#anyway yearning poem of all time. suits them.

[platoapproved]

O YOU whom I often and silently come where you are,          that I may be with you; As I walk by your side, or sit near, or remain in the          same room with you, Little you know the subtle electric fire that for your          sake is playing within me. —Walt Whitman

[matchamorphosis]

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ 1-800-𝓘-𝓛𝓞𝓥𝓔-𝓤

𝓼𝓾𝓶𝓶𝓪𝓻𝔂 || waiting for you and your beau’s dinner reservation later on tonight you and he spend valentines day together through the devotion of your dial rotary telephone

𝓰𝓮𝓷𝓻𝓮 || fluffy smut

𝓹𝓪𝓲𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰 || steve rogers × [black//woc]!reader

𝔀𝓸𝓻𝓭 𝓬𝓸𝓾𝓷𝓽 || 4.6K

𝔀𝓪𝓻𝓷𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓼 || 18+ nsfw, introduction to phone sex but i don’t go any bit further, body worship, captain kink, one bibical mention, reader gets spoiled to the t!, but still this is not suitable for anyone that isn’t 18+

𝓼𝓸𝓷𝓰 𝓹𝓻𝓸𝓶𝓹𝓽𝓼 ||  move over darling by doris day ♡ all of me by billie holiday ♡ unforgettable by nat king cole ♡ dream a little dream of me by ella fitzgerald & louis armstrong

𝔀. 𝓷𝓸𝓽𝓮 || this is my gift for the divine @denisemarieangelina! for @chrissquares​ + @drabblewithfrannybarnes + @amythedvdhoarder Hoelentine’s Day Challenge! ♡ i’m very anxious to share this because i did this simpler version of writing then what i’m usually used to but I hope you enjoy this lovely and happy valentines day! muah! ♡ please tell me if you don’t like this because i can always add onto this if you want more! ♡ anyways i hope you cherubs enjoy this to! ♡♡♡

     BABY PINK ENVELOPES FILL THE SPACE IN YOUR HANDS

     humming along to the musing record that spins on the turntable the kitchen is alive with the sentimental lyrics of Nat King Cole and Billie Holiday you sway your leg over your knee as you read the bush colored letters. the quaint apartment complex fills with blissful warmth, for the maiden in the kitchen enjoys her breakfast yearning for her partner to return as quickly as he promised. analyzing the intricate curves and dips of Steven’s handwriting, it pulls you into a hypnotizing trance as your mind fills with nothing but his deep voice as you read along. 

     cordial elements wrapping the visible areas of skin your Valentine’s sweethearts button down doesn’t cover. it is a relaying fact that the crisp expansive piece makes your body seem petite but because of its obscene size the fabric falls past your shoulders in a graceful fashion. clumsily buttoning up the blazer wrongly that early morning, it only adds onto the carefree nature that exhibits and adds onto your soft sways and musical hums. 

     reaching for your steaming pink mug of milk chocolate cappuccino that lays near more open letters and more envelopes free from their wax sealings. you plan on opening all of them throughout the day, holding onto the handle you bring it up to your soft lips. attentive fingertips trace the cursive black ink of Steven’s handwriting in a lovesick gaze. the accidental ink splotches and small charcoal sketches of floral anatomy make the pace of your heart slow in a tender beat. 

     despite your devoted attention being on your beau’s love letters there are other envelopes that aren’t just from your Steven. although to make it easier to recognize the difference between the uninterested letter from past lovers and secret admirers Stevens envelopes are printed in your favorite shade of pink. 

     these darling letters that Steven is now confident to share with you are filled with small poems. being terrified of gifting you in the early phases of your relationship, your holding the multiple pages amongst pages of dazing sketches of your bodies beautiful features. paragraphs that outline his love letters to you which he kept hidden in a journal. reading and daydreaming as you take in each poetic sentence of your beau explain and sharing each love struck moment of his days that he adored spending with you. 

     the timeline of these letters go back from days, to weeks to whole years. it astounds you how you’ve never caught Steven in the act of writing poetry or making a love entrée yet you aren’t at all complaining. however the envelopes were a surprise to come across to when you looked over the mail. they weren’t in your daily sack delivered by the porter but laying in a huge pile on your kitchen island before he left that morning. 

     they went handsomely with his gifted bouquet of your favorite flowers that decorated each room of your apartment. a bud of them you found laying amongst the colorfully cream colored candles is now in your hair tucked behind your ear. Steven’s handwriting displayed on the front- 

     for my darling 

     they were just waiting for you to read and so here you are soaking in each vow hidden in his whimsical sonnets and ballads. 

      smelling both the sweet nectar of the flower and the divine cocoa of your cappuccino you continue reading from his letters. mirthful eyes dashing along each word of the little poem he wrote for you, the gleaming smile that frames your face doesn’t settle down one bit as you read and sing them not louder than a breathy whisper. giggling aloud and kicking your bare feet in the air when you read Steven’s beautifully crafted poetry centered and dedicated to you and only you. 

     the letters seem to distract you from the vast amounts of gifts, arranging from exquisitely wrapped small boxes to large gift bags bearing designer brands. Steven sent each gift along with the blush colored letters but they lie unattentively under your pedicured feet that bounce along with the turntable. singing along Billie Holidays lyrics of April in Paris as you continue to read and sip from your chocolatey cappuccino. the letters themselves are elegantly scattered onto the marble island where you bite into one of the buttery croissants that are bunched in a wooden basket you have prepared since the morning.  

     of course you weren’t supposed to eat alone, by all means this day of domestic and fairytale romance wasn’t suited to be spent alone. it of course isn’t suited for you in the slightest, not like you to bear this inconvenience. 

     in front of you -well behind the sketches your dreamily admiring- rests a large breakfast consisting of baked sweet and savory pastries, sunny yellow omelets and fresh ripe fruit. the early meal was suppose to be a little feast for both you and the public hero but of course your heroic beau had his urgent errands to run. a phone call rudely interrupted the session of your passionate lips and tongues destine to spiral you both on the cloud of desire. 

     the ringtone acting as nothing but an irritating background noise, it cause the blond to pull away to deal with it. walking away from you and out of your private bathroom suite and as obvious as this is going to sound- Steven didn’t decline the call. from your position as you sat on the marble and gold flecked kitchen sink, your hand rests on the golden swan at the faucet. 

     listening as you heard him hum along to whatever the dispatcher had to say before hanging up and heard his footsteps coming closer and there you say your lover. smiling to him as you pulled him towards you, lips gracing his he cut the devastating news to you of his unplanned errands. apologizing to you with a kiss but ending it with a promise for an intimate dinner reservation he did plan beforehand. 

     then with a change of clothes, he was out the door but you willed yourself to not be upset at him. your Steven always kept his promises and you were still swooning over the lovely events that happened last night that still show the results of it all on your skin and a delicious soreness in between your legs. ending passionately in wine soaking your thoughts and actions you both headed to your apartment and tangled in your sheets. you now are wearing his button up he wore to the dinner reservation that night, slightly wrinkled yet smelling of Stevens entrancing cologne.

     it brings you back to that night and you could still feel the searing butterfly traces of his lips along your collarbones, neck and breasts. dainty and vivid as the white sunshine that streams through the high white apertures of your apartment. 

     it’s all beautifully cinematic 

     the music playing on the record as you enjoy your breakfast while reading your lovers letters to you. chocolate spread used to smear over the flaky pastry in your hand smears the corners of your lips and you wish Steven is here to thumb it away. a sorrow filled sigh break through your lips, knowing these letters are all you have of him at the moment as he’s out busy at Stark Tower doing only god knows what and bumping heads with only god knows who. silence only greets those thoughts and you realize that the collection of records playing your favorite romance artists have stopped sounding out their hearty tunes. 

     frowning, you get up and replay the record before returning back to the kitchen and to your seat. hands go back to the letters and your heart warms up in a matter of blissful seconds, cheery contentment dawning your face in delightful charm. although a question still dances along the crowded ballroom of your mind-

     whatever will you do with the time you have alone on Valentine’s Day awaiting for your beau? 

     it is only eight in the morning, Stevens plans are set around nine tonight and you could do so much more than just doll yourself up. finishing your lavish breakfast you begin tidying up once you place another record on the sitting room turntable. the music flowing throughout the large and finely furnished apartment, it creates a heavenly picturesque glow that brightens the golden framed paintings and renaissance clawfoot furniture. 

      you feel like an old Hollywood actress staring in her romantic comedy, it makes you nothing but languorous glee. the beauty of your vivid imagination pulling your typewritten script and setting your scenes to hear the director yell action! manifesting the movie with each pirouetting step, you feel the timeless sensation of Audrey Hepburn and Elizabeth Taylor gracing down on from the heavens. 

     singing along with the records, recited movie lines from Breakfast At Tiffany’s and Rear Window. romantically immortal films consisting of elegant tailored outfits of Chanel and Moschino that the leading actress would flirt with her on screen partner, long and lust filled stares between your lover and the epitome of transatlantic accents that would make an European swoon. 

     the craftsmanship of your fantasy aiding you by hiding away any untouched breakfast foods, biting into a jam filled puff pastry you keep the sweet confectionery in between your teeth as you organize Steven’s letters. filing them from the ones you have read, that you carefully fold back into their envelops- to the ones you plan on reading later. clearing them away safely on an ivory tabletom dancing along with the beat of the record. 

     pulling yourself back into the visionary scene of your beloved vintage films, a baby blue Dior headband frames your heads crown and keeps your untamed bed hair away from your temple as you start a kettle of tea. retrieving your personally cherished china set from your glassy cupboards, soaking your desired teabags, home grown herbs and honey dewdrops into the separate porcelain teapot. turning the nob on the stovetop off once the screeching kettle ready with boiling water becomes louder than the music, it quietly dies down and you hum as you place the boiling water into the small porcelain teapot.

     steam erupting, its soothing when the scorching water drenches in the tea ingredients that begin to linger a sweet smelling scent. peachy cheeks soft and dewy as the sweet sunshine bounces off them, you carefully unfold each divinely wrapped box covered with glossy ribbons and confetti gift bag covered in strawberry scented tissue paper. blowing and sipping from your tea cup, you tenderly bundle Stevens button up around you as you examine his gift. 

     each eye grabbing and more expansive with each one passing you look over the heavy offering of baby pink and cream tulle trimmed Agent Provocateur lingerie. the occasion of lacey babydolls and pink fury teddys holding cupid hearts coming once with every three bags you also discover the silver Tiffany charms in powdered pistachio blue boxes. pastel pink heart-shaped pastel boxes of Chardonnet et Walker pink marc de champagne truffles make your mouth tingle.

     mink coats and cashmere sweaters dedicated to wrap you nice and warm in the snowy weather. a starlight smile shines at the fact of Steven remembering you looking through a few catalogues days after New Years. princess cut Dior earrings that shine like dangling stars and heart-shaped Prada handbags that would make any winged cherub strike their golden arrows into. 

