeal again, flitting down from heaven and into his arms; a conduit of heaven too, you think.

Now, what the… hold up a damn second. What did this sweet man just-

You gush. You gush for him in words now that the old relic of language and (almost) coherent thought has returned to you, your voice still breathy and discombobulated. “Richard. Richard? Richard! Fuck me. That was... I need you to know that was... Fuck. Phenomenal. I’ve never. In my life. I’ve never done that before. I’ve never... Oh my God. I can’t feel my face. Was that... good for you? Was it...? Fuck. Sweet man.”

Richard chuckles fondly at your near-incoherent babble of words, drawing you into his chest and cradling you like you are a precious thing – the most precious thing.

“It was perfect,” he whispers, satin soft, through a disbelieving breath, and his words make your heart flutter and your stomach tumble pleasantly. Richard’s soft sounds continue, as he whispers sweet names and gentle praises into your hair, kissing everywhere he can reach to punctuate his words, and smoothing his fingers in nonsense shapes over your skin. Hermosa. Bonita. Preciosa. “Everything was perfect. You’re so perfect. I’ve never... I’ve never had someone take care of me so well, princesa. Thank you.”

You can hear it - the flood of emotion in his voice, and, at his admission, his praises, the rush, tears pool in your eyes. It seems he has yet more water to drain from you as a patter of tears course over the bridge of your nose and settle in the hollow of his chest. However, it is not sadness, but joy, you realise. You are thoroughly overwhelmed by how held you feel. By how happy you feel. However, when your eyes brim over and you sniffle, Richard cranes his head down towards you, pulling you up from him so your eyes can meet his.

He looks momentarily devastated. “What’s wrong? Please tell me I didn’t hurt you.”

“No, sweet man. Not at all. It was perfect for me too,” you are quick to reassure, and, as you shuffle on to your stomach, propping yourself up to gaze into his eyes, Richard runs a solitary thumb across your cheek. You ache with the tenderness of his touch. “Just... I’ve never had anyone take care of me like that either,” you admit, and his eyes shine gently at you, misting over with pure, unadulterated adoration. “I’ve never felt so-”

Loved.

Loved, you realise you want to say, but that would be ridiculous, right? This is your first date.

Who said anything about love?

Still, you realise that is the truth of things. That is exactly how he made you feel. Richard was so tender with you, so present, so sensual, so connected. So… right. Had you made him feel this way too? Will he let you take care of him again?

You want to. You so desperately want to. Want to protect him, care for him, laugh with him. Rest your head on the soft pillow of his stomach as he holds you close to him.

He has taken care of you so well, and you don’t want him to stop.

Please. Don’t stop.

Still, as you silently contemplate all of this, Richard simply bundles you firmly into his chest. if you are unable to find the right words, at least he is able to find the gesture. And so, the need to clean up forgotten, the cloying wetness of your skin and the sheets seemingly not bothering him, you languish against him, safe and warm and held.

“Did it feel good?” he asks, after a few moments of comfortable silence. “When you… um…?”

“Squirted all over your cock? Hell yes.” You interject, able to find the words for that at least, filling in the blank for him and laughing gently against his skin. You weren’t able to turn the act into poetry, not yet, your words clumsy and crude, but you didn’t exactly need to. The whole act felt like poetry already. Poetry written on your bones. Etched into your heart.

When he flooded you.

“Maybe you can write about it,” he suggests, and you can hear the cheeky, playful smile dancing on his lips.

“Richard Alonso Muñoz,” you scold, teasingly, your fingers dancing equally playfully over his smooth chest. “Is that what you want me for? You want to be immortalised in poetry? I don’t think you’re as innocent as you let on, are you?”

“I’m not?” he chuckles warmly.

“You read erotic poetry and trashy romance novels… and you fuck like that.”

Make love, like that.

You still cannot move beyond crude words, but in your heart, he makes the words come easily.

“Truthfully, it’s... not always like that,” Richard admits. “It’s… only like that with you.”

Once again, his sincerity has you speechless, and it is all you can do to hold him close to you, as tightly as you can, your eyes squeezing closed and a soft smile tipping your lips. He holds you in return. Holds you in this perfect moment.

“It really did feel good though. It was… I can’t even describe it. My body feels likes a… fucking… limp, wet noodle.”

The laugh he emits at your words is music. “Wet noodle? Aren’t you supposed to be a poet, darling?” Oh, he’s teasing you now? This sweet man is teasing you?

You gasp, mock affronted, and jab him playfully in the stomach with your finger, in the spots you remember he is ticklish. “Rude!” you exclaim, and he jiggles joyously against you. When the laugh dissipates, leaving only smiling, appled cheeks, silence once again enfolds you like a warm, comfortable blanket.

“I was thinking,” he begins softly, after a few moments of laying together. “We could go to the farmer’s market tomorrow. The one with the cider donuts. We could take Lady.”

You can’t answer right away, can’t find the words, and it is all you can do to tug in a slow breath. Your hesitation evidently has Richard worrying again, and he rushes to fill in the blank space with his own insecurities. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice brittle. “I assumed... because I want to, but... but maybe you’re not thinking that you want to see me again...”

You pull back. Urgently moving so that you are face-to-face with him on the pillow, his body following yours on to his side too, like a magnet. You cup his face again, with your tender, open hand. You look him in the eyes. Those sweet, expressive, cola-coloured eyes. Your heart is shining for him, and it feels rubbed until it gleams.

You examine his tentatively hopeful expression. You get the sense that this man falls hard. Falls quickly. He’s in love with love, after all. You, on the other hand, love slow. And so, even as it breaks your heart that you can’t yet say the words aloud, you deflect. “You want to know what I’m thinking, Richard?” He nods. “I’m still thinking about how you turned me into a wet noodle. You should be the smuggest Adonis this side of Midtown - how on earth are you playing that one so cool?”

Richard’s face pinches a little, his gaze dropping from yours, lashes fluttering.

“It was perfect,” he agrees, in a small voice. “But, I guess, I’m not as… surprised as you are.” You shake your head slightly, in mild confusion. Wanting him to elaborate. “I always imagined you would be perfect.” He blinks shyly, and attempts a masking smile. “I don’t know if you thought the same way about me.”

A terrible lump swells in your throat. Your chest tightens.

It’s time to speak. To make your words a little more like poetry.

But it’s scary. It’s hard. You know that now.

“That’s not quite it, sweet man,” you begin. Realisation sinking heavily through you, drawing your brow down with it. Richard searches your face, encouraging you to go on, expression open; pretty eyes big. And, although the words are hard to say, they are easier. The words are easier around him. “Honestly, Richard? I think, you’ve always been perfect. I just didn’t want to realise it. I didn’t want to notice you,” you confess, your voice cracking with emotion.

“Why?” Richard encourages, a knot in his brow now too as he smooths his thumb earnestly over your cheek, breath bated. His touch is like the path of a match against its counterpart box; it is a little thing, which threatens to ignite something far larger.

“I…” you sigh out some of your tension and nerves with a billowing exhale. “I suppose… because I knew. That as soon as I saw you, there would be no going back. I must have known deep-down, that if I saw you, that I… I could love you so quickly.”

Richard swallows. “Is that… not something you want? Love?”

“It didn’t used to be. I… didn’t used to believe I deserved it,” you reveal, tears balling in your eyes as all of your deepest fears and secrets loosen and rattle inside your chest, gradually being shed and needing to find their exit.

“And now, preciosa?” Richard asks, gingerly smoothing a hand over the crown of your head, dipping a moustached kiss to the centre of your forehead. “What do you believe?”

Now? Now, it is different, and a cautious smile slowly claims your lips - even as your cheeks are wet by tears.

“I’m thinking, Richard Alonso Muñoz, that… That nothing would give me greater pleasure than accompanying you to the farmer’s market.”

Your words sound flippant, perhaps insignificant, but you can tell, from the way Richard’s eyes pool with a subtle, brewing joy, that your true meaning is abundantly clear to him. So, in mutual celebration your lips press together in a crush, smile lines radiating across his face. When he pulls back though, a gentle, playful heat seemingly overtakes him. “Are you sure about that, bonita?” he asks in a fond, teasing tone. As his chest shakes in a rich, gleeful chuckle, you perfectly catch his meaning too.

“Okay, okay,” you concede, with a giggle, as he slants his hips forward, pressing his already hardening length against your thigh. “Maybe there is one thing that could give me more pleasure.” You tick-up a suggestive eyebrow. “Want to remind me?”

“Please,” he purrs, just as broken with need as before. “My beautiful, wet little noodle.”

At his ridiculous new pet name -which you only have yourself to blame for, honestly- you squeal brightly, expelling musical peals of laughter into his open-mouth as he surges to kiss you, the act imbued with deep affection. He kisses you until the laughter pleasantly dissipates, your bodies suffusing with a resurgent heat, as you tangle together all over again.

As Richard holds you, every so tenderly, you are overcome. Your loneliness? It has never felt so far away. You hadn’t realised how much you needed somebody to love. You hadn’t realised that someone was him. You hadn’t wanted to admit it. But, oh, you are realising it now. And, you are never going to forget it.

“Kiss me again,” you plead into the air.

“Where?”

“Everywhere.”

Everywhere.

“Yes, Ma’am,” he responds, affirmatively, and with relish, you feel his moustache graze the column of your neck. Somehow, you don’t think you’ll ever tire of that feeling.

As his lips crush to your again, you note how he tastes. A combination of your sweet, nectar-like juices, and the subtle tang of sweat he has kissed from your sex-flushed skin. He tastes like a salted peach. He is pure poetry, you think. You’ve never tasted anything quite as sweet, and you’ve never experienced such a flood. And, now that your deluge of joy is through -your happiness instead streaming steadily- it no longer feels heavy. It no longer weighs you down.

