#and ten years ago I was just writing poetry and papers for college

[soupbtch]

ummm. my fic is done.

[makaylajadewrites]

Part 9: Demons

Hi everyone, welcome back to the Bria Monique series! It's been quite some time since I've posted anything in this series, and although this is just a drabble/is kind of rough, I hope you enjoy!

Read on AO3 here

Summary: Spencer was not a stranger to having enemies. He had been dealing with them all his life and had them for as long as he could remember. Even as a child when he would walk down the street from his house to the bus stop a few blocks away, wearing his heavily scuffed Converse and old leather backpack that once belonged to his father, he was looked at like some kind of natural phenomenon. But the attention wasn’t always innocent and harmless, and he learned that the hard way through the ruthless bullying he suffered through his high school experience.

Tags: Hate speech, Homophobia, Potential transphobia, Bullying, Coming of Age

Word Count: 2665

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Spencer was not a stranger to having enemies. He had been dealing with them all his life and had them for as long as he could remember. Even as a child when he would walk down the street from his house to the bus stop a few blocks away, wearing his heavily scuffed Converse and old leather backpack that once belonged to his father, he was looked at like some kind of natural phenomenon. The sensation of eyes on him was nothing new, because at first it had always been harmless, curious onlookers left confused and amazed at the sight of eight year old Spencer Reid, sitting in a Las Vegas public high school’s library soaking up the contents of a quantum physics textbook. But the attention wasn’t always innocent and harmless, and he learned that the hard way through the ruthless bullying he suffered through his high school experience.

To think that teenagers, some almost six years older than him, bullied him to feel a sense of power was sickening when he thought back on it, but he supposed it was a natural part of Darwin’s theory of evolution at play; survival of the fittest, and Spencer was far from the fittest. He was physically small at that age, as any ten year old would be, with knobby knees and too-small hands, but that only made him a primary target for bullies.

The goal post incidence would forever remain engrained in his memories, and even though it had been over ten years ago, Spencer would never forget the pain, humiliation, and shame he felt after that day. He had been so uncomfortable in his own skin, thinking things about himself that twelve year olds shouldn’t have to think. He didn’t like his body, and had come to hate it more and more as the years went by.

College should have been where the bullying ended, but it didn’t. Twelve - almost thirteen - year old Spencer trudged into his first ever class at Caltech with those same dirty Converse and his mother’s old peacoat since he was now tall enough to wear it without it going below his knees, and the looks were still the same. Some were harmless, others malicious; he told himself it was normal to be hated by those who didn’t understand him. He came to expect it, and at the tender age of fifteen, he began to realize another aspect of himself that would bring him hatred from others for the rest of his life.

Spencer was gay.

He didn’t know what exactly made him realize it. He had been sitting at the desk in his individual dorm room one day (since the university thought he was too young to dorm with another student) with an Abstract Algebra textbook open in front of him while he scratched out impossible equations in his notebook. And suddenly his hand seized movement, his eyes rose, and he looked out the window into the cool December air. A young man was walking across the street two stories below, with olive skin and unruly brown curls, and when he glanced up towards Spencer’s figure in the window. He smiled, and Spencer was breathless.

That was all it took. He had never thought about it much in the past, since he was so heavily caught up in his studies and more concerned with his education than anything else, but the minute those emerald eyes locked with his own, he was reminded of the fact that all human beings crave affection from someone, and in Spencer’s case, he just so happened to wish for it to be a man.

He was once again faced with self-deprecating thoughts, fearing the judgement that would certainly come his way should others know of his identity. He felt like he was constantly holding his breath whenever he went out in public, like he was one second away from screaming out to the world ‘I’m gay,’ just to get the pain and humiliation over with. He didn’t know much about gay culture, and as intelligent as he was, he didn’t know much about gay history either. So as well as doing research on his own, he took a course called Queer History the next semester. In that class, he met Ethan, and together, they explored their sexualities and Spencer had never been more sure of anything in his entire life. He was gay, and that was okay.

They drifted apart naturally, with no hard feelings or animosity, and even today, they remained friends, only contacting each other occasionally. Reid would sometimes pay his old friend a visit if the team ever traveled down to New Orleans, and seeing Ethan behind a piano always seemed to calm him. He was truly talented, and although many chastised him for wasting his intelligence in order to be a jazz musician, Reid couldn’t fault him in the slightest. He was doing what he loved, being who he loved, and that was all that mattered.

It wasn’t until Spencer met Derek that he began to think a little differently about himself. He had always had so many issues with his self esteem and the way he viewed his body, and even before their relationship turned into something more than a platonic friendship, Derek went out of his way to make Spencer feel better about himself. He called him ‘pretty boy,’ encouraged him to go on dates often, feigned jealousy regarding Spencer’s intelligence. When they became a couple, those efforts increased tenfold. Sometimes with no real reason he would compliment Spencer, throwing in pet names as a form of shared intimacy between them. They would make beautiful love together at night, writing poetry with their lips, composing symphonies with their joined bodies. He would wake up the next day in bed with Derek, and Derek would greet him with a deep voice that creeped over his skin like ivy, saying, “Good morning, beautiful.”

Over the years, those looks remained of course, but for the most part, he had learned to block it out, because he had proved time and time again, both to himself and others, that he was undeserving of needless judgements. He was fine the way he was, and while nobody was perfect, he had grown comfortable with himself. Of course he still had moments of doubt and he was still occasionally dysphoric of his body, appearance, personality, but Derek, ever the loving partner, would guide his thoughts in the other direction, and with gentle kisses and soft murmurs, Reid would feel better. Performing in drag definitely helped too, because a drag queen could not be a good performer if she wasn’t confident. But he lacked the confidence of Bria Monique in himself, and sometimes he wished he had merely an ounce of the confidence she possessed. But he was getting better, slowly but surely.

Which was why when he walked into the bullpen alongside Morgan on a seemingly normal morning, a sheer layer of lip gloss coating his lips and a dusting of pale pink blush over his high cheekbones, he nearly stumbled over himself when all eyes seemed to lock onto him. The whispers started, subtle in nature, but they pierced through his brain like a dagger, and not even Derek’s hand on the small of his back could erase the overwhelming sense of shame that swelled in the pit of his stomach. They knew. Word must have spread like wildfire, and it certainly didn’t help that most of the bureau followed along with the BAU’s cases, since they played out like a police procedural sometimes.

What bothered him the most though was that David Rossi stood just outside of his office, leaning over the railing and watching the scene play out like it was some sort of entertainment, a neutral, unreadable expression on his face. Spencer felt nauseous all of a sudden, and he couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so uncomfortable in his own skin. He pushed away from Derek, not with malice, but with the need to simply get away from prying eyes, and his closest refuge was the restroom just outside of the bullpen. He quickly found a stall and threw himself to the ground before that porcelain throne, dispelling the contents of his stomach into the bowl and feeling a sob force its way from his throat. He hardly even noticed Morgan who was there with him almost immediately after, holding his chestnut curls back with one hand and rubbing his back, just between his shoulder blades, with the other.

“It’s okay… You’re gonna be okay, baby,” Derek said softly to him, hating the sight of his lover crying so openly. “Let’s get you cleaned up… We can talk to Hotch about this, get it sorted out.” And while he knew that Derek was only trying to be reassuring, it still hurt like a bitch to become the focus of all of that negative attention once again. He didn’t say anything at first, reaching blindly for toilet paper which Derek was happy to supply him with before wiping his mouth and nose with it, using another piece for his eyes. Morgan managed to get him out of the stall and standing in front of the row of sinks, he was faced with his reflection, and he was disgusted with himself. He turned the water on, splashing it on his face and practically scrubbing the light makeup off of his face with his fingertips. He looked up slowly, catching the dark bags under his eyes and other imperfections on his face, and he broke down once again. People couldn’t accept him either way. Derek pulled him in, and Spencer melted into the embrace as sobs shook his shoulders.

“Do you want to go back home, Spencer?” Derek asked softly, pulling away to catch sight of Spencer’s tearful honey-brown eyes, and he gently cupped his cheek. His thumb caught a tear that was just beginning to fall past his bottom lashes, and with a sniffle, he shook his head. That would be like admitting weakness.

“N-No, I-I just… I just need a minute,” he murmured rather lamely, pulling away from Derek and pulling a few paper towels from the dispenser to dry his face and wipe away his tears. “Then we can… We can go talk to Hotch,” he said, his voice dropping in volume considerably when he said that, like it was embarrassing. It was, but it was what they should do. He felt uncomfortable, singled out, and while talk and gossip was bound to spread, he hadn’t expected it to be so obvious.

“Take your time, pretty boy. Deep breaths, okay?” Derek reminded him, rubbing a hand over his back yet again as Spencer leaned heavily against the edge of the skin, exhaling shakily and doing as Morgan said. He needed to calm down if he wanted to go out there again, but he wasn’t sure if he could ever face his colleagues the same way again. Eventually though, he managed to collect himself, and the two exited the bathroom and walked quickly to Hotch’s office, Spencer keeping his head bowed in shame the entire time while Derek escorted him with an arm around him the entire way.

Once inside, however, they weren’t expecting to see Rossi inside, sitting down in the seat in front of Aaron’s desk. The two seemed to be chatting amicably while Hotch filled out paperwork simultaneously, but both men raised their heads at the intrusion, and instantly, Hotch took notice of his youngest agent’s flushed face and swollen eyes. He said nothing though, giving either Spencer or Derek the opportunity to explain. Rossi looked on curiously, but he remained silent, paying special attention to the contact between the two men.

“Hotch, we’ve gotta talk, man,” Derek said simply as he closed the door behind them, “How did details of the case leak?”

Hotch was silent for a few moments, setting his pen down and sighing, “It was bound to happen, Morgan. It was getting a lot of attention from the media due to the social justice concerns that arose from it. We cannot control what the media does with the information they retrieve,” he said, folding his hands across his desk, “Nor can we control how others react to seeing such news.”

“So… what? You just want Reid to deal with it?” Morgan asked, narrowing his brows. Spencer stood awkwardly alongside him, glancing over at his partner since the anger was radiating from him in waves.

“What do you want me to do, Morgan?” Hotch asked, clearly a bit exacerbated, “I believe the bureau is considering a mandatory seminar regarding discrimination and harassment in the workplace, but I can’t force them to do it.”

“Of course,” Reid said then, nodding his head a bit sheepishly, “I-I understand…”

“It came across as quite a shock, kid. No offense,” Rossi said, truly sounding genuine but the way his dark eyes roved over him made Spencer feel incredibly vulnerable. “It was, ah… shocking, to say the least. You can’t be surprised that people reacted the way they did.”

“David,” Hotch said warningly, but Reid was already raising an eyebrow, his expression turning into one made of both confusion and surprise.

“What does that mean?” Reid asked slowly, and Rossi simply raised his hands in exasperation as if it were clearly obvious to everyone.

“Oh, Reid… You have to understand how strange it is. Men don’t belong in women’s clothes, it’s just unnatural!” He exclaimed, and Reid shrunk into himself a little bit as the volume rose in the small office. Hotch rose from his desk slowly, catching Reid’s panicked eyes.

“I don’t think you get to choose what type of clothing someone wears,” Reid said simply, “People can wear whatever types of clothes they want to. I don’t wear women’s clothing in my casual life but I’m quite familiar with women’s clothing due to my hobby, which is not unnatural and is completely harmless.”

“Reid…” Rossi started, shaking his head, but Reid wasn’t finished just yet.

“Maybe you should come to one of my shows sometime. Then you’ll see how unnatural it is for me to feel comfortable in my own body and enjoy myself. You have no idea how many straight men have tried to take me home. I bet even you wouldn’t be able to keep your eyes off of me, David,” he said smoothly with an air of confidence, huffing a bit and glaring sharply at Rossi, making direct eye contact, something he was not known to do. In fact, Hotch and Morgan shared a look of surprise, and even Rossi was left speechless. Derek had never seen his lover like that before, but he was swelling with pride at seeing Spencer defend himself. Reid didn’t feel an ounce of regret for anything he said, and was in fact quite satisfied with himself.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to fix my makeup,” he said with no hesitation, turning on his heel and leaving even Derek in the office as he returned to the bathroom to do just what he said. When he emerged, pink gloss glistening on his diamond lips and translucent blush shimmering on his cheeks, he walked to his desk with his head held high, and even as the whispers continued around him, he sat himself down and got to work, just like he always did. Derek watched him from his own desk and Spencer’s eyes lifted to meet his gaze. He didn’t have to be afraid of judgement anymore, and even if Rossi couldn’t accept him, he would always have someone.

“I love you,” Derek mouthed, and Spencer beamed, feeling more content with himself than he had in a long time.

“As you should,” Spencer said aloud in response, looking down at his work and not missing the guffaw of laughter that came from his lover.

He may always have demons, but he would always have Derek too.

<-Part 8: What a Woman

[lipstickbisous]

the rei brown series (2/3)

OUR LOVE REMAINS.

notes: here’s the second part!! one more after this haha. not much of a plot to these just meant to put you in your feels. butttttt, i did write this from the experience my mom had in the icu when she was a nurse.

this one is your p.o.v. and is a little bit longer but not much

i DID NOT KNOW if anyone would get offended by “latino” or “hispanic” so i used both im sorry.

LISTEN for better understanding.

also u guys REALLY LIKED the din fic so i guess...more of those?

pairing: javier peña x reader

summary: while rethinking all of the choices you’ve made in your life, memories of a certain person begin to flood in.

warnings: MORE ANGST ahahaha, childhood nostalgia, fluff ending

word count: 3.3k (these are not long chapters)

masterlist

you weren’t sure what time it was (you knew it wasn’t too late) and you hadn’t bothered to check as you stumbled through your doorway, one arm holding grocery bags and the other, your purse and papers from work. your hair had been stuck in the ponytail you threw it up in since the morning, but now, it was pulling at your scalp and giving you a headache.

managing to balance on one foot, you flipped the light switch in your entryway and watched as the first floor of your house illuminated in the night. the tiny dog you’d adopted a few months ago came padding out on the wood floors from the dining room, his tongue stuck out with loud pants to relieve himself of the texas summer heat. 

with a small “hey, bub,” to your pet, you placed the groceries on the kitchen counter and slipped off your clogs, throwing them at the bottom of your stairs so that you could be reminded to take them to your room when you went upstairs. for now, you reached into the glass cabinet and grasped a dark bottle of wine. the label read a fancy word in french, but growing up in kingsville, you’d never bothered to learn the language of love. you grew up in that rich latino and hispanic culture. 

this house had memories threatening to let it crumble, you knew that, but even after your parents had moved into a smaller apartment due to medical reasons and the fact that they couldn’t afford the house, you couldn’t bring yourself to move out of this town and just ditch them there--now the house was in your name. you didn’t know why it was so hard to leave--you’d been able to leave for university, but when you came back the summer after you’d graduated, something stuck. now, it had been twenty years and you had made no attempts to even leave kingsville. 

you popped the cork of the wine bottle open and instantly met that musky historic smell of the red alcohol. you had seven wine glasses in your cupboards, but you never had any friends over. you might occasionally invite a few girls you knew in high school, but if you were to hang out with people, it would be at a bar on friday and saturday nights. you watched as the wine splashed around the glass and when it was filled to your satisfaction, you pushed the cork back into its place and left the bottle on the counter.

as you made your way into the living room and collapsed on the couch, the little dog you called yours jumped up onto the high furniture the best he could due to his tiny legs. you searched your couch for the remote, pulling over the cushions and pillows before finding it buried under the arm. you switched the tv on and and flipped through the channels before settling on fifty-one. your dog curled up next to your lap and closed his eyes to sleep.

you didn’t for what you were sure was the next two hours. the movie that had been playing before ended the beginning of a new one had started until you realized your glass was empty and dry and your eyelids were getting heavier. you leaned your head back before rethinking how the day had gone. you’d shown up to the hospital for work at the crack of dawn and spent the next twelve hours wheeling around patients, taking diagnostics, and carrying their dirty dishes.

it definitely had not been the job you imagined when you were ten. you’d played doctor with your stuffed animals and plushes before but in those scenarios, the patients had been obedient in kind. unfortunately, fate had not been so kind and, while sitting in front of the television with an empty wine glass in your hand, your fingers grazing over the sore spot on your wrist. it was sure to be bruised, the one on your calf had turned purple and yellow in the past few days. you hissed when you applied just a bit too much pressure.

i spent four years at a college i hated to have this. you’d put it all on the line to have this job. you thought that by being a nurse in the fucking icu, you’d be saving people everyday. instead, you were groped, spat out, and ignored by everyone there. you deserved a glass of wine every night.

you knew that this was not healthy at all and that you were intoxicating yourself with far too much alcohol but the way your back ached, your calf bruised, and your head pounded drowned out whatever warnings your brain sent you.

suddenly, you managed to catch sight of the atomic clock sitting on your kitchen counter. bright crimson letters read “1:30 am.”, and with a far too heavy sigh that awoke the small dog next to you, you set the glass on your coffee table (you’d grab it in the morning when you weren’t so sad) and flipped the tv off before sauntering up the stairs. even at your age, you had still been terrified of the dark--you could barely walk down to your basement without a flashlight and by yourself--but you found that you were perfectly fine walking in the pitch-black of your upstairs hallway. your dog was quick to follow behind you, jumping onto your bed and waiting for you as you emotionlessly entered your bathroom and looked at your reflection.