     Steven always went above and beyond with your Valentine gifts and you weren’t even halfway done with opening the boxes and bags but seemed fit to prepare yourself for the day ahead of you.

     curves swaying along with Louis Armstrong's flaunting trumpet and Ella Fitzgerald's sweetly divine vocals once you get from your criss-crossed position on the floor. passing the wrapping paper and ribbon bows scattered in a sprawled lovecore mess, you make your way to your bedroom. bare feet adding against the carpet, passing golden framed body length mirrors and vase upon vase of flowers and burning candles. a silver tray bearing the porcelain petunia painted tea kettle, china tea cup and Stevens letters in your hands. 

     entering your open bedroom filled with crisp sunshine, your eyes dash over to your mess of a bed. white sheets that once held two giggling and kissing lovers is now empty with the exception of your pet laying lazily on the wrinkled plush comforter. blowing a kiss to the sleeping fluffy beauty before opening the molded white door to your private suite. 

     dancing along the white marble of the floor you run your bathtub full of hot water. taking your time preparing your dress and the lingerie you’ll wear tonight, it wasn’t exactly easy. Steven took a great joy in gifting you all the luxuries of jewelery, lingerie and clothing you desired, took great joy in fucking you in them as well. but as you enter the bathroom and exit to go through your wardrobe in your closets you go through boxes upon boxes of lingerie. 

     rummaging the organized baby pink boxes that you took hours organizing, you did realize that some bralettes were missing their panties yet you remember your gentlemen liked keeping a pair or two in his office when he’s away. you settle with not wearing anything Steven bought you but what you ordered on a website that caught your attention, more so intrigued of the fabulous singer and actress who ran the brand. 

     the divine deep red Valentines Day pieces of Fenty Lingerie were expansive but so was your credit card as you ordered the whole collection. hiding the box away from Steven and his too curious grasps you now reveal the box and open it. taking out the desired heart bralettes and Gartier belted thigh highs that went along with the lewd sheer panties you let out a delightful squeal at the thought of Steven ripping off your silk slip dress to reveal this sinful number.

     sipping from your tea, you go through your jewelry boxes settled on seashell chests on your vanity. retrieving your dearest diamond accessories to go along with the slip dress you head back to the bathroom. the water rising to your favorable height you fill the marble crest with rose petals, rose oils, rose water and rose bubble bath. of course, with Steven’s relentless showing of gifts there were enough Italian imported red wines for you to bathe in but you settled for your rose bath set that was tucked in the corners of your towel closet. 

     burning Diptyque candles around the tub, you settle your delicate cup down on the tray. departing from your beaus button down, you sink your feet and body into the floral water glowing in pearly bubbles smelling just the tint of sea salt. dissolving your thoughts and worries in the soft pink-hued mist your hands reach for Steven’s letters. carefully undoing the crimson wax seal your fingers grasp the letter and polaroid photographs it holds. 

     giggling when you read that this specific letter is about you and Stevens first time. reading along the lines of his amusing embarrassment of him not knowing what he was doing exactly it still warms your heart when he stated in his own writing that he was grateful and happy to share that moment with you. 

     the letter going into detail of all the moments that break you into laughter- such as when you and Steven rolled off your bed unaware as you and him were to wrapped in the passion- to your face heating up when he went into erratic detail of his hand placements on your ‘Aphrodite like body encouraging the Aries affair to overturn gracefully, to repent in no favor but yours’. 

     not being ashamed to write down every moment of the midnight passion. from the way you tongues and lips were locked and didn’t dare separate for air, to how his hands ripped your clothes into shreds ‘to praise and worship the skin that sparkled and shone like buried treasures for my hands to caress’. a heavenly burn begins fluttering in between your bubble sud thighs when you look over the polaroid's. some you took and some he took but all in all they showed you and him doing, well- 

     your first time 

     a slow hand that doesn’t hold the scandalous polaroid's flows down to your bubble covered breast. pinching the nipple, the sensation only sends the pleasure down south to your hidden jewel. biting your bottom lip, you crave for Steven’s hands. crave his lips, crave his touch... 

     generally, his attention but you cannot go past your golden rule no matter how good the thought of your fingers stroking your folds sounds. knowing its best to not break the rule of touching yourself without his permission the thought of it sits pleasantly in your head. trying to distract yourself the growing sensation with his other letters and plucking one of the fifty fluffy macaroons that lie on the pretty Laudree packaging. 

     Steven gifted you all the luxuries that would substitute his absence, but all you ever wanted was him

     heart thumping in this truth you again attempt to distract yourself with his blush colored letter. cooing at Stevens cute sketches of you and reading poems dedicated to his first impression when meeting you- but you cannot think of anything or concentrate on anything but the first letter. giving cheating glances back to the polaroid's, your glance is captivated by Steven’s handsome and muscled physique in the contrasted filter. the faintly colored noir-film like pictures emphasizing on his golden skin rippling against the sheets caging you in with his arms. 

     the night replays with the jazz music in the ballroom of your mind, throwing your head back you feel yourself underneath him just as you were then. hands in his hair and his clenching the sheets besides your head when you kiss passionately as he rubbed his hard member against your forbidden fruit.   

    it didn’t help your case at all that you’re embellishing that night into your thoughts. it’s only making you desire your sweetheart more and more, needing him more and more as the minutes passed. 

     wanting- no, craving to hear the sweet music that is his voice    

     yearning to descry the divine tinge of his tongue clicking to his teeth when you says your name so sweetly. to imagine the movement of his tulip petal lips as he speaks his ‘I love you’s’ like a prayer and he’s on his knees for a goddess.

     oh you needed it just as much as his instructions on how to handle your distressing state. realizing the soft pink dial telephone that stood at the opposite side of the tub you bite your lip in thought. 

     should you call Steven?

     it makes you wonder, shifting against the water careful to not spill any over the edge. chewing on a raspberry macaroon at the thought, you pout not knowing exactly what you’d say. you and Steven have been in a relationship for years now, it should be simple to call your lover and talk to him about this yet a sparking idea light up like a shimmering star above your head. 

     you and Steven were both helpless for dirty talk, your words and underlying message would pull him out of whatever he was in to cater to help you with your problem.

     your thundering impatience and searing lust had shameless minds of their own as you pulled the cushioned ottomon closer to you and dialed Steven’s office number through the rotary disc. heart strumming along with the music continuing to play in the distance you do not exhale a breath as you hear the sound of the phone dialing. the powdered pink handset in your hands. chin resting on the rim of the porcelain tub as your lips brush against the mouthpiece in the shape of a heart. 

     when the dial ends with the sounds of him about to speak a gleaming smile radiates off your lips, pulling the handset closer to you to speak.

     “Steven!” your giggle that follows afterwards makes a dimpled smile pull at the blond’s lips and he lightly chuckles. 

     your presence melting away anything else that captured his attention away from you. fortunately you weren’t the only one craving the love and affection of your partner, Steven was in a busy meeting with Tony and the other avengers at the grey and stern table. argued his way through and pursuing a solution to the worldly crisis that was in their hands but with the progress he’s making he’s sure to help the team come to an agreement.

     “how are you doing, my love? did you enjoy your gifts? i’m counting down the hours till I pick you up for our reservation. treat you how you should be treated today,” Steven’s tender words breaks your dreamy state and your wispy babydoll lashes flutter at the sound of his voice. 

     “well right now i’m taking a bath. drinking some tea, reading your letters and i just so happened to cross on this one specific letter…” your teasing voice flowing through the mouthpiece and into Steven’s ears. 

     striking his brain, trying to comprehend what you're saying and trying to decipher whether your giggles are aimed towards him or onto something else. you made it known how much of a tease you were, from your suggestive dresses you’d torture him with when you’d attend gala’s to your shameless yet elegant class as you’d whisper all the dirty things you want him to do you once you two got home.

    indeed it worked like a charm, sometimes it left little self control as he’d take you in that backseat of the sleek vehicle. it’s definitely working now

     “alright what are going on about you little minx?” Steven states, a tint of his dominance in his voice but you continue to drift in your fit of giggles as you bend your knee to your chest in exuberance. 

     pulling Steven’s letters that rest besides the silver tray of macaroons and tea, you hug them to your chest as you reread his paragraphs upon paragraphs of his thunderous thoughts and detailed emotions ravaging you in sinful detail. 

     “oh, nothing Stevie... just couldn’t stop thinking about a little something, do wanna know about it?” 

     “absolutely darling. anything is better then being in that room with those blockheads,” Steven didn’t know he said that thought aloud but you don’t care. 

     you’re panning on relieving the throbbing pleasure pulsing at your slicked core and maybe undo some stress he’s under if he’s a fair distance away from wandering ears.

     “will do Captain, ‘the second our mouths collided was an ambrosial taken place. a supernova in labor between our bodies thriving to find our peak, creating a cosmos of divination as her walls wrapped around my cock. the indescribable pleasure as unforgettable as the dimple at the corner of your fiery lips and enchanting sparkle in her eyes. the moans that flowed from her mouth soft and encouraging-

     “‘-as I wrapped her thighs over my shoulder and thrusted my cock deeper and deeper into her forbidden fruit. her sweet, forbidden fruit so sweet I wouldn’t dare reject if a serpent offered so.’ I was hoping you’d read that special one, you need to understand how lovesick I was for you then. i’m still lovesick about you now but its gotten impossibly stronger now than before.”

     that statement makes you shift in the water, rubbing your thighs together as your fingers rest in between them. imagining its Steven’s large hand that’s pinned at the plushness, however you’re yearning for the warmth, security and skill they hold that your hands don’t nearly possess.