You want to love him, and be loved; and, you will.

What’s more. You deserve every bit of it.

It’s the little things. One by one. And then, suddenly, there it is. There’s everything; in your arms.

#Richard Alonso Muñoz #richard alonso munoz x reader #the letter room #Richard Alonso Muñoz x reader #Oscar Isaac

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rumblelibrary · 3 years ago

Text

The Diary of Doctor Laszlo Kreizler

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2

Synopsis: Alienist’s notes are private, sometimes gruesome, secrets of others and of himself.Those pages belongs to secrecy and decadence, have a glimpse to this world made of drafts, notes, accidents and reflections. Or maybe it is you the only person that should ever reach for it.

While you read this imagine Laszlo mostly at the end of his day, scraping the ideas and the thoughts, adjusting previous notes with additions, closing the day behind himself with a couple of sentences while sitting in his evening robe, a good glass of whiskey and his glasses bridged almost at the tip of his nose. Or maybe imagine yourself, you sneaky thing, reach for it from a far shelf.

Word count: 3.5k

Warnings: listen, this is the set of ideas and confessions of a man living in the 1890’s. Most of them will be outdated, rough, even deprecating in some analysis of the roles of men, women and social status, religion, etc.So be prepared, my point is to make Laszlo reflect upon those topics, but to be as faithful as I can to his time. Mention of death, mutilation, self harm and sex. Psychologically troubled young children ahead! Author’s note: The story is placed between season 1 and season 2. Thank you for everyone that encouraged me to keep going. I have to wait for my local drop of serotonin to get fully Laszloed to go through this.

Lyra’s Contellation, Illustration taken from Uranographia by Johann Bode

Routine. Routine is comfort. Habit stabilises the character.

If you follow a routine, you won’t ever be victim of imprudence, of evil jokes of fate. The stability earned through calculated and repeated actions brings a sense of fulfilment that forbids other thoughts to come bashing in, breaking rules, breaking hopes that a solid scheduled routine forbids to have. I take my time to begin this week, I planned the things to do, the next steps for the case, the people to meet, the resources I am allowed to contemplate. I feel good, I feel back to myself and the events of the weekend seem far from me and my own perception. I probably got ahead of myself, carried by some instinctual though and random rush of emotion, to be always in contact with the same people and mostly kids probably doesn’t help my stance in the presence of other adults. I feel silly now reading back the last page, I felt tempted to tear it off, but to keep it there should be a small memento of not losing my temper so easily. I read it over and over and I know I am not as charmed as I thought I was. I am just lonely. I have always been and it is normal to face ups and downs even for a man of my age who is more accustomed to it. To desire a partner is a natural instinct, to find somebody attractive is meant by nature, it is the body calling for the natural fulfilment of the reason we are put on this very Earth. But even in a state of nature my own condition would be forbidding me to be part of the natural process of growing my own kind. I am the type of male that would be excluded because of his impossibility to give the protection to the pack, therefore it is just more reasonable to me to adapt to my condition. No matter what my Potentia generandi might be (the ability to procreate).

With all the smugness that characterises him, Niki showed off that he passed my challenge. But to be really of an help to his antics I didn’t show any kind of surprise. I treated him like he did the bare minimum, like he didn’t prove me any kind of superiority. He has a natural attitude toward challenging the figure of power, he is trying to overpower me, but I won’t satisfy his need. I have noticed he has a very technical brain, he finds ways to solve problems in ingenious way and not by throwing himself into the task. I proceeded giving him to work on a clock, an old broken one we had in the institute, one of the kids hit it with a ball years ago and nobody ever worked on repairing it. I gave him the clock, a couple of screwdrivers and a book. He called me a number of German names I won’t transcribe, but it gave me a certain amount of satisfaction. If my intuitions are right, I am sure the clock will be repaired by next week.

Analysis of the victim’s body through John’s eyes. The drawings and sketches are as detailed as I requested, all of this thanks to you joining him. I deal with art critic section, I am used to notice these things. You assure me, you play yourself low and I wonder why, nevertheless you did notice things neither John or I did, which pleased me. It fooled me, distracted me from my purpose to not give in to your witchery, as I leaned closer watching your pale hand move across the pages tracing this or that line, showing how this must be done with the killer on this side and not that side, with words so deliciously elaborate, your way of composing your speech is compelling, you could sell the drawing of a kid like it was a Botticelli. I noticed the shape of your hands, the way you move them, I wonder if you play an instrument, or played, some habits just stick with you through life. I focused on taking notes, your ideas and instructions giving me a new point of view, a new stimulus. What if that is the only way the killer can communicate? Or what if this is the communication that works for him? Could our killer be mute or deaf? Or that’s how society made him feel? This man, or woman, needs a listener and I am afraid that now, since he got our attention and the public’s, he won’t stop. Another killing could be just as close.

Scheduled: meeting with the parents of Alex Garel for new admission, Monday next week at 11 am. Love at first is a fetish and like all fetishes it is based onto an object that hides a deeper meaning, like gloves mean hands, to love at first sight means to see somebody that you think, and think only, to have the chance to share not only a sensual kind of bond, but an intellectual. Love at first sight is based onto not knowing someone well enough, but having the time to idealise most of that someone. I can see why I feel this attraction, using a particular phrase that Sara often mutters when investigating: you tick all the boxes. I know you do, your beauty is everything but conventional, you’re the kind of face that painters would paint and musicians would write hymns about, but any animal on the street would never be allowed to see. You have the grace of the body and the fire in the eyes, and then you speak. When you speak, I realise, you could bring the world to its knees. Also, you never speak out of context, and if you do it is to ease somebody’s position. You do it often with John or with Stevie, you say something really silly in order to put them back to a place of comfort. Some women would call it self deprecating, but I see that you only pick wisely your fights and your wins. You don’t need to earn your peace and quiet by neglecting, but by lifting up the others. I wonder if you do it with me too, if your silences are just you allowing me to be in a better place while instead your judgment is tearing me apart. I shouldn’t care, but I keep wondering, sometimes I take my time to answer you, I analyse every shade, every peculiarity of your question, I am looking for sarcasm, for a condescending voice, for something to hang on and bare you open. To prove myself you’re not perfect. But deep down I know that you do, you judge me and you do well.

Mother never said so. That’s what one of the girls in my care said today. Ursula. She is tough. Skin as thick as an alligator and the tendency to pull her own hair at night or when under a massive amount of stress, enuresis alongside erratic episodes of mutism. I tried the soft approach, it didn’t work. She is too accustomed to be indulged. Therefore today I pushed her a bit overboard, I teased her over opinions on the female body, the female role, she is only 12, but she is soon to bleed, she knows, I can tell from the way she clenches to her skirts, from the way she looks at me as a threatening figure. I am the incarnation of danger to her. Under her steady silence, I pushed a bit more, asking how her mother taught her to be nice and submissive. Does her mother tells her she is going to be a good wife? The phrase, which I reported at the top of the page, surprised me. What is her mother teaching to her then? What closed her so much, locked her soul away, making a small bird like this choose the silence and the retirement of self inflicted pain over, what? Mankind? Or just Men? Is that even a curse? Should I cure her from a truth that her own mother whispered to her ear one night before bed and made a child decide that the world wasn’t a place to share her time with? Am I the man supposed to teach her that men are worth of trust? In the eyes of modern society, who measures its own value over the modesty of the women, she would be a champion, but at what price? I can’t in any way let her parents bring her back home after our recent meetings. Nevertheless, I have to make up my own mind on how to give her troubled soul ease without making her believe in fables. I, as a man, regard myself not worth of any of the trust they expect me to teach her.

In all of my years practicing with people’s feelings and traumas, I challenged myself to find those same traumas within my own mind. It is a tricky game, terrible, anguishing at times. But it straightens me, the pain of others, the pain of kids mostly, so unadulterated and pure, breaks the curtain between me and the lies that I often surround myself with. Pain is made of method, you can open it up, you can scrutinise it, part it piece by piece dividing it in sectors and, partitions, centre part, side part, heart of the problem. Pain is reliable. Happiness is not. It is random, cruelly sudden, unexpected, it washes over you in such deflecting way only to leave you alone a moment after ashamed and alone. I saw you again today. You were in a table full of what I could only guess as your former university colleagues, I saw pain in you, not heavy but constant. Annoyance, a bit of sadness. Your head titling on side and your eyes drifting on the left, you’re imagining something away from them. A place? An object? Or maybe someone? Your hands play circles at the bottom of the flute of your drink like kids do, your smile only one sided. I don’t see you speak at all, only listen. What could keep your voice down? I almost gulped down my own breath as you looked up and I realised how I must have looked. I was having lunch on my own, in a very private table and even entertaining myself with a newspaper on the side. I wish you didn’t, but you came over, your eyes shining. Did I save you? Or maybe I was just a good excuse to leave that painful meeting behind. Don’t be so nice to me, it is not healthy. Don’t look at me like you expect anything more from me than me listening. I won’t smile back at you, I won’t give you care, attentions or thought. I won’t lean for your perfume, I won’t obsess over that dress you wore, that pin that adorned your neckline keeping your undershirt in place, a silver robin, I remember. I won’t remember the number of the buttons on the side of your glove, three. I won’t observe the little moles just under your ear. A small constellation, I later realised, hidden between your ear and the beginning of your neck. I don’t need to check in my books. It is a constellation. It is Lyra. Why? Why you must be like this? Are you the Lyra? Are you the instrument of Orpheus come to me to drag me out of Hell? The Tartarus holds my soul and you should know already, I am not worth the quarter part of Eurydice to be saved and she never came back anyway. I won’t be now recollecting the way your teeth sunk in the inner side of your cheek when you apologised for the annoyance. You apologised twice, I ignored you both times with a raised hand to request peace and silence. I am not letting you in.