who the fuck were you? how much time had passed and yet here you were, in your fucking childhood home all alone? you’d found love with many men over the years, but you hadn’t expected them to last--and they hadn’t. what had you done? had you left some sort of imprint in the world at all? you were never one for kids, everyone you knew was well aware of that, but how were you supposed to live on even when you were dead? in reality, abandonment and loneliness was your worst fear along with--

oh god, you thought in a shriveled voice. you’re gonna be forgotten. 

one part that hurt the most was the news. you’d gotten better at keeping up to date with pop culture and politics, and the pablo escobar situation had you worried for one reason and one reason only--javier peña. you’d seen him on the news, the DEA agent who had made it his responsibility and top priority to catch the famous drug lord. it was nice to see that he had gotten somewhere while the only time you’d ever really traveled was to paris for a christmas and then LA to see an old friend who you didn’t even talk to anymore. 

this was your life now. mindlessly wandering around your house after work, eating microwaved leftovers and carry-out from the diner.

god, that diner. it had been one of your favorite locations in the shitty town you called home--had been. the first time you went, you were suspicious due to the fact that the actual building was a different restaurant owned by a criminal before it was a diner, but javier had practically begged you to have a late dinner with him after an afternoon spent skipping your last few periods and driving around the outskirts of town in his truck. the wind had been blowing through your hair and you hung your head out of his window, letting your arms wave around, and you could’ve sworn you had felt him looking at you. 

that was the moment you were in love with javier peña.

you knew that you had been lying to yourself up until that moment because since the first day you met javier when driving past their ranch and stopping to look at the horses, you’d been in love. you couldn’t even think about how many days were spent writing poetry about him that now seemed stupid and childish. you’d told yourself it was an outlet for your feelings, but you had really written it because you were too much of a bitch to come out and tell javi. maybe that hadn’t been your fault--you’d witnessed, first hand, javier rejecting a girl in sixth grade. you watched her nod and tell him “oh, that’s okay” but then run away into the bathrooms. javier had continued on to tell you about a new foal on their farm.

you remembered the horses. you missed them too. if it hadn’t been them roaming about in the pastures, or the great stallion that caught your attention while on that family car ride, you would’ve never met javier. you weren’t sure if he judged you for it or not, but every time chucho needed help around the farm, and javier was too much of a brat and a teenager to do it, you had gladly offered. so, chucho peña had put you in charge of the foals. there was one in particular, a small one with a white coat, that had piqued your interest. there was a day, one in the middle of the summer if you could remember correctly, where you and javi had just run out to the fields while the rest of the horses stayed in their stables. javi had been excited since his father had gifted him with a new camera, and he had spent all day taking pictures of--and to this day, you still didn’t notice it--only you. 

while brushing your teeth, carefully placing a small dot of paste on your toothbrush, you began to scrub in small circles. how long had it been since you and javi had last talked? even then, it had barely been a conversation. a simple exchanged of very few words, a goodbye that went misheard, and that was it. when you had called his home phone the next morning, instead of javi replying like he always did, it had been chucho’s voice instead, muffling an annoyed “hello?” but when he heard the exhaustion and lightness of your voice, he carefully explained that javi had already left.

you hadn’t felt heartbroken--not at first. in fact, there was barely any sadness in that tired head and upset stomach. you were infuriated. how could he? how dare he? he had been such a coward that he couldn’t even say goodbye and it angered you more than you thought it ever would--not that you had ever thought about javier leaving before because he said he wouldn’t even consider it. and now, he had left you alone your fucked up hometown that you’d always told him you hated so much. then, about three days alone without javier (which was something you weren’t used to) you’d realized that there was a large possibility this could’ve been your fault.

had you been a bad friend recent to his leaving? yes, you had been acting distant, but it was due to normal events, such as school and...the fact that you were hopelessly in love with him. it had been harder to talk with senior year ending and college coming up, but you hadn’t never thought he could just turn himself away like that. never.

and not once had javi tried to contact you. he, of course, knew your number by heart, but after all these years, he’d probably had hundreds of girls phone numbers--in fact, you were sure that if hadn’t been a DEA agent hooked with the most dangerous man on the earth, you would’ve expected him to be married already. you had gone to the wedding. you’d seen how the church was decorated, how each and every guest wore plastered smiles--just the idea of seeing javi made you giddy and you’d worn your best dress you could find. even after returning from university, javier didn’t visit or call. you also remembered hearing lorraine sobbing when her groom didn’t show.

javier was not the type of person to stand someone up. you didn’t know what he was like now, but as teenagers, if he ever had a date (which wasn’t often because even if you didn’t know it, he was hopelessly in love with you) he would arrive five minutes early. 

the one time javi did have a date, you stayed home and watched one of his favorite movies while crying. you hated to admit that the next day, when he admitted to you he didn’t like the girl that much, you were excited.

suddenly, you remembered how this was completely your fault. you had always blamed javier for never calling or writing, but then you realized that you had never made the attempt either.

“fuckin’ hell,” you whispered and washed off your toothbrush. as a nurse, you didn’t normally cake yourself with makeup, but you did wear the average concealer, mascara, and lipstick or gloss. you took one look at your reflection and noticed that your mascara was currently running. when did i cry? you asked yourself and exited the bathroom, not bothering to remove your makeup.

your room was next door and when you walked inside, your dog was patiently waiting next to your nightstand and- god, did i leave the fucking light on again? you felt like slapping yourself until your head was straight because it wasn’t right to think about someone you haven’t seen in twenty years.

you slipped off your pants, leaving you in expensive panties you’d gotten for no reason at all. you threw off your scrubs, discarding them onto the floor with a light air sound and replacing your shirt with a tank-top. your bed had been so perfectly made that it almost annoyed you. you threw yourself onto your bed and began to rub your eyes. it wouldn’t matter if you messed up the mascara because there was nothing to mess up. 

hoping the sleep would rid you of the horrible thoughts, you flipped the lamp next to your bed off and pressed a pillow to your cheek. the small dog at your feet curled up rested his eyes. you did the same.

it would’ve been physically best for your health if you had gone at least six hours of sleeping without any interruption, but one moment in the night, the phone on your nightstand began to blare its ringtone. your eyes shot open and began to burn slightly from a sudden awakening. the sound had scared your dog, who jumped to the ground in protection of whatever the source was until he realized it was the telephone. you groaned with heavy eyelids and looked to the clock. two-twenty five am. as soon as you went to answer the call, it went to dial tone. 

more frustrated than before because you really just wanted to sleep, you groaned and flung yourself back into bed. of course, now you were awake.

but then, the phone began to ring again. it had seemed louder this time and your dog barked in the most un-intimidating way possible before you threw a pillow at the spot next to him to get him quiet. you held the phone close to your ear and spoke a tired, “hello?” the line was silent and at first, you were terrified because you could’ve sworn you heard someone breathing. another one of these. “hello?”

part of this was exciting to you. while it was extremely frustrating to be awoken a few hours before you normally rose to get ready for work, your mind was racing during the silent pause between you and this stranger. who could it be? perhaps it was chucho telling you that javier could be coming home, but you cursed yourself for thinking of that man and dismissed the idea. maybe it was your mom calling to tell you how your father had gotten better and, for now at least, the cancer was gone. 

“(y/n)?”

―

while the reason behind it remained unclear, you had always loved airports. the cleaning-product smell, the diverse people, the small restaurants, even the feeling of the carpet--or the feeling of that when in an airport, you were going somewhere.

it had always been about going somewhere. javier knew this since fifth grade, that you had always wanted to just leave kingsville, texas. maybe you would move to new york, or philadelphia, or even go to london and paris. they had been silly daydreams due to reading too many of your mother’s travel books, but paris had always looked so nice. maybe even visit mexico--you’d already been well immersed in the culture.

but that wasn’t why you were here. you were here for something that was long overdue.

after the phone call that night, you javier had made sure to call each other every other day at ten o’clock pm. there had been some days where you had to stay late at the hospital or javi was chasing sicarios and didn’t get home until midnight--those nights, you would either fall asleep or just call the next day, but you both had made a good schedule. it definitely hadn’t been the same as when you were teenagers, and you didn’t expect it to be. his voice was much deeper and raspier (you knew it was because of the cigarettes, you could practically smell them through the phone) and his voice wasn’t as...lively anymore. you felt that you couldn’t say much, though, because the years had been rough to you as well.

he had told you everything. your thoughts on how he was living was wrong--he told you of the countless informants and prostitutes, how the colombian sun was definitely hotter than the texan sun and even to him it had made a difference. when you both had too much to drink and were passing back funny stories, his was that he had grown a mustache. you had laughed at that one because if you could imagine the clean-shaved, teenage boy that javier once was with a mustache, it was a hilarious thought.

all-in-all, it had still been painful to talk to someone you knew so well like they were a stranger. at first, you had asked yourself if he’d changed but you caught yourself in the stupid thought. of course, he had changed. it had been twenty fucking years and even you had noticed the faint lines starting to appear around your face. 

it had taken almost half a year of phone calls, missed and attended, happy and sad to be where you were now.

the airport bustling had also been one of your favorite things too. the countless and various voices all coming together to make a white noise that was so distinct. 

you were standing near the entrance, watching as families reunited, lovers embraced, and yet you stood alone. it had been over ten minutes since when javier was supposed to show. if you were being honest with yourself, what did you expect? he would just appear out of thin air in the middle of a crowd? you hoped the flight from bogotá had been peaceful and well. there hadn’t been any storms passing by, baggage loading problems, or anything that could possibly delay the plane, so there was no reason for javier not to be there.

unless...you began to think and it had been too late to stop yourself from completing the thought. maybe he just didn’t want to. 

like when he rejected that girl in sixth grade. like when he left you alone in kingsville. like when abandoned his bride at their own fucking wedding.

suddenly, you felt angry. your blood was boiling, your hands felt hot, the hair on your neck became irritating, and the winter heat of texas began to scorch, even in air conditioning. you ran a hand down your face, feeling two beads of sweat trickle down a path to your chin. your foot, which had been tapping for the past now fifteen minutes turned on its heel as you made your way to the glass doors.

your car was just outside. you wouldn’t even have to walk that far, and then you could drive home, cry yourself to sleep, and call javier about this some other time.

“(y/n)!”

tags: @pascalisthepunkest @javierpenaspinkshirt @gummiishark @cyarikaaa @larakasser @pedropasscals @honeyedspace @talesfromtheguild @absurdthirst

[the-end-of-art]

Sewn into his jacket an incoherent note

How to Make Love, Write Poetry, & Believe in God by Nin Andrews

A few weeks ago, I was part of a Hamilton-Kirkland College alumnae poetry reading, and after the reading a woman asked a simple question: “How do you write a poem?” I didn’t have an answer so I suggested a few books by poets like John Hollander, Mary Oliver, and Billy Collins. The woman said she had read books like that, but they didn’t help. She wanted something else, like a genuine operating manual—a step by step explanation.

I, too, love instruction manuals, especially those manuals on how to perform magic: write a poem or know God or make love, if only love were something that could be made. Manuals offer such promise. Yes, you, too, can enter the bee-loud glade and the Promised Land and have an orgasm.

I love the idea that my mind could be programmed like a computer to spit out poems on demand—poems with just the right number of lines, syllables, metaphors, meanings, similes, images . . . And with no clichés, no matter how much I love those Tom, Dick and Harry’s with their lovely wives, as fresh as daisies. I can set them in any novel or town in America, and they will have sex twice a week, always before ten at night, never at the eleventh hour, and it will not take long,time being of the essence.

I love sex manuals, too: those books that suggest our bodies are like cars. If only we could learn to drive them properly, bliss would be a simple matter of inserting a key, mastering the steering wheel, signaling our next moves, knowing the difference between the brakes and the gas pedal, and of course, following the speed limit.

A depressive person by nature, I am also a fan of how-to books on God, faith, happiness, the soul, books that suggest a divine presence is always here. I just need to find it, or wake up to it, or turn off my doubting brain. That even now, my soul is like a bird in a cage. If I could sit still long enough and listen closely, it might rest on my open palm and sing me a song.

God, poetry, sex, they offer brief moments of bliss, glimpses of the ineffable, and occasional insights into that which does not translate easily into daily experience, or loses its magic when explained.

In college, I took classes in religion, philosophy and poetry, and I studied sex in my spare time—my first roommate and I staying up late, pondering the pages of The Joy of Sex. As a freshman, I auditioned my way into an advanced poetry writing class by composing the single decent poem I wrote in my college years. The poem, an ode to cottage cheese, came to me in a flash as a vision nestled on a crisp bed of iceberg lettuce. Does cottage cheese nestle? I don’t know, but the professor kept admiring that poem. He said all my other poems paled by comparison.

This was in the era of the sexual revolution,long before political correctness and the Me-Too movement. My roommate, obsessed with getting laid, said we women should have been given a compass to navigate the sexual landscape. She liked to complain that she’d had only one orgasm in her entire life, and she wanted another. “What if I am a one-orgasm wonder?” she worried. The subject of orgasms kept us awake, night after night.

In religion class, my professor told the famous story about Blaise Pascal who had a vision of God that was so profound, his life seemed dull and meaningless forever afterwards. He never had another vision. But he had sewn into his jacket an incoherent note to remind him of the singular luminous experience.

The next day in religion class, a student stood up and announced that the professor was wrong—about Pascal, God, everything. The student knew this because he was God’s friend. He even knew His first name, and what God was thinking. The professor smiled sadly, put his arm around the student, and led him out of the classroom, down the steps and into the counselor’s office. When the professor returned, he warned us that if we ever thought we knew God, we should check ourselves into a mental institution. Lots of insane people know God intimately.

But, I wondered, what would God (or the transcendent—or whatever word you might choose for it: the muse, love, the orgasm, the soul, the higher self) think of us? For example, what would a muse think of a writer trying, begging, praying to enter the creative flow? All writers know it—that moment when inspiration happens. The incredible high. And the opposite, when words cling to the wall of the mind like sticky notes but never make it onto your tongue or the page.

What would an orgasm think of all the people seeking it so fervently yet considering it dirty, embarrassing, unmentionable? And then lying about it. “Did you have one?” a man might ask. “Yes,” his lover nods. But every orgasm knows it cannot be had. Or possessed. Or sewn into the lining of a coat. No one “has” an orgasm. At least not for long.

What did God think of Martin Luther, calling out to him in terror when a lightning bolt struck near his horse, “Help! I’ll become a monk!” And later, when he sought relief from his chronic constipation and gave birth to the Protestant Reformation on the lavatory—a lavatory you can visit today in Wittenberg, Germany.

I don’t want to evaluate Luther’s source of inspiration. But I do want to ponder the question: How do you write a poem? Is there a way to begin?

I think John Ashbery gave away one secret in his poem, “The Instruction Manual:” that it begins with daydreaming. Imagination. And the revelation that the mind contains its own magical city, its own Guadalajara, complete with a public square and bands and parading couples that you can visit this enchanted town for a limited time before you must turn your gaze back to the humdrum world.  

But a student of Ashbery’s might cringe at the suggestion that poetry is merely an act of the imagination. In order to master the dance, one must know the steps. And Ashbery was a master. So many of his poems follow a kind of Hegelian progression, traveling from the concrete to the abstract to the absolute. Or what Fichte described as a dialectical movement from thesis to antithesis to synthesis. Fichte also wrote that consciousness itself has no basis in reality. I wonder if Ashbery would have agreed.

In college I wrote an inane paper, comparing Ashbery’s poetry to a form of philosophical gardening in which the poet arranges the concrete, meaning the plants or words, in such an appealing order that they create the abstract, or the beauty, desired. Thus, the reader experiences the absolute, or a sense of wonder at the creation as the whole thing sways in the wind of her mind.

Is there a basis in reality for wonder? Or poetry? I asked. Or are we only admiring illusions, the beautiful illusions the poet has created?  How I loved questions like that. I wanted to follow in the footsteps of Fichte and Hegel and Ashbery and write mystical and incomprehensible books. I complained to my mother that no matter how hard I tried, I could not compose an actual poem or philosophical treatise—I was trying to write treatises, too. “That’s good,” she said. “Poets and philosophers are too much in their heads, and not enough in the world.”

I didn’t argue with her and tell her that not all poets are like Emily Dickinson. Or say that Socrates was put to death for being too much in the world, for angering the public with his Socratic method of challenging social mores, and earning himself the title, “the gadfly of Athens.”  

Instead, I thought, That’s it! If I want to be a poet, I just need to separate my head from the world. Or at least turn off the noise of the world. And seek solitude, as Wordsworth suggested, in order to recollect in tranquility. I imagined myself going on a retreat or living in a cave, studying the shadows on the wall. Letting them speak to me or seduce me or dance with me.