     “lovesick you say?” you purr, the sinful sound rolling off your tongue it makes roses blush on Stevens cheeks.

    an unknown tightness of his trousers making itself known, he grits his teeth at your tactic but he cannot help it. he gives in so easily for you, it impossible to repent and withold

     “yes doll, i’m lovesick. lovesick for you and only you. now answer your Captain, did you enjoy your gifts?” his voice growing and deepening, lust soaking his thoughts and hardening his member at the thoughts of you, you, you.

    holding the phone in between your ear and should as you pluck another macaroon from the assortment. a smirk plays on your lips knowing that your plan is working, you can here his little grits and groans as he locks his office door. 

     “I did enjoy your gifts Captain, and I love the fact that seventy percent of them all are tiny pretty things that barely cover my body. I love giving you a good show when you get home from work,” your voice smooth as the buttercream roses you decorate with your heart-shaped cakes.

     your free hand tweaks at your nipple, the remands of strawberry vanilla from your previous macaroon stick on your tongue but how how you want to taste the pre cum that leaks from Steven’s tip. the filthy thought has you abandoning your breast to give attention to your cunt, a whimper excluding your lips when it burns so good at just the touch.

     “mhm I knew you’d enjoy them doll. you always pull such good performances for me in them. so sweet and pretty, all for me to rip it off you,” you don’t mean to slip past a moan as your fingers rub your pearl but it’s too late to take it back when he hear Stevens stern exhale.

     “are you touching yourself sweetheart?” his voice isn’t smooth and suave no more but raspy and demanding, making your fingers stop their rubbing motion.

     “n-no,” you fib but all you want to do is sink in the bubbly warm water when you hear Steven darkly chuckle.

     “don’t lie to your Captain sweetheart. are you touching yourself? tell the truth,” you gulp at that, mouth shaking as you bring the sound piece of the handset closer to your lips. internally hoping and praying that Steven will give in to you, even when you’re breaking a golden rule. 

     “yes. yes I am Captain,” your breathy whisper holds all the euphoria and lust you're body is swimming in and it doesn’t help that you hear the metal clank of a belt unbuckling.

     “without my permission?” you can’t decipher his voice, whether or not he’s angry or disappointed your fingers stop tracing the bubbly surface of the pink tinted water.

     “y-yes, Captain- but I just couldn’t help it! you left me and my mess alone this morning. i’m so lonely here without you,” you mellow, your fingers once again tracing your lower lips. 

     not daring to plunge them deeper once you hear the light sound of Stevens heavy breath fanning into your ear. shivers sending up and down your spine deliciously, it’s like he’s here with you now even when he’s on the other side of the city.

     “mhm, you just couldn’t help it, sugar can’t you? you need me right now don’t you sweet girl? you need your Captain to help you?” nodding hysterically along with him.  

     coming to a realization that your lover can’t see you nod your head, your pretty lips you’d let him kiss and use any day pull into a pout. knowing you’re going to have to beg him to allow yourself to touch your pussy.

     well, his pussy

     “yes please! I-I need you Ste- Captain! please I need you!” your breathy voice begs and on the other end Steven has a smirk playing on his handsome face. 

     it’s hours until he’ll be done with his meeting and hours until he picks you up for your dinner reservation but he’s in your debt. you never know this but Steven was sprawled in your hand, whatever you desired and needed he’ll give you within the snap of his fingers. if you needed him when he’s away, he’ll make it seem he’s right near the tub. guiding your fingers in and out of your hole and leaving praises and affirmations into your ear.

     “how can I say no to you doll?”

♡♡♡ thank you for reading! ♡♡♡ pretty please like, reblog and/or comment what you think and if you enjoy this follow me to read more of my future works! ♡♡♡

𝓇𝑜𝓈𝒾𝑒'𝓈 𝓅𝑒𝓇𝓂𝒶𝓃𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉 || @cloudystevie ♡ @steebsbabygirl ♡ @lovelyblxckgirl ♡ @honeychicana ♡ @afriendlyblackhottie ♡ @bearbear0923​ ♡ you may comment down below or throw me an ask if you’d like to join my taglist!

𝓭𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓭𝓮𝓻 𝓬𝓻𝓮𝓭𝓲𝓽 || @chrissquares​ ♡ go follow her account and check out her fics! ♡ she also has loads of cute dividers and other related things! ♡♡♡

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ my storybook || aka my masterlist!

[yan-twst]

Omg i loveee your Yandere headcanons! May i request some general yandere relationship headcanons for the Vice dorm leaders? Sfw and nsfw for the 3rd year ones(Trey , Lilia and Rook)? ✧\(>o

warning: general yandere content, nsfw under cut (contains dubcon [although it’s not heavily implied nor explored, and it’s never stated that consent was not given, it’s still uh... yan nsfw so it is what it is], mentions of drugs)

trey clover

already written! can be found here: [link]

ruggie bucchi

ruggie is greedy with his darling

it’s just, he rarely gets to have things for himself- he’s so used to having to scrounge up scraps, to hand-me-downs, that finally having something (or someone) that’s entirely his just... drives him a bit nuts

if his darling is weak and docile, ruggie will take on a more dominating role, but if they’re more feisty and confident, ruggie can also be incredibly desperate and almost... meek? male hyenas are naturally submissive in nature; if his darling can activate that natural instinct in him, he’ll melt like putty in their hands

hyenas will break even the bones for sustenance; ruggie has no trouble getting his hands dirty if it’s for his darling, and that’s part of what makes him so terrifying. violence? underhanded methods? please, that’s child’s play for a slum cat like him, really

despite usually being quite careful with his money, ruggie will dote and try to spoil his darling as much as he can. he sees this as the ultimate form of affection- money is hard to come by, so spending it on gifts for his darling... well, that’s gotta be the most romantic thing, right?

as much as he likes to play rough from time to time, he’s also a sucker for spending quiet moments with his darling, especially when he’s tired after work. if his darling acts nice, he’ll be sweet as sugar (with some teasing here and there, of course); make him angry, and they better be ready to have a “little accident” that may leave them bedridden for a few weeks...

jade leech

people are usually less scared of jade than they are of floyd- which really isn’t of much use. jade is equally, if not more sadistic than his twin; he just hides it better. and that’s dangerous

sure, he might not be azul and can’t trick his darling into signing their freedom and life away, but he can still keep them where he wants them. pressing their deepest fears and insecurities out of them isn’t a struggle- and he knows just how to use that info to his favour

jade will be very careful on how he approaches the ordeal of breaking his darling into being perfectly docile and calm at his side. he’ll get them to associate pain and coldness with the outside, and he’ll mark himself as comfort, warmth, everything good.

this isn’t to say he won’t be rough. far from it, really. jade may act like a gentleman, but it’s absolutely clear he finds entertainment in punishing his darling

and yet, he’s there to comfort them the second it’s over: oh, poor thing, they’re crying... did it hurt? oh, it must have, hm? would they like a cold compress? he’d hate for their skin to bruise... perhaps some balms? there, he’ll run a warm bath for them- let him escort them to the bathroom. they wouldn’t be thinking of trying to run away after this, would they?

even if his darling is dead-set on trying to escape and hating him, this is something that he will win no matter what. the mind can be bent and manipulated: and over time, his darling will realize (to their horror), that anxiety begins to build when jade’s away, that they only feel truly safe in his arms...

jamil viper

jamil’s whole life has been giving. give the asim family his services, give his parents the assurance he’d do as he was asked, give kalim the spotlight, give, give, give. so when jamil can finally take, he makes sure that what he wants is truly his

with his unique magic, it’s really no hassle to just take his darling and lock them up wherever with no hassle, but... that’s almost too easy. he knows best that the most satisfying results come after hard work

jamil revels in earning his darling’s trust. oh, so naive, to befriend him so easily. don’t they find it suspicious how he’s usually so abrasive to other people, but so nice to them? do they really think everyone who approaches them has good intentions? 

getting close to his darling also means separating them from others. he has no qualms in using his magic to stir up conflict- how weird, that all of his darling’s friends suddenly had a big fallout that nobody can seem to find the cause of, huh? well, at least he’s still there, right? he’s their only real friend it seems!

he’s fantasized about kalim’s betrayed and crushed face for years when he finally revealed his hatred- of course, that was... a bit ruined, since he overblotted and all. but it’s equally as delicious to see his darling’s horrified and betrayed face once he shows his true colors, once they can’t run away

jamil has no issue in keeping his darling under snake’s whisper for long periods of time. he’s incredibly talented, after all. however, he won’t keep it on always: he does want them to stop trying to escape even when they aren’t under his spell

his ultimate goal is for his darling to obey his every word without him even needing his spell. he does love them, after all: it just feels all that more genuine to receive a kiss from someone not being controlled by magic (even if they’re being driven by fear of punishment)

rook hunt

rook adores romance. he’s read poems about great men falling from their power because of their hearts, of longings so desperate the poets feel like they might really die of yearning- and to finally feel that himself... it’s so intoxicating, really. he understands now, how greedily the heart aches for the one it wants

he’ll take his sweet time. observing, watching his darling from a distance. rook sees beauty in boring, everyday things- his darling’s bedhead, the way they snuggle into pillows at night, how they twirl a pen in their hand when studying, the way they fold their clothes... he watches it all, and falls into obsession a bit more every time

rook might come off as a bit overwhelming at first, when he does approach his darling. he... seems to have very little shame and a lot of interest, but it’s charming, at first. he likes to snatch his darling away on romantic lunches, leaving them poems in their desk: it’s romantic at first. others see it as a very sweet move in rook’s part, even if it freaks his darling out quite a bit just... how much he seems to know about them

it isn’t surprising to anyone, but rook enjoys a good chase. when his darling is finally freaked out enough to try avoiding him and somehow he keeps showing up, when not even locking the doors seems to be enough, when they’re running and crying through a dark forest in some vague hopes of losing him, rook feels more alive than ever

he’ll keep his darling by his side, but he doesn’t mind letting them slip from time to time just to hunt them down. he sees it as fun, even if he might get angry if it’s a bit too much of a common occurrence. he loves his petit lapin, but they better not test him too much, hm?