Reserved: Tickets for Wednesday’s evening Traviata by Giuseppe Verdi. The guest female lead promises a beautiful show.

Leonardo, as I am learning through Paul Valery essay, is who I would define as a figure of projective identification of the Subject or, to better explain it, of the knowledge of the Subject that formed and grew through the use of sketches in the experience of the Artist. I have always thought that the finest form of art was the representation of knowledge duly undressed by any personal identification. Leonardo, instead, proceeded to represent the figure through the essence of the artist, a representation technically unlimited on objects and symbols and that keep expressing the transformation and development of Leonardo’s own being.Some artists are testimony of the destruction of the world, of the loss of eternal beauty over decadence. And then you have Leonardo, who creates an art that is the gravity of the world’s system, of the nature, of thoughts and abstractions. I wonder if our killer does the same, if the way they presents the victim through their own personal view, if what we can read there it is their stories, their pains, their needs. Their happiness and troubles. What are they trying to tell me? I need to know, I need to know to save a life, of course, but I also need to know to be able to sleep at night. Hair, hair are the epitome of femininity in any era. I keep studying Ursula and her habit to pull the. I took notes on it: she picks them by the bottom, slowly separates them until she gains an amount her mind defines satisfactory and then she rolls her finger and pulls, she does it until her finger is empty and there are no hair left. I find her process incredibly interesting. In men’s case the display of physical attributes is not as vital, a beard can be appreciated but does not modify the power of seduction of a grown man. On the contrary, for women hair are a vital part of their attractiveness toward the opposite sex, society sees the hair of a woman as part of their vital characteristics, also in ancient times for a woman to cut her hair or have her hair cut was a sign of deep separation from the society. Only heroines or whores wore that mark and the association of the two is so rooted into the way society always parted the role of a woman in two that it is nauseating to think of. I am still fearing to let Ursula go away, the repulsion that she is showing toward her own body makes it difficult even for me to crack her shell open as a man, but my deepest worry is when that hate will take a scarier and deeper tool on her. How a girl with such a fear of what her body can do, like sex or pregnancy, can endure in the future to have an husband? Or even to be courted by anyone?

John is helpless and I admire him for that. He doesn’t hide it, he just is. He is vulnerable and exposed, he is an open well bursting with doubts and feelings and troubled waters. He is genuine in a way I could never be. Maybe that’s why I despise even more him talking about you, how he sees you every morning, how you greet everybody, how you behave even with interns, how you like your coffee. Your talents, your wits, how you said this and acted like that and reasoned through him. How you forbid him to drink even when he felt tempted. How you stayed late over to help him collect all the informations I requested him to get. To him. Not to you. The evil demon of envy scratching in the back of my head screaming like a siren out in the sea, he demands to be heard, he demands to be allowed a part in this game. I won’t allow him that. I won’t allow myself any of that. This is a pure game of chess, if I give in a pawn now, I will lose my knight, and I know it. I advice him to not be so closed minded when he praises you, only to get surprised by the charms of a natural logical mind. I find a way to hurt him, he is an easy target, I look at him as his eyebrows twitch and he summons his patience on me. He lost the plot about you already, his bruised pride taking over. You won’t come into my life.

“Un dì, felice, eterea, mi balenaste innante, e da quel dì tremante vissi d'ignoto amor.” (“On a day, happy and ethereal, you appeared in front of me and from that day, trembling, I lived on an unknown love”)

The words of Alfredo in the first act of the Traviata keep running through me, a chant that won’t let me go, almost painful. The Opera House, that was my hiding place, a place where in plain sight I could let out myself, unleash. The catharsis of the characters involved running through me, I didn’t need anything but their voices and those musical instruments to let out my fears, doubts and anger. When Alfredo came to the scene tonight, the lights were strong and slightly pinkish, the performer bursting out of the seams with passion. My eyes diverted only to see you there. Alone. Those blinding lights gave you the the radiance of a vision singing the notes of greek myths and heroes, that dark blue evening clothing rang through my eyes like it was a bright yellow, the little shiny details that adorned you so clear against the heavy lighting to look like transparent pieces of water collected to adorn your beauty. I wasn’t me, but Alfredo, and I was helpless against you sitting so far and yet too close from me. I was naked in front of thousands. I am aware of the effect you have on me and our last conversation was barely regarded as one. This is infatuation, this is the pure work of a lonely mind and not something worth of any of all the words that I am dissipating here. Yet. I saw you cry at the climax of the opera, Violetta, the protagonist, heartbroken falling on stage consumed by pain and regret for her lost love and ultimate sacrifice. Your eyes shone as you tried to hide the tears and collect yourself. Through my binoculars, I saw your throat tremble and gulp down something more than just a sigh of pain. Your jaw clenched, your gloved hand moves to hide your shaking lips. I reckon, I have never seen such sad lips look more inviting. You look at the wall on your side breathing through your nose and not even that can save you by the strength of the voice of the soprano. You’re defeated and so you brought a fine silk handkerchief to your eyes, your shoulders bent inward in self defence. The Opera won. It won you like it always wins me. I wonder if you felt like this because of a past lover, somebody that broke your heart and made you feel wrong in any way. And because of that little wonder it is even more clear to me why I am a man worth of no trust. Because for a moment, I know, I wished to be the one that broke your heart. That gave you just the pain you’re inflicting on me so mercilessly by offering intoxicating kindness and beauty. To own your thoughts, tears and shame. To be the one man you have to look away from. I want to own all of that and, maybe, I will be freed of you the day you’ll be just another human being that hates Dr Laszlo Kreizler.

Tagged @cazzyimagines @lieutenantn @handmaiden-of-mischief @thesunflowersutra @zemomybeloved @fictionlandslanddreams @charistory @greeneyedblondie44 @apparrio @hb8301 @whatawildone

Let me know if you want to get tagged too <3

#the diary of doctor laszlo kreizler #dr laszlo kreizler #laszlo kreizler #dr laszlo kreizler x reader #dr laszlo kreizler imagine #dr laszlo kreizler x you #laszlo kreizler x reader #laszlo kreizler headcanons #thealienist #the alienist fanfic #the alienist fanfiction

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star-maiden · 4 years ago

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Help! These D*** Cards Don’t make sense!

What To Do When a Tarot Reading Seems Like Nonsense

⭐️ First of all, we need to get a few things clear. Tarot won’t always make sense. You will make mistakes. Sometimes, you won’t get any messages at all no matter how hard you try. If this sounds similar to your experience with the cards, don’t feel bad. It doesn’t mean you’re a “bad” reader. As soon as you get more comfortable with the idea of being wrong, you’ll find that your confidence (and subsequently your readings) will improve a lot! Got that? Great! Let’s move on to the topic at hand.

Confused by your tarot cards? Don’t get discouraged.

⭐️ I’m just going to tell you plainly. There isn’t a single tarot reader in the world who hasn’t been completely baffled with their cards at some point. This is natural and a completely normal part of the learning process. What’s more, Tarot is one of those things that you never really stop learning more about. There is always room for growth, and for finding deeper meanings within the stories each card tells. So if you’re hoping to be a “Tarot Master” with omnipotent vision and 100% accurate readings about everything, then I’m afraid I must be the bearer of bad news: There’s no such thing. We’ll all be wrong or confused sometimes, and that’s ok.

Even so, there are a few things to consider if you find yourself bamboozled by your cards more often than not.

Reasons why your tarot cards don’t make sense, and what to do about it.

1. You’re cards haven’t been shuffled properly.

⭐️ This is a common culprit for readings that aren’t making much sense. If you don’t shuffle your cards enough, either straight out of the plastic wrapping or after too many readings, you won’t get any clear messages. This is especially true if you’ve been doing a lot of readings, and just quickly shuffling your pulled cards back into the deck afterwards. If you notice that you are getting a lot of cards from previous readings, and they aren’t making much sense, it might be time for a good shuffle.

What to do: If your deck is new, you’ll want to spend several days shuffling and getting to know the cards. This will mix up the cards enough for you to actually get messages, and help you become more familiar with the imagery of the deck (which will improve your intuitive readings).

⭐️ If you deck isn’t new, it’s likely that you just haven’t shuffled well enough in between readings. It happens. Just give them a good shuffle, and you’ll be set.

2. You don’t know the card meanings well enough.

⭐️ Wait! Don’t get upset yet! I’m not saying that you have to memorize the traditional meaning of every card, and use only that definition as the “be all, end all” of card interpretations. Far from it! That would be super boring. I’m also not saying that you can’t use the guidebook (you totally can). In fact, if you use your guidebooks, you’ll be able to learn the subtle nuances that each deck author attributes to the card meanings. It’s pretty neat stuff!

⭐️ However, a basic understanding of your cards and their key meanings will help you read accurately with consistency. A big part of intuitive reading is being able to recognize the symbolism within the cards. If you know a keyword for each card, you can use them as a starting point for your interpretations.

⭐️ For example: Let’s say you have the 4 of cups. Traditionally, it shows a moody figure, staring off into the distance, with spilled cups before them. Above the figure is often some sort of offering that they can’t see. If you know that a keyword for the 4 of cups is apathy, you could use the symbolism in the card to read it as “having lost interest in a situation”. The figure feels apathy for the situation he’s in, and is not interested in what is being offered. That’s an example of the traditional, symbolic meaning of the tarot in action. Ready to take this a step further? Once you know the traditional meaning, you can combine it with other cards, as well as the details of the situation, to “springboard” into other interpretations.