The shadows, I discovered, are not nice guests. Sometimes they kept me awake all night, talking loudly, making rude comments, using all the words I never said aloud. “Hush,” I told them. “No one wants to hear that.” Sometimes they took on the voices of the dead and complained I hadn’t told their stories yet or right. Sometimes they sulked and bossed me about like a maid, asking for a cup of tea, a biscuit, a little brandy, a nap. One nap was never enough. When I obeyed and closed my eyes, they recited the poems I wanted to write down. “You can’t open your eyes until we’re done,” they said, as if poetry were a game of memory, or hide and seek in the mind. Other times they wandered away and down the dirt road of my past, or lay down in the orchard and counted the peaches overhead. Whatever they did or said, I watched and listened.

That’s how I began writing my first real poems. I knew not to disobey the shadows. I knew not toturn my back on them and look towards the light as Plato suggested—Plato who wanted to banish the poets and poetry from his Republic.I knew to not answer the door if the man from Porlock came knocking.

To this day I am grateful for the darkness. For the shadows it creates in my mind. It is thanks to them I have written another book, The Last Orgasm, a book whose title might make people cringe. But isn’t that what shadows do? And much of poetry, too? Dwell on topics we are afraid to look at in the light?

(https://blog.bestamericanpoetry.com/the_best_american_poetry/2020/09/how-to-make-love-write-poetry-believe-in-god-by-nin-andrews.html)

Five prose poems by Nin Andrews (formatting better at http://newflashfiction.com/5-prose-poems-by-nin-andrews/)

Duplicity

after Henri Michaux “Simplicity”

When I was just a young thing, my life was as simple as a sunrise. And as predictable. Day after day I went about doing exactly as I pleased. If I saw a lovely man or women, or beauty in any of its shapes and forms and flavors, well, I simply had to have it. So I did. Just like that. Boom! I didn’t even need a room.

Slowly, I matured. I learned a bit of etiquette.  Manners, I discovered can have promising side effects. I even began carrying a bottle of champagne wherever I went, and a bed. Not that the beds lasted long. I wasn’t the kind to go easy on the alcohol or the furnishings, nor was I interested in sleep. It never ceased to amaze me how quickly men drift off. Women, many of them, kept me going night after night. You know how inspiring  women are.

But then, alas, I grew tired of them as well. I began to envy those folks who curl up into balls each night, their bodies as heavy as tombstones. I tried curling up with them, slowing my breath, entering into their dreams. What dreams! To think I had been missing out all along! That’s when I became a Zen master, at one with the night. Now I teach classes on peace, love, abstinence. At last I have found bliss, I tell my followers. The young, they don’t believe it. But really, I ask you. Would I lie?

The Broken Promise

after Heberto Padilla, “The Promise”

There was a time when I promised to write you a thousand love poems. When I said every day is a poem, and every poem is in love with you. But then the poems rebelled. They became a junta of angry women, impossible to calm or translate, each more vivid, sultry, seductive than the next. Some stayed inside and sulked for weeks, demanding chocolates, separate rooms, maid service. Others wanted to be carted around like queens. Still others took lovers and kept the neighbors up, moaning at all hours of the day and night. One skinny girl (remember her? the one with flame-colored hair?) moved away. She went back to that shack down the road where we first met. At night she lay down in the orchard behind the house and let the dark crawl over her arms and legs. In the end even her dreams turned to ash and blew away in a sudden gust of wind.

Little Big Man

after Russell Edson “Sleep”

There was once an orgasm that could not stop shrinking. Little big man, his friend called him, watching as he grew smaller and smaller with each passing night, first before making love, then before even the mention of making love, then before even the mention of the mention of making love. Oh, what a pathetic little thing he was.

One night he tried reading, Think and Grow Big, but it only caused him to shrink further inside himself. Oh, to grow large and tall as I once was, he sighed. What he needed, he knew, was a trainer with a whip and chains. Someone to teach him to jump through hoops and swing from a trapeze and swallow fire until he blazed ever higher into the night. Yes, he shuddered. Yes! as he imagined it. A tiny wisp of smoke escaped his lips.

Questions to Determine if You Are Washed Up

after Charles Baudelaire, “Get Drunk!”

Do you feel washed up lost, all alone? Do you fear that time is passing you by like a train for which you have no ticket, no seat? That you have lived too long in the solitude of your room and empty mind,  that now you are but a slave of sorrow? Or is it regret? Do you no longer taste the wine of life on your lips, tongue, throat? Is there not even even a chance of intoxication? Bliss? No poetry or song above or below the hips? No love in the wind, the waves, in every  or any fleeting and floating thing? No castles in your air? No pearls in your oysters? Are you wearing a pair of drawstring pants?

Remembering Her

after Herberto Padilla

This is the house where she first met you. This is the room where she first said your name as if it were a song.  This is the table where she undressed you, stripping away your petals, leaves, your filmy white roots and sorrows. And there on the floor is the stone you picked up each morning, the stone you clung to night after night. Sometimes she kicked it aside. Sometimes she placed in on the sill and blew it out the window as her presence filled you like a glow, and you thought for an instant, I, too, can fly.

[daysiias]

{ zendaya ♔ 24 ♔ she/her } well, well, well if it isn’t daysia collins running around peach hollow. legend has it, they come from tangerine towers and have lived here for six years. if you’re wondering what they’ve been up to, i hear they’re a crisis counselor for a living. they have been known to be quixotic yet nurturing. a word of advice to them, always look over your shoulder. you never know who is watching. { kim ♔ 25 ♔ est ♔ she/her }

yall know me. i’m kim, i play serenity, and i’m one of the admins!!  this is my damaged but optimistic baby, daysia. ITS PRONOUNCED LIKE DEJA VU :’) i just created her in november but she so quickly became my favorite muse to write. so buckle up! and pls plot w me. i am fragile and if i don’t get any plots i will hide in a dumpster, where i belong.

TW FOR DEATH, DRUG USE, ALCOHOLISM, CAR ACCIDENT

here is her pinterest and a spotify playlist if you wanna check those out ~

daysia jade, day, dj, deej – anything goes. she’s 23 and will turn her head to just about anything. she’s a spring baby born march, 1996.

her childhood was pretty good. she and her brother grew up a year apart, and her parents divorced early. early enough that daysia can barely remember a time where the family was hole, and likes it that way.

however, her father did not take the divorce well and turned to drugs – meth to be specific. he only saw the kids on weekends and even then, daysia and marcus absolutely knew what was happening. perhaps they didn’t know his choice of poison, but they knew that it was just that: poison.

he was never abusive and always took care of the kids, even if he was tweaking out of his mind. there were a few instances that were touch and go, like when he forgot to take dinner out of the oven and it caught fire, or when he forgot to change the sheets – little things that added up.

when daysia was 16 and marcus was 15, they were involved in a car accident. her dad was high behind the wheel, lost control of the car, and they hit the guard rail. they went over an embankment and down a short hill before the vehicle came to a complete stop, flipped over. she watched the life drain from her brother’s face, and never got into a car again, up until recently when she started letting @malcolmvramsey​​ drive her places she needed to go. she always tries to give him gas money, but he rarely takes it.

a good deal of resentment built up for her father, but she remained stoic, even when he went to prison for drug charges and the dui he’d racked up that ultimately killed her brother. she didn’t let anyone know that she was hurting, because she numbed it all. she threw herself into her school work and her artwork, painting constantly. melting colors together somehow helped her cope. she could get her emotions out on paper. in fact, that still rings true today. in her bedroom of the apartment she lives in, she has covered one of the walls in canvas and paints over and over.

in an effort to start life over, daysia left detroit when she graduated high school. she transferred to peach hollow where she went to winchester university, not wanting a lot of attention. this is where she really came to life.

daysia was able to push michigan to the back of her mind entirely, because peach hollow had so much to offer. the people were better. the music was better. the parties were better. the education was better. there wasn’t a single thing she missed from home aside from her mother, who she kept in regular contact with and still does. they’re always texting and facetime before bed every night.

she came alive. college changed her. she was studying a subject that interested her and meeting people who didn’t have to know about her past. she did, and does everything to keep michigan her dirty little secret. she liked the party scene, but only drank or smoked weed. she refuses to touch anything that might turn her into her father. she was even hired on as a crisis counselor for a local hotline, contractual to her graduation.

in the past month, daysia has plummeted, however. nobody would ever be able to tell. she is the queen of poker face, an absolute delight to be around. she can be a little aloof, and is constantly stoned, but it’s how she gets through the day. she is an absolute goof, loves to crack jokes and make people laugh. she loves to laugh herself. these are all traits that show and cover the inner turmoil constantly trying to bubble to the surface.

about three weeks ago, daysia received word that her father passed away in jail. he overdosed, and she wasn’t sure how to feel. so she didn’t. she did, however, stop doing school work and started drinking more. she’s mere days from flunking out of school and losing her job. but nobody knows, because she acts like she doesn’t know either.

all in all, she’s doing a lot of self sabotage but covering it up with every ounce of grace she has.

as for her personality and relationships, daysia excels. she is nurturing, so when a friend, or even a stranger is hurting, she tends to go to their side and comfort them. as long as she can make them laugh, then everything will be okay. she makes friends pretty easily, and keeps them for the most part. she is fiercely loyal and will absolutely scrap to defend her loved ones.

she loves love. there is no gender she isn’t curious about and absolutely loves romance, though she also tries to hide that. her walls are ten feet tall. she’s in to hook ups, flings, and polyamory. she’s very open in that sense!!

FUN FACTS

she has an english bull dog named frank!! he is her pride and joy. she dresses him up in outfits, has regular photo shoots with him and loves going to the dog park. he isn’t legally an emotional support animal, but that’s definitely what he is to her. if he doesn’t like you, she won’t either tbh

she has this lil purple pen looking thing that is always on her. it’s her weed vape and she will hit it anywhere. her dumb head is always in the mfing clouds

she has a spotify family plan that is currently only her, mac, and dom and she will absolutely invite anyone she meets bc spotify premium is something everyone should enjoy

wears a lot of graphic tees and jeans, kinda a tom boy. doesn’t love dressing up but will occasionally. also doesn’t rly like make up but DOES know how to beat her face

1000% unable to be alone for like any period of time?? like if she gets off work and no one is in her apartment she just leaves. she goes next door to mac, goes to the peach pit, anywhere she can socialize. being left to her own thoughts will always turn out poorly.

really loves poetry. cannot write it to save her life, but loves going to slam readings or checking out poetry books from the library. her adhd brain can’t handle novels – poetry is just the right length to keep her attention and dig into her soul.

oh yeah, she’s got some pretty intense untreated adhd lol

OK SO WANTED CONNECTIONS IF UR STILL HERE LMAO

ex-roommate: something happened between daysia and this person, whether it was a relationship gone wrong, a friendship with tension, or just the other person being a damn slob – and daysia removed them from the house and moved someone new in. they are probably on shitty terms.

roomate(s): ^^ the forementioned current roommate or two!! i would like her to be veeeery close to whoever lives here. they have to be ok with her dog, her weed, and how mf needy she is.

current flings: a few people are probably on her list of suitors right now. people she spends time with romantically, but hasn’t committed to. she absolutely cannot be alone, at any point… ever! so, she has someone with her at all times. m/f/nb, all good.

party friends:  this one is pretty self explanatory!! these are friends that daysia may or may not talk to outside of a party, but will always cling to at one.

close friends: she lets very few people all the way in, but those that make it are generally taken care of by day. she makes sure that they are as comfortable with life as possible and spends a lot of time with them

exes: as daysia is a ticking time bomb, there have been many people she’s blown off. whether they once hooked up, were together, or what have you, daysia has a lot of exes. she never means to hurt anyone. it just sort of happens and she has accepted it.

[nortnaibz]

"Bother My Askbox?" now,, what if I sent you 1-50 🤔 as a treat!! Haha just kidding.. unless. RETALIATION BITCH BOY

JFLKHSAFHDLFJDSKJF that is going to take me a hot minute 2 answer my dear but i will do the ones i haven’t already answered. just for u, gayass.

1. what color are your socks?

don’t have any ^-^ thems my feet

answered 2 <3

3. what is something you regret in the past month?

well there is a lot but not buying halloween candy sooner especially

4. do you believe in love at first sight?

nnnnnnope

5. when was the last time you wrote someone a letter on paper?

i always had to write thank you notes for xmas and birthday gifts as a kid so probably one of those? for an actual written letter it’s been at least a decade

6. how old were you when you first learned how to ride a bike? who taught you?

i......sighs i never learned how to ride a bike bc i went over the handlebars of one when i was like 4 and then never got back on one -_-

7. do you get along with your parents? why or why not?

complicated bc i’m the queer kid next question

8. what’s your favorite season?

fall!!!!!! even though we don’t really have it here

9. do you currently like someone?

well you know the answer to this sir......i’m perhaps a little gay for my girlfriend

10. have you ever used a ouija board?

yes i have on multiple occasions and nothing happened

11. what’s the last song you sang?

prisoner by dance gavin dance listening 2 it on repeat while i rank xd

12. what’s your favorite scent?

rain on pavement!!!!!!!!!!!

13. what’s your favorite urban legend?

uhhhhhhhhh? i don’t think i know any

14. what’s a bad habit you have?

i have many but i’m super clumsy and not very aware of like where i am in relation to other things so i run into shit a lot

15. what’s a strange habit you have?

i wrap my earbud cord around my neck so it isn’t dangling and in my way when i walk places 

16. what’s the first instrument you learned to play?

if you wanna be technical i learned to play flute for a very brief period in 4th grade but i hated it. so guitar!

17. how would you describe your type?

uhhhhhhh good question people who are nice to me <3 and most men

18. would you rather stay in or go out?

for the most part stay in but i usually hit a point after awhile of being home too long where i Need to leave the house lol

19. what was the last thing you said to your mom?

bye after i called her yesterday lol

20. do you want to get married someday?

not traditionally but yes

answered 21 and 22!

23. what’s an embarrassing thing that happened this week?

i had to answer a phone call at work abt the pet section which i know nothing about and the lady was clearly kinda annoyed and when i told her we didn’t sell kennels in the store (and that yes, i had checked) she said thank you and i. didn’t say anything else. i like forgot to speak and she just hung up and i felt so stupid for it ksdfjksdfhjk

24. when was the last time you went sledding?

it’s been at least a decade iirc 

25. have you ever/do you like someone you know you can never be with?

yes........ *picture of norton campbell*

26. do people often mispronounce your name?

nope

27. would you like to live in another country?

absolutely! when this country inevitably falls apart in the wake of the 2020 election i will be contacting my stoner friends in canada and moving up there at my earliest convenience <3

28. do you like to watch ghost hunting shows?

i never have but i would probably find them entertaining

29. who was the last person you said i love you to? 

kei my friend kei my best friend kei <3 before that either my mom or my girlfriend lol

30. what’s something you’d like to be better at?

playing guitar!!!!! i wanna get back into it so bad i just don’t know where my picks are rn

31. have you ever stayed up to talk to someone who was sad? 

oh sure i have it’s been awhile though

32. what was the last thing you cooked?

scrambled eggs the other day ^-^

33. do you think you would make a good parent?

absolutely not and i will never have kids unless i decide to adopt after getting help 4 my issues and assuring that i could actually be responsible for another human life 

34. do you have trouble sleeping at night?

nah i have issues w waking up in the middle of the night sometimes but other than that i’m good

35. where is your best friend right now?

i don’t have one best friend one is at work one is in his home i presume and the other is at college <3

36. how long does it take you to get ready in the morning?

depends but usually like 20 mins? i don’t do makeup or anything so i can be ready in ten if i need to be

37. how late do you usually stay up at night?

until 10 or 11 lately!

38. when was the last time you cried and why?

uh good question i have shit memory but a few days ago over life stress probably lol

39. have you ever won a contest?

yes i won a costume contest in my elementary school when i was v little and i sort of won a contest to get my poetry published in my uh. sophomore year....summer between sophomore and junior year

40. can you draw well?

i can draw. the well is subjective ^_^

41. would you ever date someone you met on tumblr/the internet?

me n my girlfriend are long distance but i did not meet her on tumblr i think if i ever date someone on tumblr you all should require an essay from me on why it is an okay thing to do. i love my mutuals but some of the people on here...well you know

42. what was the last thing you ate?

snickers!

43. do you think you’re/you’d make a good boyfriend/girlfriend?

ehhhhh i mean i’m certainly better than i used to be but tldr no. but i have issues so take that as you will

44. have you ever had a near death experience?

as in i physically came close to death and survived, no. but i was in a car crash a few yrs back that if anything had happened differently it could’ve killed us

45. what do you think people think of you?

idk i have a hard time reading intention and like. opinions of me? i think everyone puts up with my shit and wishes they didn’t have to lol

46. what is your middle name and do you like it?

my middle name is rowan and i love it cause i picked it myself i have no other middle names and i never have <3

47. are you close with either of your parents?

nnnnnnot really!

48. do you like yourself?

well i am the sexiest motherfucker alive but also i hate myself. i’m incredible and deserve better but also am horrible and deserve nothing. i’m the best and the worst at the same time <3

49. state five facts about your appearance

uhhhh my hair’s red, i’m short as fuck, i have blue eyes, i always wear hairties around my wrists, and i uhhhhh like wearing long sleeves. does that count??