lilia vanrouge

he’ll be quite playful at first, popping out from the ceiling upside down to scare his darling, telling them stories about baby silver and whatnot. but he’ll also make sure to make himself a reliable figure, someone they can turn to for advice and help

he’s so fun and looks so cute, his darling won’t even realize how he’s sneakily working behind the scenes. slowly isolated from their friends, being fed “advice” that simply drives them into his territory- lilia exells at doing all of this without his beloved even realizing he’s up to something

he’s patient- he’s lived for so long, charming his darling over months is absolutely nothing. before they’ve realized, their only companions are lilia and his trusted diasomnia members; and by then, it’s too late. lilia can snatch them up and do as he pleases: his dorm members might even aid him if he asks

he’s got a sadistic streak, so he’ll purposefully egg his darling to do things he’ll punish them for. lilia will let his darling think he missed locking the door, or accidentally left a weapon laying around- but of course it wasn’t an accident, and now he gets to punish them

at the same time, he’s got an oddly nurturing side to him. he can’t help but see his darling as a weak and adorable thing, compared to him: he’ll coo over them and hold them close, insisting on helping them with simple things. he’ll also try to force them into a parental role on his little makeshift family- but of course, they don’t get any of the responsibilities that come with it... it feels like playing house, almost: a horrible, painful game of house that never ends

NSFW (under cut)

trey clover

he isn’t very forceful, really. trey’s libido isn’t low by any means, but it’s not like, ridiculously high anyways. still, he has no trouble just jerking himself off right next to his darling in bed; well, if they don’t want to help, then they’ll have to watch.

still, he isn’t above slipping aphrodisiacs into food. it’s not even hard- doodle suit can cover up any bitter medicinal tastes, and he gets to have his darling melt into his touch and beg for him. yup, he adores that

he’s in charge, always. despite not really needing restraints or punishment to have his darling indulge him- really, he’s got them so... trained that his words are enough, he’s still very much so into tying them up

trey will degrade his darling when he’s in a bad mood and also horny. it’s a shocking change of pace: usually he’s all sweets and love, and then he’s growling into their ear how much of a whore they are, look, their body is basically trained to react to his touch, don’t they have any shame? 

he might not be pushy when it comes to this sort of intimacy, something not all yanderes share, but that doesn’t mean he’s not rough when he does get to fuck his darling. he enjoys leaving marks all over them- also being marked up, too.

trey will make his darling beg. he knows damn well that this relationship isn’t normal, but fuck it, he can almost believe his darling is with him of their own accord when they beg for him to just please fuck them please, please- he doesn’t particularly mind it’s probably their mind turned to mush after hours of edging, or the aphrodisiac he put into their cookies

rook hunt

for all his creepy stalking and his obsession with his darling, sex with a very obsessed and protective rook is usually... romantic. soft, even. he’ll light candles and be gentle- romance, love... it’s almost like a scene taken right out of a cheesy adult romance novel. it’s romantic and thoughtful enough his darling can truly forget, for a second, he’s essentially their captor

well, it’s that way... for the most part

rile him up enough and he’ll snap. he cares for romance, yes, but do you know what he also cares for? fucking his darling in whatever piece of furniture because he’s at the end of his patience and they’re just so tempting

he’ll mess with love potions and aphrodisiacs, or any other spell he comes across with, but it’s not that common. he prefers to make his darling writhe under him without those things- it feels more like an achievement. feels more like love

it may seem uncharacteristic of a pomefiore student, but he’ll demand to have love bites or scratches left on him. he won’t even ask to cover his darling in hickeys. he sees it as part of the “natural beauty” he covets so much, evidence of love, affection... obsession

if he’s chasing down his darling, all that adrenaline will go straight to his cock once he’s finally caught them. he doesn’t particularly care it’s the middle of a dark forest- he really might just tear his darling’s clothes apart and take them right then, the adrenaline and rush from the chase driving him on

lilia vanrouge

yandere lilia nsfw headcanons were written already, can be found here: [link]

[the-trans-otter33]

Poetry Night

Posted on Ao3:

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Sanders Sides (Web Series) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Analogical - Relationship, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders/Logic | Logan Sanders Characters: Anxiety | Virgil Sanders, Logic | Logan Sanders Additional Tags: gay boys, Kissing, Poetry, College, Logan is in college, hes an english major, Virgil is an EMT, no they didnt meet in college, they both love poetry, yes they have facial hair, sue me, im unconditional in the boys styles, poem, apartment roommates, please ignore typos I beg, Virgil put out a roommate application form btw Summary:

Virgil and Logan go to Poetry night together every weekend at Virgil's favorite nightclub. Neither of them have every shared any of their work. But Virgil figured that now was the time to change that.

~~~~~~~~~~

Logan shuffled uncomfortably. Virgil had a hold of his index finger, as to not hold the entirety of his crush’s hand. Virgil led them through a crowd of people at his favorite nightclub.

Ever since meeting Logan, he’s got to admit the amount of times he’s showed up for poetry night has increased tremendously. Poetry night was really the only time anyone ever saw him there but even then he didn’t go every night. Then when Logan arrived as his new roommate in his apartment, he became a regular there. Both of them went every single time Poetry night was an event.

Logan absolutely loved poetry, it was his favorite thing. Besides Virgil anyway. Virgil and Logan had been crushing over each since day one, but neither of them wanted to admit it. Logan, as an English major (and creative writing minor in a nearby college) was more than ecstatic when he learned that his roomie had a secret passion for poetry too. It did seem a little odd to Logan at first, Virgil being an EMT in training and all.

Virgil was an anxious ball of messiness most of the time, but there’s nothing more exhilarating to him than having a chance to save someone's life. That's why he became an EMT. He wasn’t a full paramedic yet, but he did just get hired. When Logan learned of this, it truly did just make him swoon even more. A part of him wanted to have a heart attack just so the hot emo EMT he lived with could resuscitate him.

Nevertheless, they both loved poetry and secretly each other. They had lived together for 3 years now and Virgil wanted to do something before Logan got his degree. Virgil, at this point, could barely handle himself whenever he looked at Logan. His roommate had changed so much since when they first met.

A lot of that is Virgil’s fault, making Logan feel more comfortable with his sexuality and his off putting personality that he grew up to hate.

Virgil had watched Logan change from a silent, short haired, clean shaven, polo wearing nerd into a Long haired (he usually wears a man-bun that kills Virgil) , bearded hipster that bore fancy dress shoes, perfect black slacks with his suspenders flowing to the floor whenever he unhooked them from his shoulders.

He always wore different colored button ups (Virgil's favorite has a rainbow pattern) and depending on his mood, a suit vest or one of Virgil’s jackets. At some point, all of their laundry got mixed up and the two gays were so tired that they agreed to just share their wardrobes and wear whatever they wanted. This also killed Virgil, deep down to his core.

Logan has done a lot of the same for Virgil. He encouraged him to dye his hair (pure white) and cut it into a messy (yet somehow smooth???) Mohawk. It was at that point that Virgil decided to get an eyebrow and lip piercing. He was lucky they lived in such a liberal area too, otherwise he’d never get hired as an EMT anywhere else.

Virgil also bore his brown sideburns, letting them grow out after Logan threw the shaving products out of their 7th floor window in a fit of rage (It’s a long story).

Virgil pretty much wore the same exact clothes as before, just with Logan’s wardrobe added in for whenever he felt like it.

Currently though, Logan was being placed right in front of the 4-feet-off-the-ground stage. It was practically nothing to him and Virgil, both of the men being 6’3 in height.

“Virgil, when exactly are you going to tell me what is going on right now?” Logan gained that little smile of his, crossing his arms as Virgil took a step back.

“Well, I can’t exactly tell you, Lo. But I need you to just stay right there and don’t move for the next,” he checked his watch, “minute and twenty-five seconds?” Virgil spoke with a shrug and shield of nervous energy.

Logan nodded, “Sure.”

Virgil kind of hopped between his feet. “I’ll be right back, I guess. You’ll see me.” He didn’t give Logan much time to argue, given as he bolted from the area and Logan actually lost that tall EMT in the crowd. Damn Virgil’s anxiety fueled methods at making himself blend in like a damn chameleon.

Logan looked around. He hoped that Virgil would get back sooner than just a minute. He wouldn’t want Virge to miss the poetry displays and he would hate to miss staring at Virgil getting lost in the words spoken from the stage they yearned to be at every weekend.

That is, until the lights dimmed and the crowd shushed itself. A silhouette of some tall man could be seen sliding across the stage, to the center. Logan’s eyebrows raised and his eyes widened in shock as the lights slowly brightened once more. And there he was.

Virgil stood there, where Logan dreamed of seeing his crush so frequently. Virgil had the microphone in hand, refusing to look anywhere but Logan. He had never shared his poetry to anyone before, besides his roommate but that was a given.

Virgil cleared his throat before he began to speak, clearly having memorized his piece.

“There’s something there that I hold, hidden within the halls,

It surrounds my very being, my every breath, it even bounces like a rubber ball.

Here where I stand, it is so clear, that this thing I hold is very dear to me,

It seems to be a man, wearing glasses and bearing a bun I can’t ever not see.

He’s tall and free, a lot like me.

Bonded by homosexuality,

those beautiful hazel eyes see me for me and have always cared.

It was in recent times that I dared to plot my scheme, after three years.

In terms of dating, both him and I are wet behind the ears,

But I’d love to give it a try if he’d be mine.

Who is this man, I see everyday?

A man I share my home, my life, my everything with?

He’s here with us today, among the crowd of eyes.

There he stands, right in the middle.

Logan McNamara

I’ll speak the truth and ignore the lies.

Would you like to become mine?”

Virgil connected his and Logan’s eyes, letting a smile wash over his face. Logan felt heat rise upon his cheeks, tears almost coming to his eyes as he felt his body move involuntarily. Everyone in the crowd was watching him and Virgil, waiting to see if Logan would say yes.

Logan moved to the stage and lifted himself onto it. He marched over to Virgil, who watched him with anxious eyes and that beautiful smile. Logan took the microphone from his crush’s hand and tossed it aside.

“Virgil?”

“Logan?”

“Yes.” Logan stepped forward, wrapping his arms around Virgil’s torso. Virgil quickly wrapped his around Logan's torso and neck before the English major leant forward, connecting their two lips with a sweet chaste kiss.

[ginazmemeoir]

Kashibai-Mastani

I was inspired by @allegoriesinmediasres to right this fic. It’s three pages long, so i would advise you to sit tight.

Kashi stood numb as she watched the projector curtain burn. She felt that Baji had burnt their marriage of 20 years too in a single night.

Mastani drew in a breath as Bajirao drew her closer in the Aaina Mahal in open defiance of his mother Radhabai. The anger on her face was clear, and Mastani felt as if she was committing a crime, when she shouldn’t have to.

It had been a year since the Aaina Mahal incident. Baji first reduced his visits, and then stopped altogether. He spent most of his time with Mastani in the palace he had specially constructed for her. The only time he saw Kashi was when she came back from her mother’s home after delivering her secondborn who was at length christened Raghunathrao (she called him Raghu or Raghoba). Even then he had left immediately to assist Mastani with her birth. Kashi hated a small part of herself for wishing that both mother and child died that day. She did everything to convince herself that she was happy, but the shock of betrayal had left her hollow. The maids and noblewomen were silenced by her sister-in-laws, but Kashi felt the sting of their taunts. She tried to believe she was luckier and happier, for she had the support of her entire kingdom and family, but really she just felt stripped of everything – cast adrift in a cruel sea.

Mastani now knew the true meaning of heaven. Yes she missed her father’s palace very much, but she would even trade the pleasure of a thousand jannats to spend time with Baji. He was teaching Krishna to walk right now (she insisted on calling him Krishna, while Baji called him Bahadur), and she felt she was in a dream – beautiful and fragile, and she feared it would break one day and she would wake up cold and alone.

Kashi didn’t know what to do. She considered her options – Mastani and her son’s death would mean that she had a chance to get back everything she had. But she knew nothing would ever be the same – her husband would be a broken man. No matter how much she wanted, her conscience wouldn’t let her commit such a crime, not today when she was worshipping Ganpati, the lord of auspiciousness and happiness. She went and told Baji during the aarti and they both rushed to rescue her, reaching just in time as she slew the final assassin and collapsed. Kashi hugged Bahadur and checked him for any harm. Then looking at Baji, she left and sent for the doctors.

Mastani felt her dream was cracking. She remembered each cruelty she had experienced at the hands of the Peshwa elite – staying in a brothel, being asked to dance in a private audience, and now almost being killed. She now feared for the life of her son, but one look at Baji, and she knew he would do anything to keep her safe. But just for her sake, she asked her father to send a contingent of her loyal Rajput soldiers from Banda.

It had been six years since things changed between her and Baji. Her wounds were healing, and Kashi was going to invite Mastani today for Gauri Padwa. As she reached Mastani Mahal, she heard both children giggling. The mothers couldn’t be happier that the animosity between them hadn’t affected their children in anyway – Raghoba and Bahadur were practically inseparable. Kashi stood near the threshold for a long time. She took in all of the palace – a marvel truly, it was a fusion of Rajputi, Mughal and Marathi architecture. There were jalis and jharokhas, a space she thought was meant for dua and ibadat and then a shrine dedicated to Krishna. Truly Mastani was wonderful. The palace was bare and elegant, sprawled instead with lush gardens, courtyard and fountains. She spotted an armoury, fit for warriors like her. Mastani was reciting poetry to the children then – it was about a pearl yearning to get out of the clam and embrace the ocean. Her poetry was magical, meanwhile Kashi wrote poems about a frog who ate nothing but laddoos and farted. Finally, the kids were sent away and Kashi entered.

Mastani saw Kashi standing near the threshold. She didn’t invite her, but instead used the poetry as a cover to recollect what she knew about her. They hadn’t met often, but on the rare occasion they had, she had found her to be collected and composed, watching everything silently. Mastani’s father had desperately tried to teach her these court manners, but failed on watching her giggling. The rest, she knew from Bajirao. He described her in astounding detail, like one would describe the full moon. She was innocent, but was a born empress. She navigated the deadly world of politics with ease, disarming opponents with kindness and taunts at the same time. She had established a strong rapport with her in-laws, and being the daughter of the richest banker in Pune, she had a head for numbers. Baji even described her palace while constructing hers -  it was an elaborate architecture, covered with statues and intricate carvings. There were not many gardens and the armoury was absent, but there was instead a well equipped kitchen and atelier, with foreign supplies. Everywhere one looked there was light; the entire structure was covered in arches of diyas, lamps and chandeliers. Her room was painted in bright colours, and there was a coveted bronze statue which must have cost a fortune. Kashi was every inch the empress she was. Shooing the children away, she invited her.

Kashi didn’t know what overcame her, but the poison she carried with her for six years came out pouring like a river. She had no sense of what she was speaking, but she knew it was not fit to be spoken by the Peshwain for the Princess of Budelkhand.

Mastani had expected this. She called her mistress and whore, a destroyer of homes; this she heard everyday – what she hadn’t expected was for her to start crying, then apologize and tell her to be strong, and then invite her to the Padwa function she had organized in the main palace.

That day both danced and revelled, ate food, prayed for happiness and shared as women, and unwittingly both had created a place in the other’s heart.

The next week Baji finally visited Kashi’s palace. The place had changed – it was not lit by lamps anymore. Kashi now knew what she was doing; she lashed out at Baji, called him a thousand cruel names. She reminded him of the way he hurt her, and then didn’t even care to come. So she banned him from her palace henceforth. She then wished him a long life and victory in battle, as he headed out to Hyderabad to quell the Nizam.

Mastani gave Bajirao his armour and swords. The right was reserved for the Peshwain, but Bajirao felt a warrior princess was better suited. He felt eerily calm as he shared a cryptic message with her and then rode off to battle.

Baji had fallen sick with fever and there were sores over his body. Palanquins were readied for Kashi and Radhabai in the dead of night along with a regiment of doctors, nurses, maids, cooks and soldiers as they headed to Rawalkhedi, when Kashi halted the procession. She went down from her palanquin, and rushed out, returning with Mastani and her son. Baji needed her. However Radhabai still had her way – Mastani was to come with the soldiers, cooks and maids later on. She arrived two days after Kashi. Bajirao rushed out of the tent to embrace her. That was the first night his week long fever broke.

There was not much to do, and so Kashi and Mastani spent most of the time together. They talked, laughed, ran, played games, and wept. Before long, both the women were fast friends.v