⭐️ Example 2: Maybe you know that “apathy”, the traditional meaning of the 4 of cups, doesn’t completely fit. In this imaginary reading, the client is asking you about an argument they had with their partner. They are hurt and upset, and have asked you if it’s worth it to stay in the relationship. Clearly, they are not feeling apathetic toward the situation! In this case, we would go beyond “apathy” or “loss of interest”. What is the energy of this card? Combining the imagery with the traditional meaning, we can generate other meanings. Stagnancy, miscommunication and an inability to see another perspective are all alternative, non-traditional interpretations. In this situation, I might tell this client that there is some confusion between them and their partner. Neither one has a clear understanding of how the other feels. Therefore, it might be a good idea to discuss the current situation with each other once they have both had time to calm down. The surrounding cards will usually help you fine tune your interpretation.

What do to: There’s no way around this one. Study the cards. In particular, the imagery of your deck will be very useful to become familiar with. Read your guidebook, read other tarot books and blogs, journal about your readings. If books are not your thing, there are countless YouTube videos and podcasts that cover tarot these days. My favorite tarot podcast is Tarot bytes by Theresa Reed. Pace yourself. You don’t have to learn everything in a week. Most importantly, read, read, read with your deck. The more you read, the more you will begin to understand how your deck communicates and how your intuition picks up on this subtle energy.

3. You are too emotionally invested in the outcome of the reading.

⭐️ This mostly happens if you are reading for yourself, but it can also happen when reading for close friends or family. Sometimes, if we are hyper focused on a particular outcome or in a state of reaction, it’s easy to project our own personal feelings onto the cards. This skews the interpretation. Its not a bad thing to read for yourself, your family or your friends. However, it’s a good idea to keep this point in mind.

What to do: If you are nervous, upset or in any way unable to remain objective about the outcome, it’s probably best to not do the reading. You can try again later when things are calmer.

4. You’ve ignored the focus question.

⭐️ This happens when a reader fails to take into account the “focus” or theme of the reading. For example, if a client asks you about work, and The Lovers card comes up, you should not tell them that they will meet their soulmate soon. This has nothing to do with what they were asking about. You’re more likely to encounter this problem when reading for others, but it can happen when reading for yourself.

What to do: An easy answer, stay on script. Keep the original question in the forefront of your mind during the entire reading. Like our example above, if you are reading about work, don’t start interpreting anything about romance. The cards are nuanced and varied enough to have multiple meanings. Instead, if The Lovers card appears in a work related reading, consider how the energy of the card might show up within the context of the reading. Instead of a “soulmate”, you might say that this client needs to find a harmony and balance between their home and work life. This is just one of many possible ways to interpret this card within the context of a work-related reading.

5. You’ve asked a question that is too specific OR that the tarot cannot answer.

⭐️ This can happen with both self-readings and readings for other people. Tarot is a powerful tool of self reflection and insightful divination, but it is not omnipotent. Further more, tarot readers themselves are not mind readers. We have to have context and understanding in order to see the connections clearly enough to interpret them with accuracy. With tarot, the more context we have about a situation, the better a reading will be. So for vague questions like “what will happen next Tuesday?”, a reader would need to supplement the reading with their intuitive abilities. It can be done, but the chance of misinterpretation is much higher if a reader is unsure how to weave the tarot and clair senses together.

⭐️ Some types of questions are ill-suited to tarot. Generally speaking, these would be questions that limit the ability of the seeker to act. “Will I pass my exam?” would not be a good question because it leaves no room for change or growth. A reader might struggle to interpret this correctly unless they are very experienced.

⭐️ Another type of question that you might see a lot are third party questions. For example: “Is person A having an affair with person B?” This type of question that doesn’t directly involve the seeker in any way is not useful with tarot. Most likely, you won’t get a clear answer or any useful information. Tarot is not a tool to be used to spy on others. In fact, it’s quite disrespectful to use the cards in this way.

What to do: A lot of this boils down to personal preference and reading style, but a good rule of thumb is to ask open ended questions. In this sense, questions that begin with “how” or “what” will be better than questions that start with “is”. Remember, tarot does not deal in absolutes. It reflects energy of situations and projected futures, and energy can change. Nothing is 100% certain with tarot.

#learn tarot #tarot #tarot resources #witchblr #witch community #divination #tarotblr #divination community

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sendmyresignation · 4 years ago

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In Defense of Teenagers:

Ok so. There seems to be a general consensus that Teenagers doesn’t fit on the black parade or that it ruins the trajectory of the album or that the song order of bp needs to be changed to fit the b-sides and drop Teenagers, or it should have just been a single- basically any option other than its inclusion between Sleep and Disenchanted would have been better. now, i’m not here to tell anyone that they’re wrong- i just want to offer an alternative perspective because i truly believe Teenagers is right where it belongs and that its inclusion on that album is, in my opinion, completely necessary to the album’s narrative arc. I want to focus on the way Teenagers builds into the foundation of the Concept Record, the way it bridges the gap between Sleep and Disenchanted so as not to delegitimize Disenchanted’s impact, and the fact that no other available material fits into the struggle the Patient endures at the end of the narrative (sorry this got LONG here’s a read more)

So, before we get into the meat of Teenager’s narrative significance, i wanted to briefly mention the way it makes Black Parade a more cohesive whole in relation to the material it is mimicking. Like Black Parade as an album is structured very differently from Pink Floyd’s The Wall- but it takes a lot of the same beats and recontextualizes them for a new purpose. Both records use war and relationship troubles and school and drugs to create an atmosphere that leads to disillusionment. In The Wall, this is quite literally the protagonist, Pink, building up “bricks in the wall” that isolates him from the rest of society and lead to a downward spiral into cynicism and hate. But Black Parade uses the same tools that The Wall does to say something different- things, specifically the actions you've made or the trauma you've endured, haunts you and makes your life seem insignificant in the face of what happens to you and those regrets are what causes the Patient to fall into a cycle of damnation and cynicism. This is representative of the Patient's descent through the afterlife- each new "layer" of the Patient's exploration is equivalent to a brick in The Wall's metaphor. Additionally, in this new context, this song in particular takes The Wall’s discussions of adolescence and the vice-grip control older generations attempt to force on teens and the disillusionment with the future and retells it from a new perspective- both literally in the fact the song is now more reflective of the 2000s post-9/11 and post-columbine culture, but its also literally from the perspective of the Patient as an adult. Teenagers, as a result, becomes a necessary piece of that puzzle- it is the refraction of Another Brick in the Wall repurposed to mean something new entirely- it’s no longer about kids being forced into complacency by a cruel education system from their own perspective (the children’s choir allows them to speak for themselves) but about the ways in which adults see those kids and why they decide to enact actions similar to those within The Wall. I mean even the imagery used in the song’s music video is purposely almost plagiarizing The Wall- it feeds into a separate analysis of the video and song outside the narrative as well- which i don’t have time right now to get into, its just very interesting that the band is bodily removed from their instruments at the end of the video and the teenagers in the audience have rendered them incapacitated (“they’re looking for a rockstar to kill” anyone?) it's the metaphorical tearing down of the wall from a completely different perspective. Anyway, the work Teenagers does for the narrative is it fits the album into the Concept Record Cinematic Universe- it is a piece that evokes the material it is influenced by to build off of the old to create the new- without it, the connections to The Wall would still be there, sure, but it wouldn’t be as complete- you cannot recontextualize the album without the foundation of Teenagers.

Teenagers is also, at its core, a subtle subversion of genre- using the blueprint of a specific kind of song to center the song within the timeline/narrative. In this case, the same way I Don’t Love You mimics and exaggerates the emotive and plaintive 80s rock ballad, Teenagers twists the classic rock of a bygone era to specifically call back on the stadium rock anthem. Black Parade, on the whole, does this quite frequently- most of its songs take pre-existing genre cues and subverts them in ways that play off of the expected tapestry of a concept record to create individual sounding songs that seamlessly transition into one another yet remain entirely separate. It maintains their presence as scenes in a larger tapestry- specifically the fabric of the Black Parade being a morality play. This serves two purposes, it allows for this exaggeration of genre to become a motif within the work (see mama, cancer, house of wolves, i don’t love you, wttbp -> they all play with a different, varied song type/structure that is distinct from each other) and it plays off of existing genre-stereotypes in ways that contribute to the songs overall function. I Don’t Love You, for example, undermines the fundamental purposes of sappy power ballads- to express one of the two dualities of love songs: the cheesy unconditional “i will love you forever” types or the plaintive, melancholic end-of-relationship song by instead focusing on the complexity of a not-quite-finished relationship. The ballad then shifts from an expression of love to one of human loss- and the loss is less about the individual speaking, but moreso about what the other character has become - it’s a mourning not for the relationship, but for the person themselves, who they used to be in a way. It shifts from the one-dimensional view of what a ballad can achieve and instead infuses the anger, the resignation, the drama, the transformation- it humanizes a very stock genre full of platitudes and uses our expectations to create something more interesting. Similarly, Teenagers takes a tired genre and utilizes the working mechanisms of its typical song structure to subvert and repurpose those into commentary- its literally a stadium rock song that devolves into a chant. Looking at the loud drumbeat that resonates in your chest, the all together now as a command that lures the listener into singing along, the addition of more chorus vocals at the end like a crowd is shouting along, the screaming and the solo on after another like the song is falling apart a little bit, all of these elements build into a song literally meant to be infectious and replicated by the audience. Herein lies one of the songs many interpretations- humans can be easily influenced by the media they consume, the perspectives they are fed. What happens when the view that we have of adolescence is cloaked in mistrust and violence? This aspect of the song is less about the band reconciling teenagers being moved to committing acts of violence and more in analyzing how an audience can be persuaded into believing the erroneous view of teens as fundamentally destructive- are you not repeating the chorus? do teenagers not “scare the shit out of you”? Obviously the band doesn’t want you to believe this but it does what you to think about why this perspective is so common. It's a cultural subliminal message that is present in songs and tv and books that we simply do not question- it is a chant we cannot help but join in on. Teenagers is a replication of that process, but is clearly just subversive enough (both as a piece of genre and just as a song in general terms) that the listener knows its commentary and not itself propagating that viewpoint. Every song on Black Parade does this kind of “genre-bending” to make a point in some way or another, so it's a significant reason Teenagers fits into the albums cohesion.