50. state 5 facts about your personality

hm well i have no idea who i am as a person but? i’m creative, i like video games, i’m a pessimist, i spend a lot of time thinking/daydreaming, and i’m gay! the end <3 <3 <3

[fly-underground]

six hundred and seventy five: 2019

The annual year in review entry. I’ve written this post nine times, one for every year of this decade. I reread the very first one, from 2010, aloud to my mother the other night. My writer’s voice is so chipper in it, so young. I had just started college. In so many ways, I had barely lived. I was about to list off all the things I hadn’t yet done, as an explanation. But the truth is, even now, having done at least a few of those things, I still have barely lived. I want to remember that, to bottle up that feeling of wistfulness for a younger self, that protective inclination to wait for things to get better and worse, because I know I still need it. There is still so much I haven’t done, so much I want to do. Ways to spend the next few decades, if I’m lucky enough to have them.

Last year at this time, I think I was home alone with Cory. I can’t remember it perfectly. The past few years have blurred together in that regard. Was this the year that Mariah Carey sang badly during Dick Clark’s Rockin’ Eve? I’ll look it up after I write this. The point is, I welcomed in the new year alone, but not really, and then received a flurry of text messages from my mother and brother and so many friends. January passed in New York for the most part. I went to my favorite bar every week, first with Liz and then with Vivian. I got bad news one night about a fellowship and the next night, I found out that my fellowship paper was selected for an academic conference. I felt like Even Steven, losing one thing, gaining another. By the time I made it back to Boston, for the spring semester, it was the end of the month. That last week became so important, especially in retrospect. I met a man from the past in one of my classes, someone I knew vaguely from my time at Swarthmore. February was about him. And so was March and April and May.

I used to keep details off my blog, because I was afraid of people reading and piecing together the truth. I wanted to be polite and coy. Now, I guess I don’t really know who is still reading this. And maybe I also don’t care. If you know me, really know me, you know what happened. If you don’t, well: in February, this blast from the past man sent me an email about coffee. I said yes and we spent hours together, walking around Cambridge, the pink sky of the new moon above our heads. Then he asked me to go to the Arnold Arboretum. We never went. Instead, we talked for hours in another coffee shop. Uncharacteristically, I asked to see his place and after I met his roommates, in-between bites of fig newtons, he leaned over and whispered: Can I kiss you? His tongue slipped into my mouth in the darkness of his living room. He kissed me again on his doorstep and my head spun on the lyft ride home. I threw up hours two hours later, from the hunger induced migraine. I didn’t eat at all that day, except for the cookies in his house and the lettuce wrapped in turkey at midnight in my bed. Of course I threw up. The next week, we went out again. Later, in my bed, wrapped up in his wiry, tattooed arms, I was just happy. That was when he told me, that he’s an alcoholic and an addict. It should have changed something for me, it should have set off an alarm. It didn’t.

Four days later, he relapsed. He had cancelled and then un-cancelled our date. I met him at a Starbucks and on the T back to his place, our legs touched. I felt bad, terrible in a way that I couldn’t name. We watched some Netflix original reality show and then, in his bed, we had sex. We kissed. He told me about his history of self harm and severe mental illness. I talked about my own trauma. It was not a good date. I couldn’t sleep after. In the morning, after he made me eggs and I realized he would not be going to his next AA meeting, I asked, trying not to cry, Will I see you again? He said of course, and then he backed me into a wall and kissed me with a boyish glee. I felt relieved and stupid. Three days later, he told me he couldn’t make it to my place for dinner. He said that he felt like he had encountered me in the wrong moment of his life, that he couldn’t stop drinking, that he was checking himself into a facility, that I meant something to him. I cried that whole weekend. I barely ate. No one could help me.

It was like this for months. Every interaction between us charmed and hurt me. When he was doing well, I was joyous. Otherwise, I was miserable. I skipped meals. I had nightmares. I cried alone in my room, on walks around campus. I lost weight and inches. I felt like I was dying. Somehow, in that strange internal darkness, I realized I was not okay. I wanted to be okay, more than anything. I felt bad all the time and I was tired of feeling bad. In April, I started seeing a therapist. In May, I started seeing a nutritionist.  I went to a support group meeting and read literature about codependency. I felt like it was my fault, my emotions, my own shit. I called my mother and Vivian and Michael. I was defensive about this guy. Addiction is a disease, an addict is not a Bad Person, but he can be a deeply troubled person. 

And then, after all of that, one day in May, he told me that he had gotten involved with someone. It was the way he said it. Two weeks before, in his bed, he had asked if he could undress me. I told him then, sitting outside the Harvard Square T stop, that he was a coward. He flinched, like I hit him. I said, I thought I loved you, but you aren’t who I thought you were. I guess, I didn’t really love you then. I also said, I’m sorry if that hurt you, I don’t mean to hurt you. And he told me, his eyes glassy, that I meant something to him. Of course, I knew that. Of course, it didn’t matter.

I skipped some stuff, or I made it seem small. In May, when I went to that support group meeting, I actually spoke in the group. I said, Every day I feel this intense pressure to try my best. I want to be kind and generous and patient and brave and good. But it’s so much work, being that way. Sometimes, I can’t do it. Sometimes, I just don’t have it in me. On those days, I want to give myself permission, to simply try. On those days, “best” is not the goal. The goal is to keep at it, whatever it is. So, I went to classes and socialized and asked for help. I told my therapist in April, that coming to therapy meant that I wasn’t hopeless, that I hadn’t given up on myself. In March, I presented my paper at an academic conference, as a single author. I was also on a poetry panel with Trista, Amanda, Cyrus, and Iain. How insane to be there with them, to be included in a family of poets.

In June, the man disappeared, moved away without a real goodbye. At the time, I was devastated. I can’t describe the feeling of abandonment, but I thought: love is not for me. I thought it through June and July. I went out with a series of inconsequential men. There’s a photo I saved on my phone, after one of those dates. He wasn’t a bad guy, just boring, just rude. I came home and cried until my mascara had spread across my face. I went back to New York in July, and in between visiting with friends and volunteering at camp, I had a hilarious summer fling, not a story just something for friends to gossip about. Even then, I was lonely. I didn’t run away from it, though. I recognized it. I thought, I should keep trying. Maybe I would find a good thing.

August had me dog-sitting and transliterating Sanskrit books and gearing up for the final year of my master’s degree and looking into various doctoral programs. It was also when I went on a first date with this handsome, funny, smart, and unbelievably kind man, who would eventually become my boyfriend— how weird that word looks here, how funny that it means something to me after all these years. It has felt like emotional whiplash, this year, loving two men. Looking back, it should be easy to say oh that wasn’t really love. But that’s not true. I loved two people this year, just so differently. If the first love made me nervous, the second makes me calm. I was on a bus back to Boston after Thanksgiving and the traffic was terrible and I felt an ugly irritation bubble inside me because of my seat neighbor. I thought about my boyfriend then, his easy smile, how he rubs my back when I cough. What a small thing, but I felt lighter just thinking about it. It sounds silly and cheesy, I know. But I don’t want to belittle it, not here. I don’t think I have ever really felt so good to be with someone before. It is so new to me, this joy, this stability. I don’t want to take it for granted.

I wrote in my journal a few days ago, that I’m not sure if this relationship is good because he is so good, or because I have done the work of trying to lead a healthier life. Is this just a byproduct of one or the other? Or, as Liz says, is this what happens when two Virgos come together? I don’t know, I loved a Virgo once before, and I don’t remember ever feeling this light. This is different. He is different.

In September, I went to Denmark for my ten year reunion camp reunion. I started this blog right after that iconic summer, 16 and strangely tan from all that northern sun. From October through December, I applied to doctoral programs. Yes, again. We’ll see what happens. For the first time, I don’t really know what I want in my future, but I’m trying to trust in the universe to guide me there. I know I want love. It’s hard for me to admit that. I used to scorn women who named that in their list of goals, but it’s important, as important as everything else. I want to feel close to someone. I want a life of meaning, even if it just means something to me. I want to write. I hate that I ever stopped doing that. I feel sometimes like I have wasted my potential there, in writing professionally. I hope that’s not true. I am not ready to give this up, this dream that could still turn into something.

Something that I said a lot this year: whatever happens, I’ll be okay. During a depressive episode a few weeks ago, I thought I was losing everyone in my life, that everyone secretly hated me. What I told myself then, was not that I was crazy or wrong, but that I could deal with it. It’s true. If that happened, I could deal with it. But I hate that response. I wish I fought more. I wish I didn’t turn over so easily. Not that I think I could change someone’s mind. But I wish I didn’t just accept the worst case scenario. Anyway, maybe it’s strange even to debate this. The truth is so far from the worst case scenario. In fact, right now the truth is I am so fucking lucky. Ten years ago, I was just a high school student whining on the internet. Today, I am a Harvard graduate student; I am an author; I have a publication list that makes professors raise their eyebrows; people care about what I write and think; there are people who love me, really love me; I am healthier and happier than I ever thought I deserved to be. I worked for this. I earned it. I didn’t give up on me.

I can’t predict anything about the future. I’m always so hilariously wrong. Mostly I hope I never stop trying. 2020 still sounds like a fiction, but it’s real, it’s happening, it’s here. It’s funny, I only ever feel that surprised by joy. I hope that never changes.

[et-in-cinerem-reverteris]

Class of 1953 - Chapter 3 - Hand In Glove (5.3K)

"Phil looks back up at Dan. Despite the storm getting worse, they both remain motionless, looking at each other. Dan’s eyes are fascinatingly deep and dark; moody against the backdrop of a thunderstorm and the billowing leaves of the tree behind him and Phil just wants to shut his eyes and lean in and-"

When Dan bashfully asks Phil to come shopping with him one weekend, Phil takes the opportunity to do a bit of probing on Dan's mysterious exterior. With the help of Oscar Wilde and a nosy lesbian, he finds out a lot more than he had originally set out to.

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Phil looks down at the scrap of paper in his hand.

     11a.m. 19 Nov (saturday!)  

     parks road plane tree  

     opposite big doors!!!  

 He checks his wristwatch for the umpteenth time. 10:55. The blue ink on the crumpled note is smudged and clumsily applied, which is fair, Phil thinks, considering the surface on which the writer placed his pen on that night just over a week ago.

     “Are you seriously so forgetful that you need me to write it down?”    Dan had teased, growing increasingly hysterical under a mask of playful exasperation.      “Okay, fine. Fetch us a pen and I’ll write it down for you.”  

 Dan had asked Phil to turn around so that he could use his back to write on. The pen tickled and made Phil squirm like a child, which made both of them laugh so hard that they were sure they’d disturbed at least a hundred students. Before parting ways, Dan had timidly asked Phil whether he wanted to go out shopping with him the following weekend - but only because he was already going out, of course, and Phil had agreed in an instant  but only because he was also already going out, of course, so he may as well… for convenience’s sake…

 Of course.

 Now, just over a week later, the pair of them are meeting up to hit the town to pick up various bits and bobs before the Christmas crowds get out of control.

 Phil looks around at Keble’s eye-catching red brick facade - a refreshing change from Oxford’s trademark limestone walls. He squints as the sun shines out from behind the plane trees, raising his hand as he does so to shield his sensitive eyes from the glaring light. The different coloured stones are arranged into diamonds, dots and dashes, just like morse code. How curious.

 He checks his wristwatch again. 10:57.

 Punctuality is not normally one of Phil’s virtues, but another unexpectedly early awakening had led him to spontaneously leave the college gates at 10 o’clock to go for an early morning walk. Down Turl Street, left at All Saints Church, past Magdalen College and through to The Grove - a large, grassy park that had become Phil’s location of choice for when he needed to calm his nerves. He had tried to relax by admiring the deer and feeding them acorns, but all of his thoughts anxiously meandered back to the problem of his first out-of-college meeting with Daniel.

 Ever since they had last said goodbye to each other, the young English student had been obsessively mulling over the meaning behind some of Dan’s more ambiguous lines from that night.

     “...in the past people took the mickey out of me for being a “pouf”...”  

 Phil knows exactly what the word “pouf” means. Synonyms include “queer”, “gay” and “homosexual”, which are all terms he might use to describe himself, were he to be so brave. The real question lay in whether or not those derogatory statements had any deeper meaning than just fleeting insults, and this, he had decided, was something he would have to do some investigating on.

 “Hullo!”

 Phil’s daydreaming is cut short by his enigmatic companion striding toward him, and is struck by how smart he looks. Clad in a long, black, double-breasted coat, with a silk scarf tied around his neck in a jaunty knot, and a dark grey fedora, complete with a pheasant’s feather, sitting on top of his chestnut curls, he radiates elegance, class, and sophistication.

 “Daniel! You’re looking very dapper today!”

 “Hmm, well,” Dan starts, looking around with squinted eyes. “I thought I may as well get dressed up for the occasion.” After a second passes, he looks at Phil with a smirk. “So, where are we off to then?”

 “Err, I thought      you    were the one who wanted to go shopping first?”

 Dan raises an eyebrow, before quickly adopting a more neutral face. “Oh, I was going to, but nevermind about that. I um, I’m not anymore.”

 “Right.”

 The pair begin walking in silence down Park Lane, towards Oxford’s central shopping area.

 “Anyway, where      are    we off to?”

 “First of all I’d like to stop by Blackwell’s to collect a book that they’re holding for me.”

 “Okay.”

 “Then I need to see about buying a bicycle.”

 “Oh, we can pop over to Cowley Road for that, Raleigh have a shop there at number three hundred and eighty-seven.”

 “Perfect, that’s that one sorted. After that, I thought we could try a cafe for a spot of lunch. What do you think?”

 “I think that sounds splendid,” he grins.

 Parks Road is fairly long, giving them plenty of time to break the barrier of small talk and ease into a more meaningful conversation, which, on this occasion, has turned to the subject of going home for the holidays. Phil is able to glean that Dan is dreading going back to his family in Wokingham, which a small town just outside of Reading that he hates as it reminds him of the years he spent there at a Catholic boarding school called The Oratory. In Dan’s words, The Oratory was “hell”; full of “dickheads" who picked on him “constantly”, leaving him with a “deep seated anger” which “permanently resides” in him at a constant simmer. At first Phil feels upset to hear that Dan had such an unhappy childhood there, but quickly succumbs to the laughter invoked by the unrelenting stream of side-splitting anecdotes served alongside the tales of his youth.

 As Dan narrates another amusing episode, Phil’s attention slips away from the stories and instead drifts towards the orator himself. Slowly, subtly, Phil starts to realise how charming Dan is, how witty and articulate his words are, how his natural sense of humour and great story-telling abilities could turn a book about drying paint into a Penguin Classic. While Dan laments about how the boys at his school made fun of him, Phil’s gut wrenches with anguish. How can a man so gentle and kind have been tormented by such heartless idiots? How can this poor soul have      forgiven    the beasts who were so mercilessly picking on him? How on earth could bullies take pleasure in beating down a boy who is so mild and agreeable that he likens himself to Winnie the Pooh? He looks on as the beaming boy laughs at his own stories. If Phil hadn’t been crying tears of laughter, he would have been weeping tears of sorrow.

 After turning right at the Bodleian Library, the pair finally reach Broad Street. Blackwell’s Bookshop is easily recognisable by the cobalt blue exterior, guarding an attractive array of books, plays, letters and diaries for students to both ponder and argue over. As the pair step inside, a brass doorbell rings gaily.

 “So, what is it you’re here to pick up then, Mr. English Literature?”

 “It’s a 1890 copy of      The Picture of Dorian Gray    , posted all the way from America. I put in an order through a collector’s magazine and they’ve been holding it here for a few days.”

 “Blimey. How much is that costing you?” Dan asks with a hint of ridicule in his voice.

 Phil sighs as they navigate through the shop, passing by bookshelves that run from floor to ceiling. “Trust me, you don’t want to know.”

 “Oooh no, I very much do,” he teases. “Go on then, out with it! How much?”

 Phil turns back to face Dan, who can’t resist making a guess.

 “Ten bob?”

 He shakes his head.

 “More? Christ! Twenty bob?”

 “Up.”

 “...Twenty-five?”

 “Down.

 “Twenty-two?”

 The guilty party nods silently.

 “      Twenty-two shillings?    For a musty old book?” The corners of Dan’s mouth turn upwards with a mischievous smirk. “Well, I suppose it      is     Oscar Wilde.”

 “Exactly,” replies Phil curtly as they approach the counter. “Now shush for a moment.”

 Dan rolls his eyes at the shushing, skulking off while Phil hands over an inordinate amount of money for a rare book about 19th century homosexuals. When he has obtained his precious cargo, he finds his companion browsing the shelves of the fiction section. Now, he decides, is a good time for a bit of probing.

 “Do      you    read much?”

 The brunette continues to scan the bookshelves.

 “Not that often unfortunately, but I have a few favourite authors I return to.”

 “Such as…?”

 A moment of silence.

 “Lord Byron, for one.”

 “Good choice! Great poetry, and a fascinating life too.”

 “Mmmm. He definitely got up to some shenanigans on his Grand Tour.”

 With lots of young men, Phil thinks. He decides to probe further.

 “Anybody else?”

 Dan slips him a quizzical look before picking up a random hardback and flicking through it.

 “T. S. Eliot.”

 “Another good choice!”

 “How about you then?” Dan queries, seeming irritated. “Who’s your favourite author?”