Baji was declared dead. All were shocked beyond measure. Nanasaheb was called from Pune to light fire to his father’s funeral pyre. He was then anointed Peshwa at Rawalkhedi. Kashi and Mastani now knew the real meaning of separation. They felt as if the precarious thread from which their lives were connected had snapped.

Weeks went by even after reaching Pune till Mastani emerged from her palace. As regnant Peshwain, Kashi was immediately swarmed by duties. Both women started moving towards the other, finding solace in the other’s company. It was time for Kashi to shave her head and burn her clothes and jewellery. Mastani convinced her otherwise – she was a human too, and her life without Baji just had as much meaning as with him. Both gave each other courage, and soon friendship blossomed to love.

They embraced each other in a secluded garden like they were the last humans on earth. Kashi wept, for she thought their relation was not meant to be. Mastani was made of stronger metal. She wrote a letter to her father the next day, asking his permission to marry Kashi. It took a week for the letter to arrive with the best of runners. The letter was in her mother’s writing. Both parents had blessed the union, but advised her to move with caution, even telling her to come back to Banda where she would be safe.

Mastani broke the news to Kashi. Kashi couldn’t believe her ears – what she believed was impure and irrational, was indeed love, and Mastani was willing to sacrifice everything for it. Kashi mustered all her courage and contacted her father too. The letter was delivered to her in secret – her father reaffirmed her that all love is pure, and further warned that if the Peshwas further tried to snatch her daughter’s happiness, he would make paupers out of them. Both sets of parents convinced, the only obstacles left were Radhabai and Nanasaheb.

Radhabai had reformed after her son’s death. She had accepted Mastani and her son, and even inculcated mullahs along with pandits to educate the young Peshwa princes. However, it took a lot of diplomacy and some tears to convince her of the union between a Hindu and Muslim widow.

Nana was a tougher nut to crack. He loved his mother, but still hated Mastani with a burning intensity, blaming her for his mother’s sorrows. He had always stayed under his grandmother’s shadow, and thus his young mind had already developed rigid ideas surrounding religion, caste, and women. It took two months for him to accept the union, after realizing the need for his mother to have a partner, and her right to be happy.

The wedding was conducted with full pomp and gaiety. The entirety of Pune, the Maratha nobility, and the relatives of both the brides arrived for this strange ceremony taking place. The ceremony was conducted through both Hindu and Muslim customs to keep religious tensions to a minimum. Both brides were resplendent and happy, and then retired to their quarters.

Their marriage ushered a new peace in the Maratha empire – strengthening unity and for the first time raising questions about women’s and widows’ rights. Mastani had headed with her son to the Battle of Panipat as a diplomat and was instrumental in brokering peace. Kashi played her part as the Peshwain to perfection, handling the increasingly autonomous Maratha chiefs.

They retired after the battle to a palace within the woods. The women lived in peace, and served as an example for history – that love indeed is boundless.

[ladyxxdaydream]

Of course feel free to ignore this if its stepping boundaries. And if it is im sorry!! Im processing heartbreak of my own (3 years and it ended abruptly last summer) so I feel for you when you talk about yours (though I know yours was longer, im sorry). I actually found NATA a bit after and it seriously helped me through some of the toughest times, I kid you not. And then I'll Fall did as well and then all your others lol. And through falling in love with them I fell back into this fandom and back in love with writing and back in love with loving, honestly?? Despite the pain, those stories kinda made me a romantic lol. I was so hurt (still hurt) but I dunno.. they helped me really wanna do better, get better, strive for more. They helped me not give up on love and not close myself off which I always used to do. Ahh I dunno, I just wanted to let you know that your work has been a big comfort to me. And again if I overstepped, im really sorry!

I read this hours ago, and then re-read it several times, and then sent it to two of my friends, all while crying. I am so, so touched. this is probably one of the sweetest, most amazing things anyone has ever said to me.

i’m going to put the rest of my response under a cut because its gonna be long and your vulnerability is something i want to meet equally.

listen. when i first read this... i wanted to be bitter. bitter because I’ll Fall and NATA are directly influenced by my eight marriage that just ended; those are the only two fics I’ve written that are connected to my relationship, and ironically (or maybe not lol) my most popular and well loved stories. I’ll Fall is the story of how my partner and I met -- some of those scenes are directly lifted from my life -- and so much of myself and my wife are written inside Iruka and Kakashi in NATA, chronicling how our relationship grew over time. Of course, those stories are heavily embellished and transformed into a plot but my point is... reading that they helped you not give up and love, both broke my heart and healed me all at once.

I remember when my relationship ended, NATA was not yet complete, and I had this horrible moment where I thought: “if the seed that directly inspired them ended, then they also need to end.” I LITERALLY CONTEMPLATED DIVORCING THEM. But I am not a horrible person lmaoooo and of course they are a completely different entity than my marriage -- they were inspired by each other, not one in the same.

Even though that was my first reaction to your ask, it quickly faded away. Because... I find it absolutely beautiful and so incredible that my stories made you not give up on love, and to not close yourself off, and help you move on or let go. Because while my love (and your love) ended... it doesn’t mean it didn’t exist. It existed. It was real. And it was beautiful. And then it ended. And that’s okay. Love isn’t finite. And it comes in so many forms. And every variation of it is unique and special. Love will come again. It’ll come many times. Even if it’s not in the form of a person--love is everywhere, and everything.

And you know, writing that final chapter for NATA, a few months after my break up, was actually cathartic. I thought it would feel like a lie, but it didn’t. Writing them reminded me of how beautiful love can be, and I’m really grateful for it. I, too, learned a lot from them. They also served as my coping mechanism so to speak, providing me comfort and security. And I am beyond humbled and thrilled to know it served someone else in the same way.

It’s still hard for me to even comprehend, to be honest; the fact that those two fics inspire such emotional responses from people. But I think the reason people have responded to NATA and I’ll Fall so strongly, is because I laid myself bare. All my vulnerabilities and insecurities, and flaws, and heartbreak (in i’ll fall) are written all over it, as well as my experiences with love, which i’ve been blessed with richly, despite what may have happened. People always say to write what you know, and I guess I took that very literally lmao

anyway. i hope things get easier for you, if they haven’t already. i’m... five months? post-separation and still very much raw. and i gotta say... experiencing a break up during the pandemic is extra hard and weird. our friends cant hold us while we cry. we cant go out dancing or to a bar or do anything even remotely social that might help us ease us down that river of moving on, or give us that feeling of being newly single? idk?  it makes an isolating experience even MORE isolating. and has made the finality seem less real somehow? like ... sometimes i feel like im just waiting to get back together... even though i know thats not going to happen... i dont know if thats just my experience but...fuck.

i think my only advice is just... let yourself feel it. my biggest tool is meditation and trying to stay present. my favorite set of mantras recently is very simple -- each word corresponds with an inhale / exhale:

in/out

deep/slow

calm/ease

smile/release

present moment/wonderful moment.

And this quote by Louise Erdich:

“Life will break you. Nobody can protect you from that, and living alone won't either, for solitude will also break you with its yearning. You have to love. You have to feel. It is the reason you are here on earth. You are here to risk your heart. You are here to be swallowed up. And when it happens that you are broken, or betrayed, or left, or hurt, or death brushes near, let yourself sit by an apple tree and listen to the apples falling all around you in heaps, wasting their sweetness. Tell yourself you tasted as many as you could.”   

And this poem by Buddy Wakefield, which might seem like an odd thing to watch while heartbroken but shrug??? lmao it’s a tear-jerking but also a real honest show of love at it’s finest.

And music. Music has always been a balm for my soul. Or cracked me open. Sometimes I need to be cracked open. Crying is the best medicine.

Suit of Armor by Danika Smith

going thru by christian alexander

holy by jamila woods

chin up by yoke lore

conversation by lucy rose

plus a zillion more.

ANYWAY, anon. I’m here for you. And my stories will always be there for you, whenever you need them. 💖 sending all of my love!!!!!!!

[beast-feast]

I'm a sad yearning man, I like reading sad things that make me cry and imagine myself with my f/os, here's some quotes from A Softer World that leave me in shambles:

"There's a whole world off this island. All it takes is one long swim to start over. Tell my mother I love her."

"Looking back on that day, I can't help but wonder: What if I had brought more bread for the ducks? Did I bring this on myself?"

"They pulled our names out of a hat, and when he broke down crying in the parking lot, I wondered if I was making a mistake."

"Go ahead, invite some man to live with us. You think he'll clean your hair while you sleep. You think he loves you like I do?"

"On my mom's birthday, I put on my best suit, I get a haircut. I pretend she's coming home."

"A girl in my class killed herself last week. Everyone says there's a note she left behind. Everyone says she mentioned me."

"Everyone expects me to be jealous, instead of relieved, to have his hands off me."

"We bet him five dollars that he would drown. A bittersweet victory."

"As a child I killed animals. Not for any rush, but because they seemed so sad, and I didn't know what else to do."

"Through your bedroom window, you look so sad at night, and I imagine that I am what you need, but realize- that's crazy."

"I woke shaking from a dream where she died in that desert, and you held me and said; 'I'm here,' which wasn't good enough."

" I have a list of stupid things to do before my suicide. I keep going back, though, making sure I did everything right."

"On days like this, I would just disappear if it weren't for you and your love. Like nails in my feet."

"Truth and Beauty are wonderful words, but shrapnel is shrapnel, and at the end of the day, I am alone with the things I have done."

"I am going to build a new boyfriend out of garbage and dirty feathers. No one else will touch him."

"We are terrible for each other, and, yes, we are a disaster. But tell me your heart doesn't race for a hurricane, or a burning building. I'd rather die terrified, than live forever."

"Home is where the heart is, until we get a chance to bury it."

"I love you like crazy. If anything happened to you, I wouldn't know what to do. Turn myself in, I guess."

"I woke up and everyone on Earth was gone. This is going to be like a nightmare. Any day now."

"I never wanted anything to happen to my parents, but a hero needs an origin story."

"We can see the mushroom cloud and we are going to die soon, no matter what we do or ear or say. I wish I had known this all along."

"At first I was angry you had fallen in love with someone else, but you seem so happy now. I didn't even know you were sad."

"I have done up a list of pros and cons for suicide, and both sides are equally full of bullshit."

"She wasn't perfect, but I loved her, y'know? I would kill everyone here to bring her back. Anyway, good luck, class of 2008."

"All my dreams came true. I just didn't think them through."

"Before we met, I was so scared of dying. But if the end comes today, this will have been enough."

"Judge if you want. We are all going to die. I intend to deserve it."

"I've been keeping a fake diary, so when they make a movie of my life, people will think I was happy."

"I wish you were dead. But then I would hate myself for waiting by the grave, instead of the phone."

"Roses are red, and violets are blue! I love you baby, and you love me too. Or you certainly will, if that Stockholm syndrome thing is true!"

"The world is ending and people are taking pictures that won't last."

"Today it occurred to me I could murder someone, if you were with me. You make the old things fun again."

"I always thought violence didn't solve anything. Until one day it did."

"I love my puppy. I love that he is so young and full of life. And that he will still die first."

"I love you, but I don't love you enough to give up falling in love."

"Maybe the Earth would be better without us. Safe and clean and perfect, like a toy nobody ever played with."

"You are a good person and I love you. This just isn't the life I hoped I'd have."

"I wish I could just push a button to make you happy, when I feel like it."

"Sometimes I wish I was born a girl. I'd like makeup and pretty dresses, instead of just having this vagina."

"I used my one wish to make myself smarter. Smart enough to wish I was more kind."

"I wish there was a better word than 'sorry'. But then I'd probably need a better word than that."

"I know that I don't deserve you, but that's okay. Life's not fair."

"You are the love of my life so far."

"You make me want to pretend to be a better man."

"I finally developed a computer with feelings. It just doesn't have feelings for me."

"This town isn't big enough for the two of us. Let's run away together!"

"I know you don't love me, but there must be something I can do to make you a better person."