But,Teenagers isn’t just important to the album in its sound- it lyrically parallels Disenchanted in a way that effectively moves on from Sleep without losing the album’s emotional momentum. Sleep, conceptually and lyrically, is a very heavy track- its influence from the Dune soundtrack’s Final Dream turn a cinematic, swelling piece of instrumentation into an oppressive blanket of noise that bears down on the listener and the lyrics are referential to the patient believing themselves to be irredeemable and monstrous. It's also inspired directly from Gerard’s vivid and violent night terrors during his stay at the paramour- including a recording of Gerard’s recollection of those dreams, that mentions being choked, seeing loved ones die, burning alive, etc. To transition directly from such a dark, personal subject into a reflective acoustic number about the narrator’s adolescence would be tonally inappropriate and almost laughable- it would stop the progression in its tracks, while also doing a disservice to Disenchanted. Having a break is necessary! And it's even more appropriate for that break to be a song about teenagers considering Disenchanted is so nostalgic. Additionally, Teenagers brings up a really interesting narrative thread about the Patient becoming disenchanted with the youth that then directly transitions into a song about him losing faith in his values and sense of self- they are directly correlated conceptually. Looking deeper, Disenchanted is a punk song. sort of. more specifically, it is the foundation of a punk song that becomes a ballad through narrative framing- it takes punk cliches (running from the cops, the crowds, the imagery of guillotining traitorous rich celebrities) and turns them wistful and sad because the Patient is looking back at something they no longer understand or identify with, it allows the narrative to illustrate how the Patient feels like their life was worthless and didn’t amount to much and they’re just another stupid punk kid who grew up and didn’t achieve anything. and you can’t get to this point from Sleep because it would weaken Disenchanted’s impact, make it seem insignificant and petulant in the face of Sleep’s heavy and grand sorrow. Lyrically, you need Teenagers to bridge the gap between the war metaphors and the visualizations of hell and the all-encompassing nature of cancer in order to redirect the focus to the Patient and limit the scope of the narrative at the end of the album. Teenagers, within the story, then functions as the Patient reflecting on the nature of youth and, in the wake of Mama’s “we all go to hell” rhetoric, comes to the conclusion that teenagers are wholly violent, easily manipulated, and unsympathetic. It's another step in the Patient removing his own agency and viewing his life as predestined at the same time it allows the “plot” to focus back on the more nostalgic and mundane aspects of the patient’s life. Doing so makes Famous Last Words so much more significant because it forces the Patient to reconcile with his past before he can move forward (whether that's living or dying its still applicable). so, Teenagers is very important to the overall “plot” of Black Parade- it is fundamentally necessary for the pieces to fit together.

Another larger aspect of Teenagers' importance is that it introduces the fate versus free will internal debate central to the ending fourth of the record. The song lays the foundation for this thematic idea by being about the fated violence of the youth and how they cannot help but to respond to their world with anger and cruelty. This realization about adolescence by the Patient leads to him perceiving his own youth as destructive and worthless and in following the themes of guilt/regret and damnation it's this violence that began his path to hell or his current state of suffering. In that vein, Teenagers leads into the idea that your life is predetermined or that there is a destiny that we all have (in the Patient’s case its the absence of a future, or “a lifelong wait for a hospital stay”) and no matter what, you cannot fight that. While Mama gives a blanket statement about how "we all go to hell", Disenchanted centers the Patient's specific destiny by saying his whole life has led up to his illness and, looking further, there is the implication that life before that was retrospectively pointless. So, as previously mentioned, Disenchanted begins, structurally and lyrically, as a punk song- this sort of expression of youthful existence that, in any other song or under another faster instrumentation, would fit on some basement demo from 1986. But it doesn't stay that way, instead it actively subverts the genre it's cliches are lifted from- thinking specifically about “we ran from the cops” and the “roar of the crowd” that is juxtaposed with the change in structure or theme. Namely, punk songs (speaking generally here) aren’t wistful because there isn't really a sense of legacy in punk music. There's history yes, but most songs are about the immediacy of emotion, not existential questioning. The retrospective nature and the shift into a ballad structure are elements reflective of a change in the main character brought on by the disillusionment present in teenagers from a punk kid to a dying young man looking back on the banality of youth and the hypocrisy, the trauma and the lack of agency. It's so much easier to think that nothing matters and the perspective makes it so much easier to give up.

This build from Teenagers into Disenchanted regarding the Patient's fate allows Famous Last Words to become an even stronger end because it's in direct opposition to that perspective. Famous Last Words is a song that screams fuck fate and fuck the past- the only thing that matters is moving forward. The image of the Patient keeping on whether he’s walking into the afterlife or continuing to stay alive as long as possible becomes something difficult, something he had to fight to achieve - he had to struggle to find a new understanding. That he can't be "afraid to keep living" or "going home" and that these are concrete actions, a use of free will. And that free will is very specifically defiant. Regardless of how you view the Patient's end, he makes the conscious decision to accept the present and move forward. We are not fated to die alone, nor is life worthless. Black Parade proves that the opposite is true, that we must grow to accept the value of life, and it's so much stronger having the Patient actively reject nihilism and apathy. Ultimately, Teenagers introduces the main thread of the final songs and without it, those songs would be narrative incomplete.

So, Teenagers has a valued place on the album sonically and within the narrative whole, that much is clear. But another reason that the album order of Sleep, Teenagers and Disenchanted is important is that none of the other material written for the album comes close to filling its place. In this case, I am going to be specifically talking about the b-sides since the demos are incomplete and we have no idea what the final version would have sounded like (but I would contend they don’t fit either). Beginning with the easiest song to discard from the narrative- My Way Home Is Through You has its moments in the lyrics but it's completely out of place musically- plus the tone is a little too hopeful for this point in the album which does not gel with Disenchanted’s hopelessness. It's also incongruent with the album since Disenchanted is effective as the only “punk” song on a record that plays with and explores genre and having this come before it would ruin the previously mentioned motif of each of the songs being individual and unique in form. Also, it really adds nothing to the fate vs free will theme- meaning its placement would weaken the disenchanted/flw combo ending. Moving forward, Kill All Your Friends seems to fit, considering its cynicism and nostalgia, but the bridge (“you’ll never get me alive, you’ll never take me alive, do what it takes to survive and I'm still here") doesn’t fit the Patient’s slow decent into apathy at all and contradicts Disenchanted’s loss of faith in the idea of living- it's too hopeful and centers survival and resilience in a way that makes it an ineffective substitute for Teenagers as a bridge song. And finally, Heaven Help Us is too religiously centered- it would refocus the fate vs free will discussion in the context of god/angels when that isn’t a theme in the album up to this point (hell is the grounded point of the album- the protagonist has already accepted their fate by Mama- having a reconciliation with a lack of faith or the absence of God seems completely out of left field when its just not an established part of the narrative) Black Parade is actually one of the mcr albums with the least references to god/angels in the heavenly religious sense- more centered around the human struggle against determinism: the usage of damnation is Catholic inspired but divorced from the division of hell vs heaven and is instead about guilt and worthiness and agency. The presence of angels or god or any divinity would simply weaken the narrative by expanding the album's focus outside its own limitations. Also, the Patient isn't ever a martyred figure, if anything he is purposely pathetic. Including any comparison of the Patient to Christ ("give you all the nails you need") or a saint unravels the key feature of the Patient's character: that he is insignificant. His insignificance and his struggles with his past actions make him a character who must find the strength to live through the guilt and pain to prove that everyone is worthy of life. The overarching purpose of Black Parade is emphasizing that no matter what we've done and how dirty we feel, we can move forward and either accept our afterlife or we can find value in being alive. Because of this contradiction, Heaven Help Us destroys the central theme of the entire album if it is included. With all of this in mind, it seems to me that the b-sides are their own nebulous thing- they don’t tonally fit on Black Parade (though I do think they fit together and are interconnected thematically) but any of them would break the flow since they seem angrier and gritter in a way that is noticeably absent and would be at odds with from a lot of Parade’s resignation. They also just do not complete the narrative, they are simple not as good as Teenagers at bringing all the pieces together.

If I still haven’t convinced you, a bonus reason Teenagers is a valuable memeber of the Black Parade tracklist, Ray was the only one who believed in the song- he called it genius (x) so listen to mr chemical romance himself telling you the song is Good and Important :)

anyway now you should, at the very least respect teenagers based on a couple thematic ideas expressed here, if not also understand why it’s imperative to black parade as an album, as well as the narrative itself. <3

#here she is. my teenagers manifesto. months in the making :')#this is the equivalent of getting on my biggest soapbox and screaming for hours please enjoy <33 #my posts #mcr assigned reading #my chemical romance #mcr #black parade

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raisansgrapeon · 4 years ago

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Ghostbur Through the Lens of War

When analyzing a text (text being used as a general term), it’s important to establish what lens your analysis is going to be run under. It helps specify thoughts and arguments under set pretenses and brings focus to the discussion. Instead of looking at an article or a story through broad strokes, using a specific lens focuses on one stroke and allows for deeper analysis to be achieved.