 Phil merely holds his recent purchase up to his face, peeping out from behind the cover.

 “Ah,” Dan smiles, and Phil feels the tension melt away. “I suppose I should have guessed.”

 After making their way through the maze of shelves they eventually locate the exit. As Phil walks through the door that Dan kindly holds open for him, he notices the other man take in a deep breath.

 “So, on the subject of our friend Oscar. What do you make of his trial?”

 Phil looks back at Dan with the panicked face of a deer in the headlights. Wilde’s trial, or      trails    , are still a risky topic sixty years later. Although he has a hunch about why Dan is asking about his opinions on Wilde, these are still untested waters. If Phil has read too much into Dan’s favourite authors, placed too much emphasis on the abuse hurled at him by the boys at The Oratory, focused too much on Dan’s meticulous sense of style and theatrical mannerisms and soft hand that felt surprisingly affectionate as it touched his, then this could all be over for him. This could be the start of rumours that destroy his life, exclusion that breaks his heart, and loneliness that turns it cold.

 Phil’s hands are cold.

 He’s starting to wish that a certain pair of palms would offer to warm them up.

 Sod it. He may as well give it a try.

 “I think it’s a crime,” he begins. “I don’t understand how somebody could be so... vindictive. To take a man to court for an act which hurts nobody, affects nobody, and is only the business of those who are involved, is utterly inhuman. Oscar Wilde was one of the greatest literary, classical and philosophical minds that this nation has ever seen, and yet he was put in prison and left to waste for what?! Gross indecency? It’s an outrage. So what if he had written books and poems about…,” he shrugs, “homosexual love? Those writings were works of art. It is stupid, ignorant and close-minded to take issue with it,” he finishes with a huff, having worked himself up a little bit too much. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to rant.”

 As they turn left onto High Street Phil takes a nervous look at Dan, silently praying that he’s not about to be met with an icy stare. Instead his face is glowing, smiling feebly, eyes locked onto his in a state of awe.

 There’s a short silence as they pass various shops.

 “I dare say that I agree.”

 “Hmmm.”

 Silence falls again like a heavy blanket. The atmosphere isn’t uncomfortable, nor is is born out of having nothing left to say. Instead, it is the kind of serene and peaceful quietude that occurs when two individuals unexpectedly reveal a tender and intimate part of themselves, and are left to wordlessly contemplate their newfound solidarity.

 “I’ve grown awfully hungry,” Dan pipes up, breaking the quiet. “I want to show you this adorable little cafe just down the road. Let me take you there, I’m sure you’ll enjoy it. It’s ever so quaint.”

 A minute or so later they arrive at a decadent-looking tea room. As they come into the warmth. Phil is immediately taken aback by the marble pillars, chandeliers and wood-panelled ceiling that decorate the large, luxurious venue. A bustling atmosphere is full of students neglecting their work in favour of an early lunch and retired couples sharing overpriced sandwiches. Following a short wait at the front of house, they are taken to a four-man table tucked into a corner with a view of the courtyard outside.

 “Here’s a fact for you - this was the first coffee house in England,” Dan declares as he shucks his jacket and sets his fedora down onto the table. “Just popping to the little boy’s room, I won’t be a moment. Take a look at the menu, choose anything you fancy. It’s on me,” he announces, followed by a wink.

 Phil watches Dan fondly as he snakes through the tables, observing the man’s heavy gait and sloped posture. Quite a juxtaposition between the eloquence of his articulation and gentle face, he decides. But before he can ease into his chair and relish the few minutes he has to process the day’s events thus far, a familiar voice suddenly cries out his name.

 “Philip! Fancy seeing you here old chap.”

 Bursting into view come John and Mary, who promptly set down bags copious bags of shopping on the now over-crowded table.

 “Morning all” Phil beams, pulling out a chair as his friends sit down either side of him and shuffle up ridiculously close. “What brings you to The Grand Cafe this fine morning?”

 John takes off his leather jacket and hangs it on the back of his chair. “We’ve just been out shopping, haven’t we?”

 “Mmm, I can see that,” Phil retorts flatly. “But what for? Anything in particular?”

 Mary opens her handbag to reveal a miniature tawny-coloured box, which she sets down on the wooden table before sliding it over towards Phil.

 “It’s for the wife” Mary proclaims, holding her hands to her face as she smiles. “It’s our one-month anniversary next week, so I thought I may as well treat the old girl with something special.”

 John sighs. “Mary, I’ve already told you that you can’t       have    a       one month anniversary    ! The word comes from the Latin ‘annus’, meaning year, and ‘versus’, meaning ‘return’. Get it wrong      one    more time and I’ll tell the Oxford dons to barr you from ever studying English again!”

 Mary scoffs. “For God’s sake John, you’re starting to sound like your husband!” she jests, rolling her eyes towards Phil as she turns to him for a reaction. Preferring to avoid the conflict, Phil instead takes a look inside the box to see what could be for Mary’s “wife”.

 The hinge of the top lid pops open, and concealed in the white satin lining is a gold ring. Adorned with a sizeable green stone surrounded by a cluster of several smaller, clear gems around the edge, it twinkles attractively under the dazzling lights of the cafe as he turns the bo from side to side. Phil doesn’t know much about gems and jewelry, but he has a feeling that this must have been fairly pricey. And such a pretty ring! But who for?

 “Come on Lester, back me up here. You know how to speak Latin. I know I’m correct, aren’t I?”

 “Uhh, yeah, you’re right,” he stutters, blinking in confusion. He examines the box again. “Who’s this ring for though?”

 Mary and John exchange a look.

 “I-It’s for Beth, obviously,” the black haired woman explains as if Phil were an idiot for not understanding. “What other special woman do I have in my life?”

     Beth? Special woman?  

“Come on Phil! Don’t tell me you had no idea!” she laughs, blushing as she folds her arms and scoots in further still. Phil can feel the embarrassment creep over him. Mary? In a relationship with...Beth?

     “We’re the same, me and you.”  

 Mary’s words from secondary school come flooding back to him. So      that’s    what she meant! But that means she knows that Phil is-

 The ring is quickly snatched away and pocketed by its owner, who has begun to look slightly sheepish.

 “Anyway, enough about this old thing. So, what are you out and about for?”

 “Oh, I’m just er, running some errands with Dan.”

 “Ahhhh, Daniel! How charming. I’m glad you two are finally getting to know one another.” Mary locks her fingers together to use as a chin rest, which, over the years, has come to signify that somebody has suddenly become the object of great interest.

 “W...what do you mean by that?”

 Mary’s head sinks lower as she gives Phil ‘a look’.

 “Darling, Daniel thinks you’re the      bee’s knees    . He hasn’t shut up about you ever since he first caught a glimpse of your pretty little face when we had our first ever lecture together.”

 First ever lecture? But that was back in October.      Dan    , talking about      him    , and for over a month - before they even met?? Phil traces his mind back to the day where he emerged from a lecture hall talking to Mary about how nasal their new professor’s voice was - or was this the professor that kept sneezing? Regardless, Dan probably caught sight of him then. But to have noticed Phil so early on, and only have approached him a few weeks ago? Has he seriously been doting for that long?

 Electric blood courses through Phil’s veins as his brain runs a hundred miles a minute. Dan. Talking about him. To Mary. Secretly. For weeks. Tempting theories flirt with Phil’s brain.

     “...what do you make of Wilde’s trial?”  

     “Not that I’m... stalking you or anything”  

     “... come and sit down here with me…”  

 Phil has never been more bewildered in his entire life, despite everything now making perfect sense.

 Mary and Beth are...together.

 Bill and John are probably also together.

 Mary is a...      homosexual    .

 Mary has known that Phil was also a homosexual ever since they first met.

 Dan and Mary have (somehow) become friends.

 Dan has become...      interested     in him.

 And Mary has known about it all this time.

 He shifts absent-mindedly in his seat, still staring at the floor with a blank expression. Despite these revelations, Phil wishes - he wishes he was even allowed to wish - that everything about Dan was now leading itself to one alluring conclusion, down one inevitable path, but the path is twisted and covered in leaves and bracken, and the      bracken    , Phil remembers to the tune of Du Maurier’s      Rebecca    , “the bracken had entered into an alien marriage with a host of nameless shrubs, poor, bastard things that clung about their roots as though conscious of their spurious origin. A lilac had mated-”

 He begins to imagine Dan and himself as vines interlaced around each other and-

 “Phil? Hello?”

 He stifles a choke.

 “Are you alright? You went very pale, and then very red. I hope you’re not having hot flushes. You’re too early to be going through your menopause.”

 “Menopause?”

 Mary cackles. “Ah, my humour is lost on both you. Anyway, look sharp, Dan’s here.”

 He raises his head to see Dan weaving his way through the tables once again. The sleeves on his white shirt have been rolled up, and his tie is loosened slightly. All Phil can do is sit and stare with his cheeks a shameful shade of scarlet.

 “‘Ello ‘ello ello! What a pleasure to see you here!” he beams at Mary before turning to John. “Hullo there, I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Daniel, pleased to make your acquaintance.” As the pair shake hands, Phil melts at the charm of Dan’s genteel formalities. This man, who is so handsome, so well educated, and so polite and witty and well dressed, thinks that he, Philip Michael Lester, is the “bees knees”? He’ll have to ask Mary for details later.

 Lunch is a spectacle and a half. It emerges that Dan’s family is wealthy, very wealthy - more so than Phil’s, he is borderline aristocratic - and he offers to pay for every sandwich, cake, biscuit, every cup of exotic tea and coffee, and later every glass of expensive champagne that the waiters bring out on lavish trays. Dan woos their company with tale after tale, joke after joke, and by the time John checks his watch and reminds Mary that they really should get back to their dormitories before three o’clock, Phil finds himself fixated on Dan, eyes following him as if he were the second coming of Christ. Bills paid, jackets donned, bags arranged and door drunkenly stumbled out of, the quartet part ways as the sunshine dips behind the horizon and the temperature lulls itself back to freezing.

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 After arriving at Raleigh on Cowley Road, the two students spend an hour or so wandering around the shop and making up characters for each of the bicycles by imitating their imagined personalities with various voices and poses. By the time they’re threatened with being locked inside as the shop closes for the day, the pair of them have finally decided on a bike for Phil to buy. Or, as it turns out, for Dan to buy for Phil. All £30 worth. The curly-haired boy had insisted, claiming that the Clubman Model 25 was the best bike in the entire shop, and that it would be an early birthday present, and that his parents had given him far too much money to spend over Michaelmas, and besides, he wanted to buy it for him, so that was that. Phil had first coyly protested, then seriously protested, until he let himself be spoiled by this increasingly confusing man who was now offering to pay for his expenses. Maybe it was the champagne. Maybe it wasn’t. It was probably the champagne when Dan insisted they both sit on the bike and ride it home together.

 “Dan, this is      not    going to work, I’m telling you.”

 “Oh, don’t be such a bore! Hurry up, get on! It’ll be getting dark soon and it’s too far to walk. You have no choice” he announces, triumphant as he puts Phil’s book inside a leather bag attached to the back of the bike and swings a leg over the navy blue frame.

 “I don’t see how I’m going to fit on here. This isn’t a tandem bicycle.”

 “It’s easy!” he assures with a gratified smile. “My brother and I used to do it all the time when we were young. If you sit down on      this     part of the seat, put your feet on the lower frame      here    , and hold onto      this    bottom part of the handlebars, you’ll be absolutely fine.”

 Remaining dubious, Phil shuffles over to his recent purchase before staring long and hard at it, trying to figure out how to avoid cracking his head open within thirty seconds of liftoff.

 “Stop dilly-dallying you wet rag. Look, do you want some help getting on?” Dan reaches out a hand and touches Phil’s forearm reassuringly, causing his arm to seize up.

 “No! No, I’ll be fine,” comes his embarrassingly sharp reply. Damnit. They’re going to have to sit very close for this to work without them both dying.

 “Okay, how am I supposed to do this again?”

 Dan shuffles back on the seat before patting the front part with his right hand. Trying to suppress his nerves, Phil swings his left leg over the bike and grips the bottom part of the handlebars as told, except perhaps slightly more firmly than need be.

 “Like this?”

 “Yes, except that you’re forgetting the most important part.”

 “What?!” he cries a little too loudly as he starts to get impatient.

 The intimacy of having Dan sit only a few centimetres behind him is starting to have an adverse effect.

 “Bottom on seat! Then we can set off.”

 Phil really has no reason to huff, but agitation makes him. God. If only he weren’t so awkward and obvious.

 “Chocks away!” Dan cries, and suddenly he senses movement behind him as the boy begins to pedal up the pavement and across onto the road.

 “Aagghhh!”

 “Stay calm Philip! You’ll be safe in my hands,” Dan shouts against the howling wind. Hearing those words spoken so closely to his ear is enough for Phil to settle down and keep mum, gazing around at the empty streets that they cycle by. The sky’s blue hues have faded to a cool evening grey, with dark, speckled clouds stretching across it. Breaking the silvery sheet is crisp tangerine strip where the setting sun illuminates the horizon, peppered by bursts of soft, glowing clouds that streak across the skyline. Nostalgia bares its warm hug to him. It feels like the family holidays that Phil used to go on when he was a child, where each day came to a close in the back of the family motorcar, staring out of the window at the spectacular sunsets best observed on winding country lanes over endless fields. He feels at home. He feels safe.

 Out of tiredness, or, dare he admit it, out of relaxation, Phil has subconsciously leaned backwards enough for his spine to be pressed up against Dan’s chest. He’s not sure quite how it happened... but it has. Earlier on in the day he might have leapt forward and apologised. But now? Now he’s too sleepy to react, and anyway, at this point he just can’t bring himself to worry about this sort of thing anymore. Dan’s not complaining, and there’s nobody around to see it happen.

 They cycle past the empty shops and illuminated houses until they pass Magdalene College and reach the High Street again. This time it’s dark, and the Christmas lights decorating the shops have slowly begun to turn on.

 “This is pretty isn’t it?” Dan hums behind him, voice surprisingly low and mellow in contrast to his comparative bellowing at the cafe earlier on.

 “Mmmmm.”

 “I love Christmas - it’s one of my favourite times of year. I love getting festive when December starts, with all the lights and mince pies and scented candles. I do find it stressful shopping for people though. I always feel like I’m going to put my foot in it. And of course there’s the part where everything begins to get horribly fake and commercial, but I don’t particularly want to think about that at the moment if I’m honest. Everything is all too perfect right now.”

 “Mmm.” All too perfect.

 “I’m considering joining the choir this year,” Dan continues. “I haven’t sung in a choir since I was about thirteen. I do miss it occasionally. Ah well. We’ll have to see.”

 The shop displays sparkle as they sail past - newspaper vendors and tea rooms and tuck shops and travel agencies all closing in preparation for Sunday.

 “So you can act      and    sing?”

 Dan’s laugh is short and shaky. “I suppose I can. Luckily there’s no singing in this play that’s coming up though. God,” he exhales, “I don’t even want to think about the damned thing.”

 “Why, has something gone wrong?”

 “No. Well, not really.”

 There’s a brief silence.

 “The problem is is that I’m beginning to get rather stressed about it the whole ordeal. There’s only a couple of weeks left until we’re meant to be performing, but I’ve got a lot of work to complete for Music and rehearsals are starting to take up a lot of my time, and to make matters worse this sodding roommate that I’ve got keeps taking up my side of our study room and I’m not too sure that he really likes me anymore and I just…,” he sighs, “I don’t know. It’s an intense period, to say the least.”

 “Hmmm.”

 Phil turns his attention back towards the shops as they make their way towards his college. As they cruise down the High Street, the faint sound of music begins to waft through the cars and chatter. It gets louder as they cycle onwards, until they come up to a bakery where a small brass band stands outside in the cold, playing a tune that Phil knows well but can’t name. There’s a small crowd gathered outside, and as the song finishes, people cheer.

 “Dan.”

 “Mmm?”

 “If you’re worrying about Christmas shopping, why don’t you come with me? I was planning on going on the first weekend of December. I’m a master at choosing presents for people, so I’m sure I’ll be able to help. And I’d be happy to. I owe you for today.”

 “Oh...than-”

 “And about getting work done for Music - you could always use my room. It’s not very large but it does have a lot of desk space, and I don’t have any pesky roommates that would get on your nerves. Just ask. I won’t say no, I mean, how could I? You’d be very welcome. Tell the porter you’re here to see Phil at room seventeen, staircase nine, and he’ll let you in.”

 The other man doesn’t say a word. As they cycle down the narrow path into Catte Street, across the cobbled square host to the 18th-century Radcliffe Camera and down Brasenose Lane with its high walls, a soft drizzle begins to fall from the gloomy, blackening clouds. Dan clears his throat.

 “Thank you, Phil,” he begins in a low voice. “Seriously. I shall have to take you up on that offer. When can I come over? Would next Friday be okay?”

 “As I said, any time.”

 “Are you sure I wouldn’t be disturbing you?”

 “No, not at all. Dan, I’m offering. I wouldn’t have done so if I didn’t want to.”

 “Okay,” he mutters, finally surrendering.

 Turning onto Turl Street, Dan slows the pace to a halt as Phil disembarks. They walk in silence as they approach the gargantuan entrance to monumentous 14th-century college building.