"You won't live forever in their memories. The way you treated them will."

"If you died, I would go through hell to bring you back. That would be easy. I'm not sure how to deal with us just drifting apart."

"Okay, now imagine I am falling in love with you. Can you picture it? Now picture it backwards."

"I never meant to hurt you. You have to believe me. I wasn't thinking about you at all."

"You were my everything, which, upon reflection, was probably the problem."

"I would sell my soul for a soul worth keeping."

"I don't believe each person has just one true love, but sometimes we don't have enough time to find another."

"You are never so low that you deserve to be lower."

"I'm the best at what I do, and what I do is think about my mistakes."

"The worst person you can think of gets scared sometimes, too."

"Do you ever get the feeling that God has a plan? And you're the only one who can stop it?"

"The more things change, the more you still don't love me anymore."

"I think up ciphers to trace onto your skin, because it doesn't feel safe to just say I love you."

"When I look at you, I can't help but think Hell must be missing an angel."

"You don't love me, but you used to. I wanted to say thank you for that."

"The terrible things that happened to you didn't make you you. You always were."

"When I look at you, all I can see are the mistakes we are going to make."

"I wish being a good person could erase the bad things I've done."

"You aren't really a good person, but god damn you make bad look awesome."

"I don't know how to make things right. So I'll just keep pretending that nothing's wrong."

"I wish I'd never met you, so I can meet you again."

"I can only infer that love exists from its effects on others. I know I want love, but I have no idea who will make me happy. Emptiness doesn't know its own shape. I do not believe in love at first sight. But god damn. There are so many first kisses in the movies. But if they had ever kissed you, they wouldn't dare. Waking up next to you is like other people go to sleep in and keep dreaming. When the world ends the sea will boil, the skies will turn to ash in the lungs of everyone who isn't safe in your area. Good just keeps going and going, until it seems more like 'okay'. I can't remember our first kiss. Was this really all it was? Nothing can change the way I feel about you. I wish it could. For a long time I thought that I deserved better, but the truth is we both deserve better than this. I wish there was a word that meant 'goodbye' for someone who was already gone. I don't want a world without pain or loss. I just want them to mean something."

"I'm in love with the you I wish you were. I only stay with you because you look like him."

"Just once I'd like to fall in love with someone who will ruin things before I do."

"Hello, what is your return policy on animals? I think this dog you sold me knows what I did."

"I would never hurt another human being, for free."

"Sometimes I want to ruin my whole life so I can start over without feeling guilty."

"The only thing we leave behind when we die is fear."

"I wrote you a love-poem computer virus, that self replicates and mutates and lives for your smile."

"All I want for Christmas is you to still be alive."

"If I ever get murdered, don't tell the cops a goddamn thing. It's what I would've wanted."

"I like to secretly alter my friends' diaries and put in ghosts, visions, happiness."

"I know my mom loved me. It's called Domestic Stockholm Syndrome."

"Your touch brings me to life. Not like Frankenstein, like HAL."

"I want to carve our initials in the bark of everyone who ever hurt you."

"I'd love you more if you were someone who could love me."

[lillotte17]

So...I’ve been dabbling in some sort-of-not-quite-there-yet ‘Solavellan’ stuff featuring @feynites  Pride in her version of Elvhenan. And I...don't really know what all I’m doing with it yet, but I’ve got like 6 pages and it’s cute, so I’m just going to fling it on the Hellsite and call it a day.

Tenacity is a very small spirit. 

It came into being deep in the wilds during a particularly hard winter. Animals scraping bark from trees and digging up roots ad other less than appetizing things in an effort to survive. Plants pushing up through the snow, fighting for a glimpse of sunlight. A rushing stream steadily beating against rocks and ice until it could wind its way to the sea.

It had been a little confused about what it was meant to be at first. Perseverance or Stubbornness, or perhaps even Hope. Because, despite its size, Tenacity had felt that it embodied a very big feeling. Something solid and bright humming through its entire being. A candle burning in a dark room struggling to push back shadows as best it can. 

Curiosity had helped it see the truth of its nature, though, and it had led a good life out among the trees and lakes and mountains. Encouraging new life and helping plants and animals find their way around various hardships. 

But in the end, it was its own curiosity that led it near to where the elves lived. It wondered if perhaps some impression of the other spirit who had helped it form lingered in them still, for it felt a deep yearning to reach beyond itself and all it knew. There must be other creatures with other struggles that needed help and reassurance. The forest was good and safe and quiet, but the nature of Tenacity is to press forward, and after several millennia, if found that it did not have anywhere left to go within the safety of its home.

 And so it decided to leave.

It knew the risks, of course. Little spirits do not generally fare well under the Evanuris, and with so many people struggling to climb ever higher in rank and regard, it would be all too easy for it to be twisted into Obsession or possibly even Greed.

It chooses Mythal's holdings because she has a reputation for being kinder towards spirits than most. Or at least slightly less prone to sacrificing them on a whim.

Caution and shyness are not part of Tenacity's nature, but they do not wish to die. To be used in some ritual or other to fuel the fires of Elvhenan's glory. So, it contents itself with watching, for a time. It seeks companionship with others of its kind. Honor and Compassion and Duty. Sorrow and Desire and Rage. It is very different from the time they spent in the forest, but it is not certain that one place is preferable to the other.

Then it discovers the library.

And oh, it can feel the clear purpose of its being echo in that place. So many people, spirits and elves alike, all struggling to better themselves in some way. The ardor of the authors battling with words and images to portray the story they mean to tell. The readers parsing out meanings. The researchers seeking new truths in old knowledge.

It nearly shatters itself with vibrations of pure delight.  

Every day there is a new challenge, a new hurdle to overcome. A book that needs finding. Old spells that need to be reworked to suit new purposes. A poem that needs just the right words to entice a lover.

Tenacity flits every which way, helping those who will accept its assistance. Shining with intent like a fist full of flames. Joyous and giddy with the realness of all that it embodies.

He is sitting by himself the first time it sees him, surrounded by piles of books.

It is hardly a strange sight in this place, and yet there is something about him that gives it pause. Sparking that tiny imprint of curiosity within its being. It hesitates for a moment, uncertain about approaching when it does not have something helpful to say.

"You are looking for something," it says, buzzing slightly with a hint of something that might be nervousness, "But the thing you are trying to find is not in any of those books. It's not in any book. Not really. But you know that, and you read them anyway, not only because you enjoy it, but because you hope that they will eventually piece themselves into what you want. How strange."

He glances up from his book.

"You are very small for a spirit of Purpose," he notes casually.

"I am Tenacity!" it declares, zipping around him once and flaring brightly for a moment, "I want to help those who struggle towards a worthy goal. I can see it in you, the long nights of study, the blistered hands, and careful words. You are working very hard to become something you are not born to by nature. Will you tell me what it is?"

"You cannot see it for yourself?" he wonders, setting his book aside to give it his full attention.

"I am not Desire," it replies, "I can only see the toil, the wish for something more, and what might be needed to achieve the next step along the path to what you are striving for. Sometimes the want is clear, but others… Things get muddled. People think they are reaching for one thing, but it is not what they truly want, or even what would be good for them. Perhaps a more powerful spirit could see more than I can, but it would be easier if you tell me."

"You do realize that what you are asking is a fairly personal question?" he wonders.

"Does it matter?" it blinks at him in turn, "I want to know, and I'll only keep asking. Tenacious, you know."

It giggles at its own joke, to which the man sighs in apparent exasperation.

"I…was a spirit once, like you," he confesses, "But I was dissatisfied with my own nature. I hoped that with enough time and searching, I might become Wisdom. But I failed. The Lady Mythal asked me to take a body and serve her in another way, but…I would still like to pursue wisdom and knowledge. A spirit may change the nature of its being, or be changed by its environment. I would like to think that I could still alter my spirit, even though I have a physical form now."

"Oh!" Tenacity exclaims, "But that is a marvelous goal! Possibly the most admirable one I have encountered yet. Wisdom is so elusive and changing. The path you must take to reach it is long and arduous, and it will cost you much, but you can still achieve it as you are."

"Really?" he asks, sounding genuinely surprised, "How?"

"It's…too big for me," Tenacity admits, "The pieces are all there, but they're spaced out. Distant and blurry. But I can still help! Please let me! I want to see you reach your aspirations."

"If you like," he replies, smiling the smile of a person who is humoring someone out of good nature.

Tenacity whirls away, off to find books written by the greatest minds of the empire, and perhaps see if there are any spirits nearby who could point her in the right direction for helping her new friend. He has likely tried these avenues himself already, but it can see clearer paths of what information and connections will be helpful than he could. There is so much to do! So much to explore! Wisdom does not come so easily to some as it does to others. Her new friend seems very smart, but it still thinks that this will be hard for him.

It circles back to his books-strewn table a few moments later though, having suddenly realized something.

"Oh, I meant to ask," it says, trembling with excitement at the prospect of such a long difficult quest, "What sort of spirit were you before you became an elf? It might make a difference, you know!"

 He smiles at it again, with something that seems like the beginnings of genuine fondness.

"Pride."

~

The years roll by, and Tenacity finds that it enjoys Pride’s company very much. Perhaps more than any other being it has met before, although Curiosity is a close contender. He works on tasks assigned to him from the Lady Mythal, as well as researching the answers to questions of his own, all while searching for the key to wisdom, and Tenacity offers help and encouragement wherever it can. Pride is patient with its musings and inquiries, there are many things it does not understand about Elvhenan after living most of its life out in the forest, and he does not seem to mind when it bobs along after him, even when he ventures outside of the library.

He will not let it accompany him when he must attend his lady in Arlathan, however. And battlefields are completely out of the question.

It had argued the point, naturally.

Tenacity would be very good for things like bringing important messages and helping ensure that it is adrenaline and not fear that sinks into their soldiers' hearts. And Arlathan has some of the biggest libraries in the empire. And there is an entire merchant's district for it to explore, filled with people toiling each day to craft and build for their patrons. So many wonders to discover. So many achievements it could help reach!

But Pride will not be persuaded. Tenacity is too small. Its light is not strong enough. It would be all too easy for someone to ensnare it and use it to fuel the magics for whatever project they happened to be working on. Some might try to shatter it simply because they could.

Tenacity does not think it is so easy to destroy as its friend makes it sound, but it is true enough that Pride knows more about these sorts of things than it does. It nearly follows after him to the city once or twice, regardless of warnings. It thinks better of it at the last moment though. It does not think that its form is fragile, bit it is very small. It is good for going unnoticed sometimes, but it would not be good for defending itself.

Which is why it begins to ponder the notion of acquiring a physical form of its own.

The first time it voices the thought aloud is when it had come looking for Pride by following traces of him through the Dreaming, and found him practicing his sword work out in Mythal's training grounds. His tunic is light and sleeveless, and it can see the muscles in his arms stretch and flex. His brow is furrowed in apparent concentration. His skin covered in a fine sheen of sweat.

Tenacity heaves a sigh of admiration.

"I wish I could do that," it notes wistfully, floating a bit closer when Pride stops for a brief respite.

"You wish to know how to fight with a blade?" Pride wonders, pulling his hair up off his neck and wiping away perspiration with a damp towel.

"Well, not specifically," the spirit replies, "Although I wouldn't mind learning how to use physical weapons. They take a lot of time and patience and effort to master with any competence. I doubt I would make a very good general, though. Not like you."

"I would not say that," Pride grins at it, "A good general should be tenacious. You should inspire your people to fight until the bitter end."