It is safe to say that most of the Dream SMP is either seen under then lens of politics or mentality/interpersonal relationships. Viewing the story as a grand political battle and the consequences of the mighty leads us right down to the more specific lens of war. Yet, despite this common viewpoint under which we, as a community, digest the story of the Dream SMP, the character of Ghostbur is often left out of the equation in those terms, favoring to shed light on him for what he represents mentally. While his character is very much geared towards that line of thinking as an individual, his representation of innocents in the portrayal of war in the DSMP is nothing to scoff at.

The scale of the DSMP is far too small to truly represent the role of the common man within the cogs of war. With (at the time of writing) 31 characters within the story and a vast majority too disconnected from the story line to feel any real impact from the major players, we only ever really got to feel the way war impacted the warring factions and the leaders. The way war impacted countries as government system. The way war impacted the individual. We saw how war warped Wilbur and how war pitted father against son. We saw how war tore apart L’manburg because the leaders in charge never learned when to quit. We saw how abstaining from war left the Badlands relatively unharmed until a new external force came into play.

In all these instances, we see either the characters as individuals in positions of power, or the overarching bodies and governments that share the land, but we never see the people. The innocents trying to live life as best as they can under dire circumstances. Until, we look at Ghostbur under the lens of war as well.

Ghostbur is a prime vessel to carry the weight of the general population and how war impacts the people caught in the crossfire. He is the essence of the common people living their life only to have it viscerally uprooted and destroyed by war and by ignorant leaders gunning for their own gains. This can be seen in nearly every aspect of Ghostbur’s character.

Starting off with what inspired this essay and these thoughts in general is Ghostbur’s conversation with Philza on the 6th of January. Within this conversation is where the most blatant characterization and solidification of Ghostbur as a representative of the people comes into play. The line, “I read the history books,” and Ghostbur recounting his warped idea of how Wilbur’s death came to be reflects on how history is written by the victors, and that is the version taught to the population. We are told of the great triumphs of the heroes of history, even if those heroes will never see themselves as such. The people are told of all the good that came out of a horrid historical event without the whole picture because details will always be lost within the wash of time. And during conflict between parties and during horrid events, Ghostbur continued to just live his life. He became the foundations of the country that those in charge put on the line. “...I just wrote books... I built a house for people... I built this town, just like I built Logstedshire...” Ghostbur built L’manburg and Logstedshire as places for him, as a representation of a community, to live.

Even beyond this conversation, the way Ghostbur acts and how everyone interacts with him continues to support the idea that Ghostbur represents the innocents in war. Again, Ghostbur learns everything from word of mouth and history books. They are all skewed to paint a simplified version of events that leaves everything black and white, like how so much of history is formulated and taught. Ghostbur is always happy and cheerful and naive, chasing ideals and chasing that happiness. People just want to be happy. They just want to live their lives freely and enjoy it. Ghostbur covers the more mundane tasks of L’manburg, such as building aesthetic things or extra houses or the town center. When interacting with Ghostbur, everyone treats him like a glass vase. They fight to keep him complacent and content and happy. The way Phil talks to Ghostbur during their conversation, how Phil lies to him about Friend’s canon lives and Dream brings another Friend to keep Ghostbur complicit and feeling positive towards Dream, how everyone practically tip toes around him whenever something serious comes up. They all talk to him softly, like a child. At least the way I see it as an American Citizen, the government is all to happy to leave the people thinking there is nothing wrong, and to actively keep them from getting too close to whatever the truth may be. All parties try to keep the innocents innocent and complacent.

And yet, “I sowed the seeds of peace, yet I am the one who pays for war.” The people always pay. The innocents always pay with their lives and their homes for those in charge to play their games. “You knew everything everyone owned was in this town.” The greater powers at play, whether they be governments or leaders or what have you, know that in this land is where people live. They know, but they enact war anyway. The decimate their lands anyway. They blow up their homes anyway. They kill their loved ones anyway.

Phil’s final, “...maybe you’ll understand someday,” is saying, “one day, you will look back on this day in history and see all the good it caused. One day, the innocents will move on. One day, the people will forget why they lost what they lost.”

And Ghostbur does.

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A bit disorganized. I wrote this off the cuff so it’s more like a train of thought loosely formatted as an essay. I hope you all liked my small rant. I’ve been thinking about this for a while and just wanted to write it, you know?

Edit below the cut:

A small amendment to this post in retrospect in terms of one of my arguments and how I presented it along with some added hindsight and sleep, since I had written this at 2 in the morning.

This was spurred on by the tags of @asmoljay in their reblog of this post.

In their tags, they bring up the point that my argument on how people treat Ghostbur is placating and dismissive, mentioning that people are actually very confrontational with Ghostbur about Alivebur’s actions and its effect on them.

I will concede, my original claims are unfounded and far too broad. What I should’ve said, and what I have come to the realization of, is that Phil is placating and dismissive and trying to keep Ghostbur, for the most part, complacent. He never actively confronts Ghostbur about Alivebur’s actions and hardly has anything to say when Ghostbur brings up his death by Phil’s hands.

Overall, Philza is the only one engaging with Ghostbur thematically. He’s the only one playing into what Ghostbur represents, acting as a representation of the instigators of war to contrast with Ghostbur’s representation of the innocents.

I also feel I was a tad bit unclear as to why I was specifying that I was looking at Ghostbur through the lens of war. In doing so, I was taking a stance on Ghostbur’s thematic relevance and role in such an analysis and subsequently ignoring aspects of Ghostbur’s character that builds him up as that, a character. Looking through this lens, I am only looking at a small facet of how Ghostbur acts and interacts with the story at play. I am by no means disregarding how he works as a character or as a representation of guilt, unhealthy coping, drug use, etc. Ghostbur is multifaceted and I wanted to bring light to one facet that I found really interesting and didn’t really see anyone acknowledge. In the end, I am blatantly ignoring how different events feed into different aspects of Ghostbur as a character and bringing to light how other events pertain to him as a representation of a general populous and how that plays into the theme of war that is (or at the very least was) going on between Phil and Ghostbur.

Ghostbur isn’t defined by this characterization that I have illustrated, but it is certainly an interesting way to look at him under new context.

#dsmp #dream smp #dream smp writing #dream smp analysis #dsmp analysis #ghostbur #ghostbur analysis #philza minecraft #dsmp philza #dsmp doomsday #wilbur soot

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mcmansionhell · 5 years ago

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The Brutalism Post, Part 2: What Brutalism is Not

Why open a series about Brutalism by discussing what is not Brutalism? The answer is simple: of all of the terms in the history of architecture, Brutalism is perhaps the most misused and misunderstood by the general public.

Pictured: Citizens Bank Tower, 1958-66. Not Brutalism (it’s just plain ol’ International Style modernism). Source

The main issue here, as we will discuss later, is not that people are ignorant for using the wrong definition of the word Brutalism, but that the word Brutalism has come to mean or refer to a variety of architectural phenomena that are linked to one another via overarching similarities, the most important being an expanded set of buildings that elicit a specific emotional response in the viewer.

“Brutalism”, a specific architectural movement with its own ideology and history, has come to encompass a wide range of colloquial meanings. Some of these meanings are common misconceptions that reflect a need for broader architectural education (the purpose of this series), and some of these meanings reflect a deeper, more philosophical, interrogation into how we perceive and discuss architecture and the complex emotions it arouses within us, exposing a need for new means of communicating a common architectural sentiment.

Let’s start with the most common misuse of the term.

Brutalism is not: every single building made primarily of reinforced concrete.

Blame this one on the dictionary. The term Brutalism, while being derived from the French term beton brut, meaning raw concrete, does not apply to all buildings made from reinforced concrete. Developed in the 1870s, reinforced concrete is one of the most commonly used building materials in the world. Because of its inexpensive price, its structural integrity, and its ability to be cast into a variety of shapes and forms, many buildings were - and continue to be - made from it.

Let’s look at three examples of buildings I have found labeled “brutalist” in various places.

Not Brutalism: (from left to right): Tadao Ando, Vitra Conference Center (1993) Photo by Wojtek Gurak (CC BY NC 2.0); Le Corbusier, Villa Savoye (1929) Photo by Scarlet Green (CC BY 2.0); Albert Kahn, Highland Park Ford Factory (1910) Photo by Thomas Hawk (CC BY NC 2.0)

All of these buildings are constructed primarily from reinforced concrete. As you can see, they are all very, very different from one another. In these three cases, the key piece of information discrediting these buildings as being Brutalist is when they were built. Brutalism was a specific architectural movement from spanning a defined period of time (1940s-late 1970s). Buildings constructed outside of this time window are rather unlikely to be Brutalist.

Let’s look at why these buildings might be mislabeled brutalist.

Our first example is the Vitra Conference Center by Tadao Ando, which was built in 1993. Even though 1993 is far outside the time frame that brutalism spanned, this building has many characteristics that are “brutalistic,” specifically its extensive use of unpainted reinforced concrete, its heavy, geometric massing, and its intense visual weight. Ando’s architecture falls under the term “critical regionalism” - which is best understood as being modern in form (but not in dogma), with a heightened focus on the surrounding ecology and landscape as well as other geographical, cultural, and social contexts.