 “Well, here we are,” Dan announces.

 Phil leans against the cold, carved, limestone walls that slant towards the dark wooden doors. He looks back at Dan, who holds the bike with one large, strong hand. The bike’s angle seems to have cornered him in this small nook, but Phil tries not to think about that. Instead, he looks up at Dan. The boy’s curls are slightly disheveled under his grey fedora, and his coat is covered with a haze of tiny raindrops. A satisfied smirk sits on his lips, and in the low light Phil can see that his dimpled cheeks glow a faint shade of pink.

 “Thank you for today” Dan begins solemnly.

 “It was my pleasure. Plus you paid for most of it anyway!”

 “Hah! I guess did. Well, I suppose I should give this back to you and trot along back to Keble.” There’s a hint of resignation in his voice. “Come on, go inside. You’ll get soaked if you stand out here any longer.”

 The frame is icy as Phil takes hold of it, raindrops spattering onto his wet hands as the downpour becomes stronger. Phil looks back up at Dan. Despite the storm getting worse, they both remain motionless, looking at each other. Dan’s eyes are fascinatingly deep and dark; moody against the backdrop of a thunderstorm and the billowing leaves of the tree behind him. Those eyes study him with equal interest, flitting over his neck and jaw, making Phil want to just shut his eyes and lean in and-

 Dan, as if sensing the tension, closes his lids with a smile and takes two steps back.

 “See you next week, Phil!”

 Turning his shoulders away, he strides around the bike-wall alcove, exiting that little bubble that had just been created.

 “Cheerio!” he cries, saluting as he marches off back to his own college.

 Phil shivvers.

 Ah well. Maybe next week.

[subtextures]

Narcissus Talks to Echo

The Interview apologies to The Paris Review

Context:  Why poetry?

Subtext: (Laughs) What else is there? No, really I don’t know.  It is what has come to me.  I have tried to write fiction and I don’t seem to have the attention span for a sustained narrative.  Not that poetry doesn’t require precise attention, because it does.  But it requires a different type of attention: attention to the moment.  Fiction requires attention to the end, the resolution.  Everything is focused on how the story will end.  Poetry’s focus is in the word by word movement; the unfolding of the moment, which is what makes it so hard to read and write well. It requires one to attend to everything, all the possibilities in a very intense focus, knowing all the while that one is missing most of what is happening: kind of like life.  That kind of attention is hard to maintain in fiction: maybe a Proust, or Melville, could pull it off.  I think one almost has to be ADHD to follow the leaps and psychic shifts when writing poetry.  You know:  Look! A chicken!

C:  But you also write essays.

S: Yes, but essays are as Virginia Wolfe said, “the mind tracking itself.” Much like poetry. I find myself leaping along after my thoughts in both poetry and the essay.  Neither, initially requires plotting out what I am going to say.  I can rely more on the moment to moment flow of my thinking.  In both forms discovering what I have to say as I write and focus on the play of words and ideas is part of what makes writing exciting to me.  Not to sound Romantic, but it is as if I am possessed by something greater than me that is leading me toward some revelation.  Eratos, I guess.

C: You just said you don’t have to plot out what you are going to say, yet in several of your long series you have fairly complex writing structures.  I am thinking here of  “My Book of Changes,” “115 Missing Days,” “Primogenitive Folly,” and in your most recent, “Sonnet.”

S: True, but in all of those poems, I used a number system to either create a limitation, either small or large, to help me, or maybe better to say, force me to either write very tightly in the case of  “Book of Changes,” and “Sonnet” or to expand on my thinking as in “115 Missing Days.”  I did not have a direction, or even some kind of idea in regards to what I was going to say, I simply wrote.  Again it is more of a chasing after an idea, or image that is just out of reach constantly.  Kind of like Robert Browning’s pursuit of love, in “Life in Love:” where the speaker is always, like a hunter, in pursuit of his love, but never quite capturing his prey.  Browning is more interested in the pursuit than the capture, it seems to me, and I see that now as analogous to how I write when I first sit down to write a poem. As I said earlier, I am much more interested in where the poem will take me as I am writing it, rather than having a set idea of what I want to say and then figuring out how to say it.

C:  So, if you don’t know what you are going to write about, how do you start?S: I start with a phrase, a word sometimes, or an image, then go from there.  I don’t mean to sound so willy-nilly.  I write all the time.  Or I, at least, get out my notebook and stare at the page.  Sometimes I will re-read snatches of writing which led nowhere at the time they were written and find something there to salvage or something to prod me on in another direction.  Somedays, I just write badly, but other days I can re-read the bad writing I abandoned weeks or months before and find something, some fragment of an idea, which leads me into a larger world. Last year I even found several partial poems in notebooks I abandonded at least ten years ago.  I have learned over time that anything can start a poem; so I have tried to enable that by making a conscience effort to pay attention to everything: the short arc of a bird from one branch to another, trash caught in a whirl of wind, the beauty in the everyday occurrence.  Of course, for the most part that is a failure, but I do try.

C:  Do you write everyday? Do you have a routine?

S:  I try to write everyday, but I rarely ever do.  Even when I was writing “My Book of Changes,” I didn’t write everyday, although that was the intention when I started it, to cast the I Ching then write a six line poem using the hexagram I cast as a palimpsest through which to read my life in that day, and to do that every day for a year.  But that fell apart quickly because of work and having three children under the age of 5 in the house.  However, it made sense to try to write one everyday but to let chance operate allowing for some days where I just didn’t have time to write.  I wound up with 250 poems over the course of the year, and that led to the next series of poems, “115 Missing Days.”  But I am not really answering your question, am I?  There goes that chicken again; one thought distracts me from my original intention.            No I don’t have a routine. No I don’t write everyday. There, that is the short answer.  I used to worry about not writing, the actual putting pen to paper kind of writing, but over time, I guess as I’ve gotten older I don’t worry so much about that anymore.  I think that as I go through my day, trying to pay attention to stuff, I am writing.  I am filtering out the ephemera, collecting images and thoughts, which I will later use.  Not necessarily consciously, but I find when I finally find time to write that often these thoughts and ideas flow back into my thinking sometimes from a few days before, other times from years in the past, in a non-temporal flood of memories.              I do carry a notebook with me at all times. I have done that for more than twenty years.  I like unlined sketchbooks.  I write in the book whenever I can catch a few minutes, or if I have an idea all of a sudden. Once on the way home from dropping my oldest off at college, I wrote an entire sonnet as I made the eight hour drive.  I stopped finally at a truck stop and wrote it down. So I guess my routine is to write whenever I can, but not on a schedule. Does that still qualify as a routine, if it is not in a routine manner?

C: Yes, I think that would qualify.  Let’s talk about your “training,” as it were, how important do you think poetry classes are, or MFA programs?

S: I don’t really have anything to say about MFA programs, since I have not been in one.  The two people I know who went through a MFA program, one at Iowa and the other at the New School in New York, seemed to get a lot out of the programs.  How much they learned to write in the programs, I am unsure.  At least one of them was a fine writer before he went through his MFA program.  I think like any school, a person gets as much as she puts into the program. I found the poetry workshops I took as an undergraduate and in graduate school allowed me a unique environment to write and talk about poetry with a very diverse group of people with different aesthetic visions.  It is rare, at least for me, to have that kind of environment after school.  I have written and thought about poetry on my own since I finished at Bread Loaf almost twenty years ago. I was lucky from the very beginning to have several people who took the time to read and talk about my work with a kind attentive eye.  It helped me learn to write on my own.

C:  Talk about these people.

S: Well, in high school when I first started thinking of myself as a poet, I had the good fortune to come into contact with two teachers, one a writer, the other a visual artist, Cliff Berkman and Ann Lockstedt, who took my poems seriously, or at least pretended to well enough to make me believe they took me seriously.  Berkman gave me books of poetry to read, probably the best thing any young poet can do; read voraciously, as Dylan Thomas said, “until my eyes fell out.”  Lockstedt introduced me to Art with a big A.  Something that was out of the realm of the milieu of small town south Texas, she took a bus load of kids to see the Cezanne exhibit in Houston, as well as several buses to Dallas and Ft. Worth to see the Kimball and several other art museums.  That kind of trip with today’s lack of funding for the arts in the public school system would be unheard of now.As an undergraduate at the University of Texas, I was lucky to be in several workshops run by Albert Goldbarth.  In the late 70’s and early 80’s, he taught there before moving to Kansas.  Again he talked to us as if we were poets, not as dumb-ass students, which we were.  He was sarcastic and cutting, but he also found something good to say about everybody’s poems.  What Katherine Bomer calls the hidden gems in students writing.  It takes a very patient mind to do this well, and Goldbarth made us want to write better, or at least made me want to write better.As a graduate student in English literature at the Bread Loaf School of English, I had one poetry workshop with Carol Oles, but just being at Bread Loaf was a writing workshop. The conversations about literature and writing with the professors and students that I had over the course of the four summers I was in Vermont were life altering, as far as my thinking about poetry was concerned.  Lunch conversations with David Huddle, Robert Pack, Ken Macrorie and others over everything from the weather to literature, to politics is indescribable in its influence on my literary life.

C: What about your own teaching, how does that affect your poetry?

S: I would say in an indirect manner.  When talking to my students about the “great” works of English literature I have come to see it in deeper more meaningful ways, not just because I have to explain the poem in ways the students can understand, but also because of the ways of knowing a poem the students bring to the work.  Also as I try to teach my students how to write, I garner insights into my own writing processes.  Teaching has deepened the initial training I had through the university, and taken my understanding of poetry further, I believe, than if I had gone off to sell insurance.  But that is because I am able to think about poetry on an ongoing basis, and have discussions with fellow teachers about writing and poetry.  

C: How important is having a community of writers?

S: Very important.  Writing is such a solitary activity. So much of the time is spent in your own head, wrestling with your own demons, caught up in self-evisceration that just being able to talk to others who have some common understanding of what it means to write becomes a balm to the doubt and insecurity that comes with being a writer. Even if all you talk about most of the is how the local sports team is doing, or how crappy your job is.  You also have the love of words and writing, which brought you together in the first place.  

C: Do you think about your readers when you write?

S: Yes, in the very real sense that I am one of my readers.  That makes me think of a line from Tom Raworth when he said he started to write because he liked reading what wrote. But as for making it easy for my readers, not really.  I write what I write.  I like it when someone says they have read and liked what I wrote.  I often wish they would be more specific about what they liked, but any kind of  positive response is welcome.  I think any writer who tells you she doesn’t care what people think of her writing is lying to you. As human beings we all want to belong, and writer’s want people to read what they write.  I think that is why so many writers seek out workshops, so they can have someone read their work.  The danger becomes that you change your vision to better conform to others’ view of the world.  That is also the horror of writing that no one can see the way you do, and you wind up screaming into the wind.  I haven’t sent out anything for more than 20 years, but I post on my blog in hopes that someone will read my poems, and maybe even respond.  

(March 2012)

[sheikah]

hey kristen! i was wondering if you could recommend me some books, please! thank you in advance.

Hi anon! I’m sorry in advance for how shitty this rec list is about to be haha. As weird as it may seem being an English teacher and all, I hardly read these days. I have to read so many papers by students and read the content I’m teaching as a refresher that it hardly leaves time for joy reading, so I haven’t done much of that since I was an undergrad. I’ve read a huge amount, but a lot of it was classics and poetry in grad school lol. Not exactly fun reading recs. I’m very boring in that my favorite book is tied between The Deathly Hallows, the Great Gatsby, and Jane Eyre haha.

But I have found some fun things over the last few years and since you didn’t specify a genre I’ll just share a little sprinkle of everything :P

Ok so I have to start with what I’m reading right now which is the 

The Shadow and Bone Trilogy by Leigh Bardugo. 

I hardly ever read YA lit and actually haven’t read any since The Hunger Games years ago, but I had seen a few people I follow talking about the Grishaverse so I decided to pick up her first trilogy. She’s got a trilogy of books called the Shadow and Bone trilogy (I’m on book two right now, and I’m OBSESSED ok???) and a duology called the Six of Crows duology (which is, fwiw, much more famous than the trilogy? But I’m going to finish the trilogy first) and a second duology in progress right now called King of Scars. They’re basically YA romance and adventure in this awesome fantasy universe she’s created. I don’t want to spoil anything else so you’ll just have to read them. And please do, so we can freak out together haha. I recommended these to my best friend who sadly moved to New York a year and a half ago, and she has been loving them and we chat about them on skype :) The first book is here. Start now! Because they’re developing a Netflix series based on her work, which would be a fun new fandom for a lot of us to dabble in to fill the void after GoT ends.

Anyway, here are some more recs.

Romance (by far my favorite genre but I can never find things I really enjoy these days so the list is short. I usually satisfy my romance cravings with fanfic haha):

The Hating Game by Sally Thorne – probably my favorite modern romance ever. This book is GOOD SHIT.

Asking for Trouble by Elizabeth Young – cute and funny, basis for the movie The Wedding Date that made me fall in love with Dermot Mulroney.

Paris for One by Jojo Moyes – a very quick and kinda forgettable read but I read it on the plane on the way to Paris with my husband for our honeymoon so it will always be special to me I guess haha. It is sweet and simple, a quick and happy book.

Sci-Fi:

The Left Hand of Darkness by Ursula LeGuin – LeGuin is a goddess and this book changed my life and how I view so much about gender and society and just… everything. Read it.

Dawn by Octavia Butler – been about ten years since I read this one but it’s always left an impression on me. 

Altered Carbon by Richard K. Morgan – classic cyberpunk. A little slow and admittedly I only picked it up because I enjoyed the Netflix series so much but the premise is really cool, I love the character of Kovacs, and Morgan’s weird style eventually pulls you in.

Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? – again, this is an obvious inclusion, but this book has so much more humor than Blade Runner and is a really fun and quick read that I’ve always enjoyed.

The Forever War by Joe Haldeman – a military sci fi that’s an allegory for the Vietnam War. It’s written by a Vietnam vet in the early 70s and there is some casual homophobia at times that I don’t appreciate. But I read this in college as part of our assigned reading in an SF class and I really enjoyed it because the speculation and possibilities it presents are frighteningly real and the romance between William and Marygay is really sweet. It’s a good story and very memorable.

Neuromancer by William Gibson –the quintessential cyber punk novel. Gritty and grimdark but always fun. Again, I’m a little squicked by the way the dude writes women sometimes but my love for the genre keeps me going.

Other:

The Alienist by Caleb Carr – a truly fucked up murder mystery that was interesting from beginning to end. I haven’t seen the TV adaptation yet but I’ve got high hopes. 

The Woman on the Train by Paula Hawkins – again, a murder mystery, and again, I haven’t seen the adaptation haha. But I can honestly say the book is the most engrossing mystery I’ve ever read and I devoured it in one sitting. 

Bossypants by Tina Fey – nonfiction humor for when I’m feeling down :)

Hyperbole and a Half by Allie Brosh – more nonfiction humor, but this time in comic form! Brosh’s web comic was hugely famous before she published it in book format, and for good reason. This book is so great and I can’t recommend it highly enough. It’s so funny and endearing and real and I just love her. 

My Favorite Thing is Monsters by Emil Ferris – while we’re on the subject of comics, I teach a class on graphic novels and memoirs so I’m a big fan of them. My best recent find is this book by Emil Ferris. The entire thing is drawn in a spiral notebook with ballpoint pen, a really unique style. It’s a great story–a murder mystery told by a little girl who loves monster comics and classic horror movies, and imagines herself as a werewolf detective solving her upstairs neighbor’s murder. But it’s set in Chicago in the 60s, so there is a backdrop of post-war drama, civil rights tensions, and more. It’s really amazing. 

Fun Home by Alison Bechdel – I was talking about this one the other day. A really moving graphic memoir, basically a lesbian coming-of-age story. It’s so beautifully written, and since Bechdel’s parents were both English teachers it’s rich with literary allusion and gorgeous language. Definitely a tear-jerker, but also surprisingly funny. 