The Villa Savoye by Le Corbusier, finished in 1929, is one of the most iconic 20th century houses and works of modernist architecture in the world. This house, though made of reinforced concrete, belongs to the movement known as the International Style, which was developed in Western Europe after World War I, is known for its rejection of ornament, flat surfaces (especially roofs), extensive use of glass, and visually lightweight and repetitive forms. While the International Style makes use of concrete, it differs from Brutalism in its visual lightness - the Villa Savoye seems to float effortlessly above the landscape - very unlike Brutalist architecture, which is characterized by its massive scale, hulking forms and visual heaviness.

The Highland Park Ford Plant, built in 1910 by noted factory architect Albert Kahn, was once the premiere factory building in America, helping to advance not only the Fordist system, but the city of Detroit, Michigan as being the automobile capital of the world. It is a touchstone of factory design, notable for its pioneering use of the assembly line to facilitate mass production, a concept that remains central to factory design today. Although made of reinforced concrete, the Highland Park plant is not a brutalist building. It frequently is mischaracterized as being brutalist because of its massive side, imposing features, and the close association that has developed between brutalist architecture and urban exploration photography (More on this later).

TL;DR: All brutalist buildings are made of reinforced concrete (or heavy masonry), but not all reinforced concrete buildings are brutalist. Moving on.

Brutalism is not a catch-all term for Late Modernist architecture

Architecture got so weird and complicated in the period from the 1960s through the early 1980s that it inspired the architectural theorist Charles Jencks to create the first of several delightful and mind-bending charts to try and categorize it:

Yeah.

What is Late Modernism? The concise definition is that it is an umbrella term encompassing the various architectural movements that transpired after International Style/Mid-Century Modernism but before Postmodernism. (For more on what Late Modernism is and why you should care, see my post from 2016.) Brutalism elides with Late Modernism, but not all Late Modern buildings are Brutalist. Because Brutalism is contemporaneous with Late Modernism, the distinction can be confusing. Often the case is that Late Modern buildings that are described as ‘Brutalist’ should be recategorized or reassigned to a different, equally obscure and hyper-specific architectural sub-movement happening around the same time. This might seem nitpicky, but look on the bright side: now you get to correct your friends.

Late Modernism encompassed a lot of smaller architectural movements, most, but not all of them ending in -ism. Some, like Brutalism and High Tech, are more well known; others, like Metabolism, Structuralism, Critical Realism, and Neo-expressionism, not so much. Some buildings don’t fit into any of these categories and must (frustratingly) be referred to as simply “Late Modern” or “Transitional” (referring to the transition from Modernism to Postmodernism.)

Here are three Late Modern buildings that are not Brutalist:

Left: Richard Rogers, Lloyd’s Building (1986) Photo by Lloyd’s Insurance (CC BY 2.5); Top Right: Kisho Kurakawa Nakagin Capsule Tower (1972) Photo by scarletgreen (CC BY 2.0); Bottom Right: Herman Hertzberger, Centraal Baheer (1972) Photo by Apdency (CC BY-SA 3.0)

Lloyd’s Building, the headquarters of Lloyd’s of London, located in, unsurprisingly, London, was designed by Richard Rogers and completed in 1986. Despite the relative lack of reinforced concrete, the building is frequently categorized as being Brutalist. The fact that it lacks reinforced concrete as a defining architectural feature is all one needs to eliminate Lloyd’s from the Brutalism category - why it is put there in the first place we will discuss more in depth in the next section of this post. Lloyd’s - along with most of Rogers’ work - is part of the architectural movement known as “High Tech” because it is, well, High Tech.

High Tech buildings are the apogee of the modernist mindset in terms of glorifying the functions of a building and the technological elements of structural engineering. They take what are usually internal systems such as structural frames, circulation systems (such as stairs and elevators) and services (electrical, plumbing, etc) and integrate them into their external architectural form. (Lloyd’s is colloquially known by Londoners as the “inside out building”). High Tech was relatively short lived because it turns out that when you decorate the outside of your building with its internal services, when winter comes, your water pipes, exposed to the elements, tend to freeze.

The Nakagin Capsule Tower, built in 1972 by Japanese architect Kisho Kurakawa (one of my favorite architects ever who more people should know about), is one of the buildings most commonly labeled as Brutalist. This building illustrates the gray area that arises when one uses vague aesthetic attributes (concrete, visually heavy, geometric massing) to designate a building as Brutalist instead of the actual history and context of the building in question. The Nakagin Capsule Tower belongs to a different (if coexistent) architectural movement that, frankly is a lot weirder than Brutalism: Metabolism. Take the formal concept of organic biological growth and systems and combine it with the urbanistic concept of megastructures (an entire city contained in a single continuous structure or via several interconnecting structures) and you get Metabolism. Because of the practical issues with building an entire city within a single building, Metabolism lived mostly on paper, however a few built examples were executed, the most famous being the Nakagin Capsule Tower.

The Centraal Baheer office building was built by Dutch architect Herman Hertzberger in 1972. Like the Nakagin Capsule Tower, it satisfies many of the aesthetic signifiers commonly attributed to Brutalism: it’s made of reinforced concrete, composed of large geometric massing, and it’s visually heavy. Also like the Nakagin Capsule Tower, it belongs to a different, coexisting architectural movement, primarily developed by the Dutch, called Structuralism. Structuralism is a complex set of architectural ideologies developed in the 1960s and 70s, centered around a few key concepts: the rationalist idea that people’s behavior can be directly changed (or manipulated) via design; designing built structures that correspond in form to social structures; an emphasis on cultural and geographical context; an urbanism and design approach based, like Metabolism, on a biological growth analogy (called Aesthetics of Number); the integration of a variety of uses and programs within the same overall structure; and, finally, the aim to architecturally reconcile the needs of both “high” and “low” culture.

Brutalism, Metabolism, and Structuralism arose from a similar origin, and are ideologically more alike than different, something we will talk about in the next installment of this series.

Brutalism is not a feeling.

But also, it kind of is. It is, as the folks say, “a big mood.” A large reason why buildings are incorrectly labeled Brutalist is because they bring forth a very specific emotional response to architecture shared by many people across the world. Some of the buildings that cause people to feel this complex and nuanced set of emotional and aesthetic reactions are, in fact, Brutalist, but many are not. To me, what this demonstrates, is a broader need for architectural education and discourse that goes beyond the most common system for classifying architecture: stylistic labels.

To talk about this, we’ll bring back Lloyd’s Building, Kahn’s factory and present it alongside a few other examples.

Left to Right: John M Johanson, Stage Center Oklahoma City (1979) Photographer unknown; Yuri Platonov, Russian Academy of Sciences (1968) Photo by Raita (CC BY 2.0); Boris Magasto, Haludovo Hotel, Krk, Croatia (1972) Photographer unknown; Kevin Roche, The Pyramids (1972) Photo by jikatu (CC BY SA 2.0)

All of these buildings (and all of the photographs of these buildings) are very different from one another, and yet, they have all been classified mistakenly as being “Brutalism.” The only real link between them is emotion.

Like many folks in the late aughts/early 2010s, I nurtured my then-juvenile love of architecture through spending hours lurking in the Skyscraper City forums looking at thread after thread of pictures of 20th century architecture. Why? Because those images made me feel powerful emotions that I still find difficult to put into words.

When talking about Brutalism as a feeling, perhaps the closest idea comes from the English philosopher Edmund Burke in his 1756 treatise “A Philosophical Enquiry into the Origin of our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful”. I am, of course, talking about the sublime. The Burkean sublime is emotionally complex. To quote Burke directly:

“Whatever is fitted in any sort to excite the ideas of pain, and danger, that is to say, whatever is in any sort terrible, or is conversant about terrible objects, or operates in a manner analogous to terror, is a source of the sublime; that is, it is productive of the strongest emotion which the mind is capable of feeling.”

But the sublime isn’t just negative. It overwhelms us with its awesome power and in this moment, “the mind is so entirely filled with its object, that it cannot entertain another.” Burke’s concept of the sublime was initially applied to such things as the ocean or the Alps - natural features that are so large, massive, and inherently dangerous that they put us in a state of awe-inspiring disbelief - and yet, and despite their mass and their danger, they give us feelings of deep pleasure and joy.

To the people (including myself) who love Brutalism - it does engender feelings of unknowing, of mystery, and sometimes, especially when said Brutalist building is in disrepair or photographed at a particularly menacing angle, of fear or grief. It shares this, rather than a stylistic label, with the buildings featured in this post.

Because of Brutalism’s association with the State, such as in the case of the former Soviet Bloc, East Germany, the welfare state in England, or its use in governmental buildings around the world, lingering political sentiments can also contribute to this complex mix of emotions - whether one longs for the halcyon days of eras past or fears them as being domineering or totalitarian. It can also cause people to associate buildings that are not Brutalist with buildings that are because they share a same political history. Similar to how the post-industrial society left behind a trail of industrial ruins along the American Rust Belt, so too has neoliberalism gutted and left for dead the monuments of these modernist utopias.

An actual Brutalist building: Paul Rudolph, Endo Laboratories Headquarters (1964). Photo via Library of Congress

Brutalist or not, these are enigmatic buildings - their forms are strange and unusual, alien even; their contents and even their purposes remain mysterious. Their siting makes them seem either imposing relative to their surroundings or isolated and alone. There is something dark and lonely, sad and longing about them. They are beautiful, partially because of their striking, form-bending architecture, and partially because they once lived different lives in times so unlike ours.