Anyway, I’m really sorry if this isn’t what you were looking for but if you can find even one thing you liked on this list (and if you can hurry up and read the Grishaverse lol) I’ll be happy :)

[violetsystems]

#personal

I fell asleep watching Scanners on a Friday.  Honestly, not the worst way to be spending my time these days.  I spend most of it alone.  I’m an only child.  My parents divorced in college so a lot of the emotional referee duties fell on me solely.  I get along with both of my parents but they don’t really speak to each other.  It’s not like they don’t acknowledge each other’s existence.  It’s just awkward.  They don’t hate each other.  I know this because I’m a pass through in conversations about the other.  But both of them have pretty much moved on with their lives.  My mom has a giant garden in her childhood home she attends to.  My dad is remarried and spends half of his time up in Michigan.  The other half he spends working.  He still has not retired.  I know this because I do web development for his company every few weeks.  I talk to my parents a lot more than I do anyone else.  And they don’t really pry too much into what it is I’m doing with my life.  They know I quit drinking more than a few years ago.  They’re both moderate drinkers so it doesn’t really register to them.  They know the situation I’m in to a certain point.  But mostly every card I play in my personal life is pretty close to my own chest.  Facing peer pressure out here is similar to high school.  Everybody wants to know what you are up to but nobody really cares to ask.  When you are an only child resisting the status quo is horrifyingly easy.  You are so used to being left to yourself that you just develop survival skills.  Maybe you got sick and tired of crying to yourself.  Maybe you got sick of hearing it.  As your own best friend for long periods of time, you tend to get mad at yourself every once and awhile.  Your outlet whatever it is be it art, music or dancing in place for short bursts of time tends to grow more inward if you can’t share it.  I create to communicate things that don’t seem to register.  Things I’ve explained maybe in my writing time and time again that people never listen to.  As an only child you spend a lot of time just listening to yourself.  So you start to learn when communication breaks down talking to other people.  If you can’t talk and be real with yourself, you will get completely lost.  I’ve gotten madder at myself not being able to connect to mainstream society at times.  The most frustrating feeling is trying to reconnect professionally when you have no real friend network left in a city.  It makes you feel worthless and at times I feel it is intentional.  To isolate you to assimilate to the crowd.  The tough love approach of this city is abusive and gross in that respect.  That’s the nature of peer pressure.  When you have survived alone for long periods of time, you have varying intel on what works and what doesn’t. You don’t hear the war drum of popular opinion as much in terms of what everyone else thinks is wrong with a situation they care little to read into.  Writing to me here on the internet has worked as sort of a public meditation.  It bothers me that people follow me around in the street all day to get a read off what I’m thinking.  You know you could just read it here.  I don’t have facebook.  I don’t use any real geocaching apps intentionally.  I don’t have an account on a dating app.  When I make posts on the internet it’s usually to customer support wondering where my package has been misdelivered to.  I’m painfully pragmatic that way.  And easier to understand when it comes to why I shriek away from everything in theory.  Oh you’ve heard I’m some kind of monster!   If you believe hearsay and what people tell you, I’m alone because I like it that way.  I’m on the fringes of society because there’s something wrong with me.  I read this headline on CNN.  Hundreds of thousands of cybersecurity jobs are opening this very minute.  And they’ll pay you whatever you want.  I post in a hashtag about cybersecurity almost every week on a professional job networking site.  It’s like a tree falling in the forest.  I’m the only one who cares about posting what vulnerabilities are out there other than my fragile male emotions.  If there’s something wrong with me in terms of connecting, it’s that I care too much about what wiffs in terms of trying to be myself.  

I’m a minimalist at times.  This might be because I’m part Swedish.  I hate nationalism and attributing cultural ticks to my genes.  I’m nothing really like either of my parents and yet something born anew.  When my job was cancelled and my office was thrown in the garbage, I learned a valuable lesson.  To take stock in who I was at the present and move on.  Never look back.  I look back a lot.  It’s called post traumatic stress.  I constantly have to read into the past as a warning.  I operate by a simple posit.  What is working versus what isn’t,  And personal responsibility has been the one thing I have been able to count on.  I see results.  When I manage the net income I have, I move and plan around my goals financially for the next six months.  I’ve done that for over a year now.  So I have a lot of data just by isolating myself and setting milestones day by day.  Looking for a job lately has been demoralizing.  I am completely invisible.  In America this is somehow my problem for not speaking up over a wall of cacophony that sounds like verbal diarrhea ninety percent of the time.  Americans love to talk out loud and say absolutely nothing.  The retention of what they’re talking about is in constant flux.  My dad’s side of the family were poor missionaries.  My dad joined the army.  My mom’s family were working class.  My grandfather retired due to injury as an Electrician.  Also in the army.  To escape the constant hum of recruiters trying to draft me to do the same I wrote a letter declaring my status as a conscientious objector at eighteen.  I’ve been anti war for as long as I’ve known.  I still have the piece of paper I wrote in a file with the ten pieces of documents I needed to prove my identity to renew my passport.  The more I look back at all this, the more I realize the person I am now is something incredibly defined but outrageously misunderstood.  I’ve been writing since high school  Mostly poetry.  There is nothing clearer than writing when you care about the economy of words.  Writing three paragraphs on here for years is what some of my friends have come to expect.  I’ve connected with people here that have inspired me to continue to be myself.  Just a click.  An affirmation of not being alone in whatever it is I think or dream about.  That the things I consider beautiful, sacred, or art are shared.  That’s real connection.  It’s worth a lot to me.  It makes me feel like I’m not really alone.  And yet when I go back to the real world, I’m faced with a shuddering realization.  That nobody has the time to respect the history.  When I think about art and culture, I think about how long I’ve been trying to be creative.  I don’t try.  I am a creative.  I’ve been shunned by other creatives particularly in America for as long as I’ve known.  I’ve tried.  To be a part of scenes.  Out here everybody is comparing each other against each other’s insecurities.  It’s not unlike the army.  Where they break down your ego so that you’re easier to command.  In Chicago, everything connected to art now has some seriously hellbent agenda of social justice.  As if footwork, hip hop or any of the things I’ve been involved in for years hasn’t.  I’m more like a pariah out here than an artist.  For all the words I write and for all the things I try to connect with, I’ve hit a fucking wall.  Hard.  So hard that people hear it halfway around the world when I wake up in pain.  Looking back at the wall is something that gets old.  Like looking at a wall of text at five in the morning doesn’t.  At least it keeps me sane.  Keeps the narrative consistent.  That I’m ok and at the same time not.  I know I’ve got me.  And that’s all I know I’ve got.  Or at least all that I expect to rely on.  It’s called responsibility I guess.  And it’s nowhere in sight around here so I keep to myself.

This weekend is the start of the holidays here in the states.  The YOLO can commence.  We can all celebrate that the worst is behind us now.  And yet I’m just sitting alone in the ac with my cat typing out to all the beautiful people that tolerate my ranting weekly.  I’m not a kind of person who likes to complain.  I hate it actually.  I’ve relied on social engineering for years not as a hacker but as a forge.  I’m the one who shovels the sidewalks in the blizzard because I don’t want to fuck up my shoes.  I don’t really want anyone to fuck up their shoes.  But if no one is going to do it, it’s going to be me.  I know for a fact reintegrating into American society this summer is a no no.  It sucks.  To be alone.  To be isolated.  To not trust anyone but still have to pass off that tired smile.  I’ve gotten so angry over the last few months.  I’ve yelled at myself.  I’ve never hurt myself or anything.  I’m frustrated how people expect such a mammoth attention to detail from me and fail at even the most basic functions in return.  I’m always wondering if somebody is fucking with me behind my back.  Like this was all some sick, elaborate joke to hurt me that I brought upon myself.   At first I thought it was a test.  Then it started to feel malicious.  Then it was just people being emotionally chaotic..  Blame these times.  Blame whatever you want.  I don’t blame myself.  And that’s a big change lately.  Maybe because the weather is warmer.  Maybe because it’s not the dead of winter and I’m freezing, cold and alone.  All I really know is nothing I try to do works.  And I’m always expected to think eight layers deeper.  To think in reverse entropy.  Literally backwards and forwards without revisiting the past like some elaborate time heist.  Is it worth it?  Yes.  Which is why in typical time travel fashion I want nothing to do with any interactions of the past.  Think about it.  I was let go almost eleven months ago.  In those eleven months, absolutely zero people from my past checked in on anything.  My emotional well being.  My fiscal health.  My job search.  Nothing.  Look back to the past and think about it and your head will explode.  Scanners style.  To YOLO forward is it’s own little death for me.  The death of understanding the responsibilities.  I beat myself up over the fact that I should have escaped all of this years ago.  And I tried.  I flew half way around the world trying to be an independent artist only to get dropped from Pitchfork reviews of my own crew.  I sat with other musicians and artists and talked about this invisible wall only to be trapped outside of it.  Probably for the better.  Now it’s just a wall around me.  There’s a door.  You can enter it if you have the key.  But I’ve kept a lot of things at bay and locked out for good reason.  People love to deflect the blame.  That I’m angry.  Or I scare people.  How would they know?  I have never seen half of the people that talk about me on the internet or otherwise in about a year.  And yet they can’t keep my fucking name out of their mouth.  You would think that would work in my benefit.  Maybe I’d have some real job offers.  Maybe I’d have an offer to perform my music for the city and get a small piece of that COVID money you’ve been wasting on police overtime.  Maybe none of that is worth it.  Maybe I’m better off cutting my losses with this city and waiting for a quiet exit.  I don’t really know anything.  At all.  And the most frustrating thing is to worry more about the things you can’t control.  I can control the liquidity in my bank account.  The equity.  The lack of any sort of debt.  And I’m still worthless to people here just the same.  Not here on Tumblr.  Just here in the flesh.  The biggest whiff of all has not been my lack of a social life but the lack of imagination for people believing I keep it real in a city with a murder rate higher than unemployment.  Is the future really out here or am I just ducking for cover until somebody realizes I’ve been in danger all along.  I’ll be ok.  I’ve been on my own for as long as I remember.  And I’m not alone in the AC sharing memes with all of you this summer anyway. <3 Tim

[montpahrnah]

@toyhto tagged me in a writing meme!! thank you dude <3<3

1) How many works in progress do you have?

i’ve been extremely unfocused this year and tbh i’ve lost count... right now i’m working on a weird midwestern r/s au i started a few months ago and i started what i THINK will be a short sequel of sorts to eclipse and transit. and a hawke/isabela thing set post-Snafu. also i had a deeply stupid idea about a sirius/remus/caradoc dearborn threesome that was too hilarious to pass up tho that’ll probably be on the backburner until early next year

2) Do you/would you write fanfiction?

i’m not really joking when i say i’ll be writing r/s until i die

3) Do you prefer paper books or ebooks?

i like both, but i prefer paper and always will. this is probably all in my head but sometimes i feel like i retain information better from printed pages, though i don’t have that problem with fic or articles etc, so i think it’s definitely in my head

4) When did you start writing?

i’ve been writing for as long as i can remember, but i think i started writing seriously/making an effort to be Good when i was like, ten. i remember we did a poetry unit in school and i loved it, and thus began filling journals with embarrassing childhood poetry!!

5) Do you have someone you trust that you share your work with?

yes! most especially i’m profoundly and eternally grateful to my friend claudia, who doesn’t really do fandom but still reads the occasional fic and has saved my sorry ass multiple times w/ her marathon beta reads. but sometimes, especially recently, i don’t share my work before i post it.

6) Where is your favorite place to write?

the couch, my bed, the coffee shop across town, the lake in good weather...

7) Favorite childhood book?

laura ingalls wilder’s little house on the prairie series, harry potter of course, everything i could find of laurie halse anderson’s, and i also devoured everything sharon creech ever wrote... i’ve been told that my favorite books as a very small girl were the teeny-tiny woman and andersen’s morbid fairy tales

8) Writing for fun or publication?

FUN. being published isn’t something i really crave though i suppose that could change. i know some people probably think that’s laziness/arrogance etc etc but i also don’t give a shit and don’t put much stock into publishing--especially traditional publishing--as some kind of end-all be-all for a lot of reasons. i’m much more interested in telling the stories i want to tell and/or feel like i need to tell and doing it in my own time, how i want and when i want, whether i share them with anyone or not. early this fall i started keeping a journal again and have tentatively been writing poetry for the first time in years, and i think it really has helped my sadsack brain sort of reorient itself after this terrible fucking year, and i do work on original stories off and on. my favorite is something i started this year about two fucked up women on a fucked up journey across the midwest to bury something. i’m proud but fairly protective of it--it keeps informing things i write in the r/s au, in tone more than content

9) Pen and paper or computer?

both! but i find typing easier when i need to write a lot of words IMMEDIATELY because my handwriting can’t keep up with my head very well. i go for pen and paper more often when i’m feeling a bit stuck or just want to write out a specific scene.

10) Have you ever taken any writing classes?

nothing really, just a couple of journalism courses in college. i can write good leads but often i still have to double-check to make sure i’m not using ap style where it doesn’t belong

11) What inspires you to write?

anything and everything!!! conversations, music, friends, insanely good prose, work that resonates with me in general, the need to work through my own feelings unfortunately. also just a need to prove that i can do it sometimes, to myself if no one else.

tagging @mondriankite @radialarch @csoru @zeiat @fireferns @sqvalors @bigblckdog @grandilloquism @shaggydogstail and anyone else who wants to <3<3

[obsessedauthorchan-blog]

Shakespearean Chapter 4

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Story Summary:

Jason didn't know how he managed to get into college at all, let alone such a good one, but he was determined not to mess it up.

Of course, it was after he made that decision that everything went to hell.

Chapter Summary:

Jason's first day on the job, and guess who he just so happens to randomly run into by a coincidence that was definitely not arranged by an author for plot puroses?

Hint: Timothy Jackson Drake.

Chapter:

Tuesday brought two more classes, both requisites for a degree and boring as hell. Jason was relieved when he got back to his dorm, and he nearly groaned aloud when he remembered that he had to start his first day of work at the campus library in a couple hours. He was grateful that his schedule would end up giving him Sunday, Monday, and Thursday off, but he was currently longing for Tuesday off as well.

He sighed heavily and emptied his book bag. Since his shift that day would be around 6 hours long, he wouldn't have much time afterwards for anything more than dinner, and maybe a little studying, if he wanted to get some decent sleep before an early class the next day. Knowing this, he went ahead and put everything away. He had about forty-five minutes before he would have to get ready for work and head over there, so he decided to use it doing research for his journalism topic.

Jason wasn't sure just how much research he would require. His childhood hadn't exactly been... orthodox, so he knew quite a bit about human trafficking and the like. Still, he decided some statistics would be useful. He couldn't exactly give Professor Kent a personal testament to the life of a street brat, and he couldn't get all that information on that one sheet of paper even if he wanted to.

Jason decided to stick to the facts and what would probably pass for a very short research paper. He gathered statistics on the number of kids that were sold in human trafficking on average per year, the gender, age, and ethnicity percentages, areas where they ended up, and how many kidnapped kids were generally recovered. Jason found it to actually be a lot more interesting than he had thought, and he got sucked into his research. By the time he snapped out of the zone, the clock told him he had less than an hour to get ready and get to the library.

Jason forwent a shower and dressed quickly. He then left his dorm and walked over to the library. Luckily, it wasn't too far away, so he arrived a good ten minutes early. He was greeted by his new boss, who showed him how to sign in and gave him a quick tour of the offices and where everything was. She then handed him off to another member of the staff whose mission was to show him what would be expected of him during general work hours. Basically, he was re-shelving, helping anyone who asked for it, checking books out, and other general stuff.

Once he had shown that he had the hand of things, the lady, Terry, left him to it with a pat on the back and an overly nice, "You're such a fast learner, Jason!" He meandered throughout the library, pretending to be organizing the shelves while actually checking out potential new reads. Working at the library seemed like it was going to be pretty easy going, not that Jason expected any different. Still, he had hoped he would actually get to read. Instead, he figured, he would probably have to make sure he looked busy or actually was busy all the time.

He was collecting a few books that had been left on tables by inconsiderate patrons when he saw a short, black-haired hottie with blue eyes hidden behind the most attractive glasses ever sitting at a table, frowning at the book he was reading. His forehead was scrunched up in concentration, and he didn't look pleased with what he was reading. Jason took a quick peak at the cover as he made his way over. "Romeo and Juliet, huh?"

Tim's head jerked up, and his jaw dropped a little when he recognized the speaker. "Jason?" The kid smiled at Jason's nod. "Fancy meeting you here."

Jason grinned. "Yeah, well, I work here now. This might become a thing, if we aren't careful."

"I wouldn't be too upset about that. Though I wouldn't blame you if you were, what with my hazardous coffee habits." Tim's impish grin told Jason he was joking.

Jason's laugh was probably a little too loud for a library, but he didn't really care. "Don't beat yourself up over a little coffee spill. That's my job." Tim chuckled and shook his head, but Jason didn't give him much time to reply. "Shakespeare fan?"

Tim's face contorted into a look of utter disgust, which became disdain when he looked down at the book he was holding. "Absolutely not. I thought I had gotten all of my basics out of the way in high school, but my adviser told me that I was missing an English credit, and by the time I registered, Shakespeare 101 was the only class that counted with an opening."

Tim didn't like Shakespeare. He was officially no longer boyfriend material.

"I like books. Not plays. Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Wolfe, Lewis, Tolkien, Atwood, Twain, Bronte, London; those are good authors. If I wanted to know what happened to Romeo and Juliet, I'd actually go see the play. Again." Tim ranted without taking a breath, so by the end of his tirade he drew in a big gasp of air.

Okay, so maybe Tim was boyfriend material. A little. Maybe.

Jason cleared his throat. "Well, I happen to love Shakespeare." Tim gave Jason a sharp look. "Mostly for the insults though." That got him an eyebrow raise.

"The insults?"

He nodded. "The insults. Shakespeare was a master of insults. The master. Throwing out a few Shakespearean insults at whatever dumb-ass had a problem with me always made me feel like the smartest guy in the room. Or alley, to be accurate. Then again, I usually was the smartest guy." Jason smirked. Tim's eyebrow didn't drop.

"What kind of insults?"