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Copyright Disclaimer: All photographs are used in this post under fair use for the purposes of education, satire, and parody, consistent with 17 USC §107. Manipulated photos are considered derivative work and are Copyright © 2019 McMansion Hell. Please email [email protected] before using these images on another site. (am v chill about this)

#architecture #design #architectural history #brutalism #late modernism #structuralism #metabolism #modern architecture

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amyhendry-contextualstudiesyear1 · 4 years ago

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The Legacy of Frida Kahlo

Frida Kahlo is a Mexican born artist formerly remembered for her paintings, more specifically her paintings based on nature and Mexican culture as well as her many self-portraits. Kahlo took up painting whilst recovering for a bus accident she was in as a teenager, the accident left her in a full body cast for quite some time and painting was her way of distracting her from the pain of recovery. Her work is heavily inspired by her culture which she incorporates in the clothing and scenery that she depicts in her paintings. In her lifetime she completed over 140 paintings (55 of which being self-portraits). A common theme in Kahlo’s work is both physical and emotional pain, the physical pain coming from her multiple surgeries she had to undergo because of her accident and her emotional pain came from her rocky relationship with her husband, fellow artist Diego Rivera (who she married twice). Despite that Kahlo is recognised as one of the greatest artist Mexico has ever seen and has become on of the most widely known artist in the world.

Kahlo was born in Coyoacán, Mexico City on the 6th of July 1907 and her full name is Magdalena Carmen Frieda Kahlo y Calderón. Kahlo’s father was a photographer who immigrated from Germany to Mexico where he met her mother Matilde, she is the third child with her two older sisters Matilde and Adriana and her younger sister Cristina. Even before her accident Kahlo had problems with her mobility as she contracted polio at a young age that damaged her right foot and caused her to have a limp from the age of six. In 1922 Kahlo became one of the only female students to attend the renowned National Preparatory School in which she became very politically active and joined the Young Communist League and the Mexican Communist Party whilst still a student. Not long after (1928) she married fellow artist Diego Rivera in what would become a very rocky and unstable relationship going through several periods of separation and rekindling, it was this relationship that would inspire some of her most famous paintings.

Kahlo first exhibited her work in 1939 in an exhibit in Paris, her work received massive praise and not long after Kahlo was commissioned by the Mexican government for five portraits of important Mexican women in 1941, however she was unable to finish the project due to the passing of her father as well as her chronic health problems. In 1953 Kahlo got her very first solo exhibit in her home city and, despite being bedridden, she refused to miss the opening and arrived by ambulance to celebrate with attendee’s. After Kahlo’s passing in 1954 her work became the symbol for female creativity and helped fuel the feminist movement in the 70’s, it was such events that has made her artwork iconic. “Frida expresses her own experiences in her works, it is exactly what she is living in her present, how she interprets it and how she believes that others live it. She paints after her divorce, as already mentioned before, “Las dos Fridas”, which we can locate within Surrealism (1939), because the surrealists do not want to copy reality but prefer to capture their reality, which is what they interpret of her dreams, or in the case of Frida, her own experiences, since she was able to create wonderful works from them. (…) Frida differs from the surrealists because she does not pretend to paint her dreams or liberate the unconscious, but through the technique of surrealism expresses her own experiences, which emanate suffering.” – Galeria Valmar, artes visuals, 2019.

The Broken Column

For this next part I wanted to analyse some of Kahlo’s most famous paintings and explore the deeper meaning behind them, starting with ‘The Broken Column’. ‘The Broken Column’ was a self-portrait created in 1944 shortly after a spinal surgery Kahlo underwent due to her accident, the surgery left her in a full body cast and a spinal brace which can be seen in the painting. Also in the painting we can see her body appearing almost cut in half, as if her spine had been ripped out, as well as nails poking out of her body. This actively demonstrates the physical pain constant years of surgery has caused Kahlo with the nails being a physical representation of such. Through the centre of her body the column taking the place of her spine is broken in several places creating the effect that it’s about to crumble and collapse on itself. Almost all of Kahlo’s self-portraits are meant to display her suffering caused by her accident, which left her both unable to bear children and ended her dreams of becoming a doctor, this is often shown by her facial expressions with ‘The Broken Column’ being no exception. After a closer look you can tears falling down her face as well as strong highlights in her pupils to emphasise the physical and emotional pain she was suffering. “The Broken Column was painted shortly after Frida Kahlo had undergone another surgery on her spinal column. The operation left her bedridden and “enclosed” in a metallic corset (…) The accident ended Kahlo’s dreams of becoming a doctor and caused her pain and illness for the rest of her life. (…) Although her face is bathed in tears, it doesn’t reflect a sign of pain. The nails piercing her body are a symbol of the constant pain she faced.” – Zuzanna Stanska, The daily art magazine, 2017.

Some people also believe that this painting is not just a representation of the pain Kahlo endured because of her health, many believe that it is also a commentary on the emotional pain caused by her unstable marriage. Most of the Kahlo’s most iconic pieces are inspired by her suffering and serves as a visual representation to her inner thoughts and emotions, her marriage being a large source of suffering throughout her lifetime. Some view the fragmented column lodged in her chest to be fragments of her marriage impaling her. “Despite the somewhat in-your-face symbolism, this is a favourite subject for bad art theory papers, identifying the column as everything from her fragmented marriage to a giant phallus penetrating her body. While such interpretations could be partially true, we think that sometimes a spinal column is just a spinal column (…) She referred to her medical ordeal as her “punishment.” She also took her tragedy in good humour, saying of this painting, “You must laugh at life...Look very closely at my eyes...the pupils are doves of peace. That is my little joke on pain and suffering…” Some claim the larger nails over her heart reflect her tortured relationship with Diego Rivera.” – Griff Stecyk, Startle, 2019.

Thinking about death

The next painting I have chosen to analyse is titled ‘Thinking of Death’ which is a self portrait created in 1943. This painting was created around the time Kahlo’s health really began to deteriorate as it depicts herself surrounded by nature with a small skull in her for head. Kahlo painted herself in very traditional clothing with her hair done up in a bun. The skull depicted in her forehead is supposed to represent the fears Kahlo had due to her health battles, with how sick she was death was a constant thought for her with it having come so close multiple times in her life. In Mexican culture death can mean the rebirth of life with is meant to be represented by the lively green leaves behind her as well as her facial expression which shows no sign of fear or panic suggesting Kahlo’s acceptance of death being another part of life. “Due to her poor health condition, death is an inevitable thought which lingering over her mind. In this painting, death is symbolized as skull and crossbones which shows up in her forehead. In ancient Mexican culture, death also means rebirth and life.” – FridaKahlo.org, 2017.

The skull itself represents the thought of death and sits right were ones third eye would be, this suggests that maybe Kahlo views the thought of death as some kind of wisdom instead of a fear, although Kahlo never wished to be labelled as a surrealist artist as her paintings come from her reality. “In Kahlo’s collective work, death seems to pervade almost every one of her paintings as an expression of pain, or a motif of oppression concerning female gender roles. Kahlo employs an almost anatomical eye in looking at her form, juxtaposing it beside images of adorned skeletons.” – MaryFrances Knapp, Seven Pounds, 2017.

Self Portrait with Thorn Necklace and Hummingbird

The final painting I have chosen to analyse is titled ‘Self-portrait with Hummingbird and Thorn Necklace’ which is another self-portrait completed in 1940. In this painting Kahlo is surrounded by animals such as a monkey and a black cat with a large necklace of thorns around her neck, in the thorns there is a hummingbird tangled amongst them. She is also surrounded by green leaves much like ‘Thinking about Death’ with insects like dragonflies and butterflies in her hair, with a blue sky barely peaking behind the leaves. The painting was completed soon after Kahlo’s messy divorces with Rivera following the theme of suffering throughout her paintings. The thorns around her neck could be a visual representation of how it felt to grieve her relationship much like the nails did in ‘The Broken Column’, though it could have a religious meaning referring to Jesus’s crown of thorns. Kahlo also incorporates Mexican culture into this piece with each animal representing something different that is relevant to the context of the painting with hummingbirds symbolising love, black cats symbolising bad luck, Dragonflies symbolising prosperity and monkeys symbolising lust. “This self-portrait was created following Kahlo’s divorce to Diego Rivera (…) There are obvious religious overtones to the piece using Jesus’s crown of thorns. Kahlo has painted herself as a Christian martyr, enduring the pain of her failed marriage (…) In Mexican culture, hummingbirds signify falling in love and are used in love charms (…) Kahlo often used vibrant flora and fauna as backgrounds for her self-portraits, to create a claustrophobic space teeming with fertility. It is thought that the emphasis of her monobrow and moustache – with the lines of her eyebrows mimicking the wingspan of the hummingbird around her neck – was intended as a feminist statement.” – Tara Lloyd, Singul art Magazine, 2019

This painting is a great look into Kahlo’s attention to detail and how every piece of her paintings represents something, she is very in touch with her culture and has great understanding as how to show her emotions and life experiences in each of her pieces. “Like many other of her paintings, this artwork is a lot akin to a painted assortment of symbols. Every element in this painting gives specific clues to Kahlo's mental state, perhaps none more than her still, direct, emotionless gaze that seems to express the immediacy of her pain.” Audrey V, Wide Walls, 2018

To sum up everything thus far Frida Kahlo is an incredible artist who poured her life into her work, her pain and passion has made her paintings so iconic in this modern age. She has become a symbol not only for Mexican artists but female artists as well, paving the way for many like her in the years to come. In response to why she painted so many self-portraits Kahlo responded, “I paint self-portraits because I am so often alone, because I am the person I know best”.

Bibliography

Galeria Valmar, artes visuals, 2019

Zuzanna Stanska, The daily art magazine, 2017.

Griff Stecyk, Startle, 2019.

FridaKahlo.org, 2017

MaryFrances Knapp, Seven Pounds, 2017

Tara Lloyd, Singul art Magazine, 2019

Audrey V, Wide Walls, 2018

#frida kahlo

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