"Well, there's the good ol' fighting words, like, 'Methink'st thou art a general offence and every man should beat thee,' or 'I'll beat thee, but I would infect my hands.' I always liked those. There's also, 'The rankest compound of villainous smell that ever offended nostril,' 'Thine face is not worth sunburning,' and, 'Thou art a boil, a plague sore.'" Tim cracked up, and it was disturbing a few of the other patrons, but Jason could not care less. "My personal favorites though are, 'Thou sodden-witted lord! Thou hast no more brain than I have in mine elbows,' and, 'Would thou wert clean enough to spit upon.'"

Tim was still laughing, and Jason partially blamed it on the posh British accent he'd been using. When Tim had calmed down, he looked up at Jason with a smile. "Okay, so I guess Shakespeare isn't all bad."

"Yeah, but none of those were in Romeo and Juliet though."

Tim frowned and sighed. "This class is going to kill me. I didn't pay much attention to Shakespeare in high school, and I'm not all that good at it in general. His writing is too flowery and stuff. It's like decoding poetry in an ancient language."

Jason smirked. "It basically is decoding poetry in an ancient language. Or at least an ancient dialect of a modern language. Maybe try thinking of it like a puzzle." Jason remembered that Tim was a computer nerd. "Or maybe some uber complex computer code?"

Tim tilted his head to the side for a moment before nodding. "Yeah, I could try that. Thanks."

"Mhm. How exactly did you graduate from high school without learning anything at all about Shakespeare?"

Tim raised an eyebrow, but there was mirth in his eyes. "How exactly did you graduate from high school if you spent your time handing out Shakespearean insults in alleys?"

Jason smirked. "I didn't. I'm kind of the less-lucky version of Roy Harper. Street kid. Got my GED a year and a half ago."

Tim didn't quite gasp, but it was a close call. "Oh, dude, sorry. I just assumed, since you seem so smart and stuff... Wait, you know Roy Harper?"

Jason shrugged. "It's no big deal. And yeah, he's my roommate. I figured out you knew him when he asked me how my day was and I told him some douche-bag had the gall to spill his scalding hot coffee on me and make me late to my first class with Professor Kent." Jason laughed as Tim's face wrinkled and he dropped his head in his hands.

"You have got to be kidding me." He shook his head while it still lay in his hands. "This is not happening."

"It is, actually."

Tim looked up at him. "Asshole." Jason laughed, way too loud for a library, and he got a few dirty looks for it. "Now Roy is going to tell Dick and I'll never live it down."

"Dick is your older brother, right? Roy mentioned him."

"Yeah, that's him. He acts like a goodie-two-shoes, but he's actually just a little shit. That jerk-off never lets anything slide, I'm telling you."

Jason choked on a laugh. "Sorry, Tim. I guess life just sucks."

Tim scoffed. "Thanks for the sympathy."

Shifting his weight, Jason contemplated his next words for a moment before deciding to screw it and say it anyway. "You know, if you wanted, I could help you study. With the whole Shakespeare thing. I'm actually an expert, in case you didn't know."

Tim smirked. "Are you, now?"

"Totally. I'm very smart. For a street kid."

Tim rolled his eyes, but he had a small smile nevertheless. "You'd really help me with this?"

Jason snorted. "I offered, didn't I? It's not everyday someone else needs to pull on my Shakespearean expertise." He used his British accent again, and Tim laughed.

"That would actually be really cool. I'd like to be miserable as little as possible, and so far you've managed to make even lame-o Shakespeare a bit entertaining." The teasing grin brought out a chuckle from Jason, and he nodded his ascent.

"Alright, then. Why don't I give you my number, and you can let me know when or if you want to study?"

"That works perfectly."

The two exchanged phones and put in their numbers. When Jason got his phone back he saw that Tim had made his contact, "Coffee Douche-bag." He snorted and gave Tim a pointed look. The kid shrugged. "What? Tim is a very common name. I don't want you to confuse me with someone else."

Jason rolled his eyes. "That's what last names are for. Pretty sure there's only one Tim Drake in the world. At least, that I'm aware of."

Tim groaned. "Roy told you my last name, too?"

He nodded. "Was it supposed to be a secret?"

Tim sighed. "No, but still..."

Jason shrugged. "I get it. Rich kids get treated differently. I'd want anonymity, too, if I were you." Tim nodded, but Jason grinned. "Don't worry, Timmy. I couldn't care less about how much you've got in the bank, or how much Wayne's got, or anything else. You’ll always be the little shit that ruined my favorite shirt with a fucking latte"

Now Tim looked offended. "What do you mean, a fucking latte? Lattes are fantastic."

"Lattes are disgusting, even more so than regular coffee."

Tim rolled his eyes. "Well, then what do you drink? Soda?"

"Tea."

Tim suddenly looked interested. "Oh, that's cool. What kind?"

Jason shrugged. "Most kinds, actually. I drink plain black tea the most, but I like most anything. Except mint. That shit is weird."

Tim's shoulders shook with his laughter. A nearby student sighed harshly and said, "Shhhh!" Tim's whole face turned red and he whispered an apology.

"I've never had mint tea before," he whispered.

"Well then don't. It's disgusting." Jason decided to go ahead and whisper back, even though it felt kind of silly.

Tim nodded. "Yes, sir."

Jason rolled his eyes, but he stood up a bit straighter when he saw Terry the Librarian out of the corner of his eye. "I got to get back to work, Tim. See you around?"

Tim nodded once. "Definitely. And I'll take you up on that offer for a study-buddy."

Jason smiled as he started walking away. "Sure. I'm off work Sunday, Monday, and Thursday. Hit me up whenever."

Tim smiled and waved as Jason turned a corner. He almost ran right into Terry, but he caught himself just in time. He internally groaned when he saw her displeased expression. Today was going to be a long day.

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If you liked it, please show me some love on AO3, Wattpad, or Fanfiction.net. Every comment and like encourages me to keep updating!

[wingroad]

I was tagged by @umisabaku.  don't think I'm suitable for this meme because I am not a writer but hokay XD

1) How many works in progress to do you currently have in progress?

Hahahahah.....over 60 i guess??

But those are more of all the ideas that I put down + tiny one scene drabbles, so If I'd have to just put the actual wips I am working in *counts on fingers*

...seven.

2) Do you/would you write fan fiction?

I only write fanfiction.

3) Do you prefer paper books or ebooks?

Paper. I like to have a book in my hands and then put it back on the shelf. I only read ebooks for uni because I either couldn't find the physical copy or I didn't want to buy them.

4) When did you start writing?

uhhhh, dunno. I don't think there was a specific moment. I liked writing stories for school assignments as early as when I was ten. I wrote my first fics when I was 13, and I started at some generic fantasy story at that age too, but that never went anywhere. Then I stopped for a while and came back to writing when I was 17, but it never hit off really until like four years ago.

5) Do you have someone you trust that you share your work with?

Well, I post almost everything I write on the internet, and I talk to my friends who don't read my fics about them but I don't really send them links or anything XD

6) Where is your favorite place to write?

It used to be work, but since I'm super busy right now it stopped. I'm fine with my laptop on my bed, but I also wrote a fic on my phone on the bus and on my tablet on the train so I don't this there is one.

7) Favorite childhood book?

Urk, Anne of Green Gables? Or Robinson Crusoe. I read more children poetry when I was a kid rather than actual stories.

8) Writing for fun or writing for publication?

LOL publication.

9) Pen and paper or computer?

Well I like the IDEA of writing on paper, but I get so impatient because my brain is faster than my hand and I have the worst chicken scratch ever so yeah computer.

10) Have you ever taken any writing classes?

As in creative writing? No. I only took critical and analytical writing in college because they were required.

11) What inspires you to write?

Anything can.

Sorry for the very boring answers lmao

tagging: 

 @loose-leaf-teacanons @tetsucchin @technoranma @incarnandine @amakatarei @fi5thmoon

[existential-celestial]

Reader’s Questionnaire 

tagged by @gracebabcockwrites 1. Which book has been on your shelves the longest? i gave away most of my old books a few months ago (to make way for much *OLDER* books), but one of the few that i kept with me was The Firework-Maker’s Daughter by Philip Pullman. i bought it with my lunch money in a Scholastic Book Fair back when i was still in my puberty (lol). 2. What is your current read, your last read and the book you’ll read next? last read: On the Road, Jack Kerouac current read: SHELLEY and EMILY DICKINSON (The Laurel Poetry Series) next read: not sure yet. suggestions? :D (or perhaps i’ll voluntarily fry my brain and (re)read Nietzsche ‘cause why the heck not?) 

3. Which book does everyone like and you hated? hmmm…i do not hate it, but for me The Fault in Our Stars is overrated *braces herself for possible attacks* 4. Which book do you keep telling yourself you’ll read, but you probably won’t? i am a hopeful kind of person so please? i want to read the 400+ books on my reading list???

5. Which book are you saving for “retirement?” HAHAHA i love this question. Ulysses or The Brothers Karamazov + all my Derrida ebooks (and i always feel like i’m already fifty so i’m going to read them soon).

6. Last page: read it first or wait till the end? whenever i encounter a book, i always open it on a random page and read it, so i don’t mind reading the last page.

7. Acknowledgements: waste of ink and paper or interesting aside? i adore how authors dedicate their books. especially the first editions. 8. Which book character would you switch places with? hmmm…i am not sure if i want that to happen. however, i like Jane Eyre so much, though i’m not sure if i am capable of wandering a moorland for three days without food. 9. Do you have a book that reminds you of something specific in your life (a person, a place, a time)? for some reason, i have a strong affinity to the first few books i have read in the early part of 2016; i believe this is because i stopped reading books for the pleasure of it when i got into university and it was only last year when i got back to enjoying reading again.

10. Name a book you acquired in some interesting way. here’s a little story: i made a friend back in my senior year in college and we both share the same love for BBC’s Sherlock. come one December, she just showed up in my house and gave me this special edition copy of The Hound of Baskervilles with an introduction by Benedict Cumberbatch (!!!). i was so happy and so touched. however, she regressed into another depression, and she disappeared. i pray to God she is better now. i’ve always been rooting for her.

11. Have you ever given away a book for a special reason to a special person? yes! twice now, yes. :) 12. Which book has been with you to the most places? M is for Magic by Neil Gaiman! it went with me to a lot of coastlines, mountains, and outside of the country. my favorite story from the collection is How to Talk to Girls at Parties. 13. Any “required reading” you hated in high school that wasn’t so bad ten years later? to be honest, i didn’t like studying this 15th Century epic called Ibong Adarna, and i do believe the textbook translations back then are just…bad, because looking at it now, it looks pretty good (also, i enjoyed the theatre and film adaptations of it, so it must be really the book translations).

14. What is the strangest item you’ve ever found in a book? not really strange but i found a torn receipt from Home Depot (San Jose, CA). whoever owns it bought lithium batteries back in 2008. it was inside a poetry collection by Whitman. another special account is this book + ephemera found inside :D 15. Used or brand new? strangely, old classic books here are worth almost as much as brand new ones so the “old books are cheaper” argument is definitely out of the window. still, i prefer old books. nothing beats the scent of vanillin breaking down with time + marginalia + inscriptions + ephemera.

16. Stephen King: Literary genius or opiate of the masses? how do you measure genius? i think it’s very arbitrary. if people found solace in his works, then i think that is enough. 17. Have you ever seen a movie you liked better than the book? i like the ending of the film adaptation (US) of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo more than the book. 18. Conversely, which book should NEVER have been introduced to the screens? my thinking here is more on the author side: if a production company wants to make a film out of your book, then congratulations! right? 19. Have you ever read a book that’s made you hungry, cookbooks being excluded from this question? not really but this is something close: a short story by Roald Dahl called “Taste.” i drink wine rarely but the story makes me want to be a wine connoisseur. if you are up for it, go listen to the audio version read by Richard E. Grant (or was it Stephen Fry?); i find the audio version hilarious. 20. Who is the person whose book advice you’ll always take? definitely this lovely blog. another is that i love learning about the literary influences of my favorite authors, so i try to explore and read those works too. and really, send me book recommendations; i’m open to them.

21. Do you dog ear your books? Do you underline/write stuff in your books? yes and yes. i write my thoughts on the margins; sometimes poetry fragments. that’s why i find it hard to lend my favorite books to people (although i actually offer them); i buy them copies instead.

thank you, Grace. i actually enjoyed this.

—

(NO PRESSURE) tagging @illuminosity since i can’t seem to do the a-z book list (sorry!), and @witness-to-hope. 

[saxrohmerwon]

Tagged by @bassclarinetprincess

Rules:  Always post the rules, answer the questions given to you, then write 10 questions of your own, and tag some friends!

1. Favorite city (or town/small island/et cetera) in the world and why?

Okay, so I honestly fundamentally don’t understand how people can have strong attachments to places, really. Because when I look back on a place, what sticks out most is not, like, geographic features/architecture/sightseeing, it’s the people I was with and what experiences we shared there together, which all in all has very little to do with physical location. So I’m weirdly attached to Northfield and I love Belfast and Galway because I had stellar experiences visiting (I plan on going to Belfast if I ever lose my way in life and need to “find myself” at one of the two adorable gay bars there and Galway for retirement, where I’ll be a cranky but loveable expat who runs a gay bookshop and goes to the market every Sunday morning).

2. Describe your favorite scent/s.

I like the ones most people like? Lavender, pine, cut grass, fire, etc. I really liked the smell of gasoline and cigarette smoke as a kid-- grew out of gasoline, sort of still growing out of the cigarette smoke stuff.

3. Who is/was your favorite teacher and why?

I really enjoy my feminist theology professor because he’s a good person clearly trying his best to help and understand other people (even if he is a bit of a White Liberal). In high school, my favorite teacher was for AP Gov. He had the much-coveted skill of able to relate and connect with his students but still wield authority in the classroom, and I actually learned so much in his class (actually went into college wanting to be a poli sci major because of him). Also he drank Red Bull every day and was constantly done with everyone’s bullshit-- I think we bonded on a deep level there.

4. What is your favorite poem?  (Substitute with “song” if you don’t have a favorite poem.)

“One Art” by Elizabeth Bishop. Always so relatable. Also, I feel like I should seek out poetry more instead of just getting by with the same handful of poems I read in my English classes, but eh.

5. Weirdest thing you’ve ever heard out-of-context?

I don’t remember a lot of the things I hear out of context, even the especially odd ones. But I do remember the people and events I see out of context, particularly when leaving work. A few weeks ago, there was a woman who got on top of a pile of cars and just twerked for like 30 seconds before stopping flat-out. At the same intersection (different day), there was a man who pulled up to the curb in a car that was completely missing a wheel-- the end of the spoke was just wrapped up in a punch of rags. He pulls over, jumps out of the car (the engine’s still running, he has a large paper cup of soda in hand) and runs over to the repair shop (where the aforementioned pile of cars was). I see him talking to the mechanics who work there in the yard for a few minutes, then he runs back-- drink still in hand-- and agonizingly drives the car over. It was only agonzing in that the car was an awful, slow, horribly loud sight as it dragged across the pavement. My bus came before I saw the end of that story, but I would have liked to see the beginning. 

6. Best concert experience?  (If you have never been to a concert, what do you hope your first concert will be?)

Technically not a concert, but Trinity Ball was basically a music festival and I pretty much spent the whole time making out with a girl while Bloc Party was playing in the background, so that wasn’t bad. I also have tickets to see the Mountain Goats in November (why are they playing the same day as St. Vincent???) so that will probably be a transcendent experience.

7. Favorite holiday (or other special occasion) and why?

My family is really good at half-assing holidays, but recently my mom kind of tries for St. Patrick’s Day-- making Irish soda bread, corned beef, cabbage and lentils. It’s not much, but it’s a lot for one of those holidays that’s really just a big thing only so people can get drunk, and proportionally more effort than my family puts into, like, Christmas. (But I do like our Christmas tree-decorating banter-- taking jibes at each other, arguing about current events, making terrible puns, and freaking out over the same bizarre ornaments every year)/

8. Did you ever play an instrument growing up?  If so, how did it go for you?

Cello in elementary school-- and I broke it. Guitar in middle school-- didn’t break it, but never ever practiced so I can’t even play “She Loves You” anymore.

9. If you were given $100 today, what would you do with the money?

Save it for like two days and then spend it on food for during my residency/supplies for writing workshop (I feel so fake leading a writing workshop-- especially one in which I try to tie in social justice stuff-- but money can’t buy self-assurance).

10. What’s the scariest movie you have ever seen?  (Define scary however you like.)

I don’t watch a lot of scary movies, and the ones I have seen didn’t scare me a lot. I’m going to say Ingloreous Basterds, because the way film bros misinterpret that (as well as everything else Quentin Tarantino has ever done) makes me fear for the future of art and humankind.

Now, for questions:

1. What’s your favorite article of clothing?

2. Do you still sleep with a stuffed animal?

3. Do you believe in heaven? Hell?

4. Do you listen to podcasts? What are your favorite ones?

5. What was your go-to game during recess?

6. Where do you see yourself in the next ten years-- not in a job interview kind of way, but actually?

7. Do you have a favorite visual artist? Who are they?

8. Do you really like a food that most people think is disgusting? Or, do you like a popular food to a disgusting degree?

9. What music did your parents play in the house/car?

10. What would you tell your 15-year-old self?

Tagging @etchabecks, @b00sadley @sweet0777, anyone else who wants to answer this nonsense.