"But the best generals know when to fall back, too," Tenacity blinks at him, "I don't know how. It is one thing to risk your own life to pursue your goals, and it is something else to expect other people to risk theirs. I…do not know if I want to be that."

"You are kind," Pride tells it, his expression turning soft, "Perhaps weapons would not suit you at all. Besides, even though there are some spirits who can form weapons for themselves, I suspect you would have some trouble with it. Any weapon small enough for you to wield would likely only be useful against the birds loitering about the palace. And we both know what sort of ruckus Thenvunin would likely stir up if you made attempts to brandish anything at them."

"I might have to if that big angry one from his garden keeps breaking out and trying to eat me," it says with a hint of annoyance, its forms shivering slightly at the memory. "But…I could learn to fight with a weapon if I took a body like yours? I probably would not have to worry about Thenvunin's vicious pets, either."

Pride frowns.

"It is true enough that a body is useful for some things," he allows, "But it is also an inescapable shackle. It changes you in more ways than you can prepare yourself for. I would not… I would advise against it, my friend."

"But you took a body," Tenacity insists, "And if I was an elf, I could go with you to Arlathan. Maybe even to camps and battlefields once I learn how to fight or heal or something useful. I could help you more! I would not be nearly so little, and I could carry much larger books and all sorts of things! I have always wanted to know what if felt like to have sore muscles and lungs burning with exertion. And sweating! I have always wondered what it was like to work hard enough to sweat. To have a shape that showed real signs of all the effort put into achieving something. It must be marvelous!"

"Sweating is highly overrated," Pride assures it, wrinkling his nose at the grimy sensation still lingering on his face and neck. "And Arlathan would hardly be safer for you as an elf, to say nothing of camps and battlefields. Not to mention the fact that becoming a follower of Mythal, or any Evanuris for that matter, would mean that you would be assigned duties. You would not be free to follow me about all day, or help people as you wished."  

"But…maybe I could help other people in new ways?" it suggests, "And if Arlathan would not be safe for me, how is it any safer for you?"

"Because I have a high rank as well as the Lady Mythal's favor," Pride sighs, "I took a body at her behest, and…I am not sure it was the right choice. Even now. I do not wish such regret upon you. As a spirit, there are only so many cruelties that others might visit upon you, and for now at least, association with me is enough to shield you from them. As an elf, there are far more ways to torment and confine and injure, and I…might not be able to protect you from all of it. I have my lady's ear, and she is kind and merciful, but even that would not stop some people. You would likely be midranking, at best, and other followers with more prestige and connections could find perfectly legal ways of abusing you."

Tenacity pauses for a moment, thoughtful and flickering. Its light glows softly, with gentleness or sorrow, it is difficult to say.

"I can't stay in a safe little box until the end of time," it tells him quietly, "Even one built by a friend. It goes against what I am. Survival is tenacious, but never taking a chance on something new is not. It is complacency. It is…stagnation. I can learn. I can adapt and grow. I can become more than I am, just like you want to be. I…do not think it would be so terrible, to be as you are."

"I will not stop you, if that is truly your desire," Pride says, his expression neutral, but his tone unhappy.

"But you won't help me, either?" Tenacity guesses, its light growing dim with unexpected hurt.

"Not in this," Pride replies, pointedly avoiding meeting its gaze, "You are my friend, and I do not wish to take part in anything that might harm you. Even if it is something you are choosing to do to yourself. Please, do not ask me again."

"Pride…" Tenacity starts, but he waves it off, picking up his sword and the rest of his gear and walking away without another word.

Tenacity sighs to itself, turning to glide back in the direction of the library. Still wanting a body of its own, but feeling a little deflated at the rejection of its friend. It will…bide its time. Learn and study until it is certain without a shred of doubt that this is the choice it wants to make. Pride will see when it is done, it thinks. He will realize that it was the right decision. Tenacity will be helpful and strong with a solid form, and then… Then Pride cannot be upset with it for taking one.  

~

Several weeks go by before Tenacity speaks with Pride again. This time he is the one seeking through the Dreaming, finding his friend in a little grove of flowering trees. Its favorite place in its old home out in the woods.

Tenacity looks a bit different than normal. Bigger and shaped more solidly, like an elf.  It has some vague suggestions of limbs and a fiery wreath of pale hair. It gleams with unexpected pleasure as it greets him, and he heaves a sigh of relief.

“I thought you might be upset with me after our last discussion,” he admits, “I did not want you to presume… Well. I still do not think that taking a body would be wise. But you are my friend, and I will not shun you if you choose this path. You have helped me several times over the years, and should you require help adjusting to things afterwards, I would be happy to assist.”

“Thank you, Pride,” Tenacity buzzes happily, its form flickering back to its usual shape for a few moments before stretching back into the one it had been holding before. “I am practicing having arms and legs to see how I like them. I couldn’t hold it very well in the Waking, so I had to come here. I am not sure I made this shape heavy enough, though. Everyone I have talked to says that most bodies are very heavy.”

“They are heavy,” Pride agrees, “Burdensome, even. And lumbering, more often than not.”

“You seem to handle yours well enough,” Tenacity returns brightly, undaunted by his warnings, “And I have seen many elves move gracefully, especially when Lady Mythal holds one of her festivals. The dancing is always fascinating to observe. I suppose it is possible that I might not be capable of steering my new body with much elegance, but with time and effort, I am certain I could achieve it.”

It twirls around him once, as though performing a waltz of its own, arms swaying like branches in the wind.

“If I take a body, would you dance with me, Pride?” it wonders.

“I would dance with you as you are now,” he counters with an arched brow, “Bodies are hardly a prerequisite for such things.”

“You wouldn’t dance with me at a festival, though,” Tencaity blinks at him with eyes like coals, “I am not the right shape for it in the Waking. I could barely hold your hand. I wouldn’t want to embarrass you.”

“You would not embarrass me,” Pride attempts to reassure it, but his expression slides into a doubtful frown.

“It’s alright, Pride,” Tenacity says gently, “I do not suppose I would be very good at dancing, even without a 'lumbering' body. I have never tried to hold someone’s hand. Or waist. Or anything. Is it difficult? The lovers that come to the library for their poems all fret about it very passionately. Almost as much as kissing. And sex. I do not have much of a head for any of it. Does it really feel like shooting stars and storms of fire and the lightest brush of flower petals all at once?”

"I…uh. I confess, I do not have much experience with such matters myself," Pride coughs.

"Why not?" Tenacity wonders.

"I suppose I have not found anyone I wished to try it with," he sighs.

"But I have seen you dance with people," it replies, slightly confused, "Did that not feel like poetry?"

"Physical touch is a curious thing," he attempts to explain, "It can feel very different depending on who is doing it and how you feel about them. One who is skilled at lovemaking may bring pleasure with their touch, but it generally lacks the…fervor one would presumably experience when sharing such activities with someone you care for."  

"So…you have not cared for your dance partners?" it asks.

"Not in a romantic sense," Pride confirms, "Some of them were pleasant enough people, I suppose."

"Then…if romance does not need to be a factor," it begins, floating a little closer, "May I attempt to hold your hand? I might be able to help the tenacious would-be lovers I meet more effectively if I had a better idea of what they wanted."

"Certainly, though I suspect it will not feel the same as if two people with bodies were touching," Pride replies, extending his hand none the less.

"I can be more solid here," Tenacity says confidently, "If I my will is strong enough, I can feel your skin against me as much as your magic."

So saying, it reaches out and places the end of one tendril-like arm in the palm of his hand. It does its best to form fingers, thin squiggling little things that curl about his own. The touch is very gentle, almost hesitant.

"I can feel your intensity and your purpose," Pride tells it, "But it still does not quite feel like skin. It is more reminiscent of…a warm breeze. Or perhaps a smooth stone that has been sitting out in the sunlight."

"Is it unpleasant?" Tenacity wonders, pulling its arm away slowly.

"Not at all," Pride reassures it.

"I believe I felt more of your spirit than your body," Tenacity admits, sounding a bit disappointed, "Spirits of Desire and Lust can take shapes that mimic bodies in the Dreaming so easily. And even in the Waking, at times. Perhaps I should seek guidance from one of them."

"It is the wishes and feelings of others that grant those spirits the ability to touch," Pride tells it, "Your will is formidable, my friend, but you are Tenacity, not Purpose or Determination. You are more adaptable, and therefore more nebulous in your shape. And attempting to touch me specifically likely ended with poor results due to the fact that I have no wish for you to be other than you are."

"I will still be myself, Pride," Tenacity promises, "I will just be…more, too."

"How can you know for certain?" Pride presses, "What if the shackles of a physical form rob you of everything you feel makes you what you are?"

"I suppose I can't know that," Tenacity shrugs, "But I would hope that however I ended up changing, it would be for the better. And if it is not, then I will have to rely on my friends, like you and Curiosity and Compassion, to tell me I have gone astray. There is not always a clear path that leads to the destination we might wish for. I will keep searching for what I seek. I will do my best to keep the parts of me that are true and bright and admirable. I will keep trying to do better. Failure does not have to be permanent or absolute."

"I suppose that is all that can be done," he sighs. "I pray that your effort and determination bears the fruit of your desires, my friend. It would grieve me to lose you."

"And I you," it replies easily, "But there is no need to be so morose, Pride. Spirits take bodies all the time, it is not as if the process would shatter me."

Pride smiles at it sadly.  

"I hope you are right."   

[juniperusashei]

Citizen by Claudia Rankine - 5/5

If you want to explain what microaggressions are, THIS IS THE BOOK! The first four sections of this book read more like a novel than a poetry collection, and are some of the best use of second-person narration I've ever read. It's a very confrontational way to put the reader in the shoes of the author & to understand her experience. Some of the later chapters were harder to understand, as Rankine skews more towards the poetic form, and a lot of them are scripts for "video created in collaboration with John Lucas". I had the privilege to meet Claudia Rankine through my job three years ago (which is when I got this book) and she played some of the videos, which were perhaps a more effective medium for the message. 

Mouthguard by Sadie Dupuis - 2/5

I think I might not be suited to reading Real Poetry because most of what I read is straightforward stuff that spells it out for you like Mary Oliver. But I really couldn't sus out any part of this, I think I actually might be dumb, lol. I am a big fan of both SAD13 and Speedy Ortiz's music, but this made me think the lyricism there is similarly way beyond me. Here's a poem that I understood more than others:

First Date People like to put Chicago in art it is very big and the buildings odd they like art-ugly faces. You let me fall asleep and drove my car. I only want someone to want me in my ugliness

Selected Poems by H.D. - 3/5

I really wanted to like these poems, but something about the modernist language made them really difficult for me to understand. Nevertheless, I really liked the imagery and how they

sound

and maybe that's all that really matters with poetry. I wish I knew more about Greek myth, or that this edition had footnotes, so I could understand the context of her poems more. I want to get into her work because I love the aesthetic but it was just a bit beyond me.

Helen, Helen, come home; there was a Helen before there was a War, but who remembers her?

Poems by Rita Mae Brown - 3/5

I want to start this by saying the cover art is so freaky I had to turn this book over every night on my bedside table because it creeps me out so much. This book combines two collections from Brown. The first, "The Hand That Cradles The Rock," is mostly very political "revolutionary" poetry. It's probably the kind of thing that would make more sense to readers of the time, because I wasn't really sure what she was revolting against anyway. If anything these poems are decently readable. The second collection is called "Songs To A Handsome Woman," which is the lesbian poetry we all came for. It's all lesbian yearning though, and it made me wonder why is it always yearning? I suppose I just can't relate to these unrequited love poems because I'm in a relationship lol.

True Confessions In the face of her beauty My rhythm shudders And I am no longer a poet But just another woman in love.

[vicepoems-blog]

A collection of poems by a space alien named Abby

A twig lies in a sea of leaves Surrounded by the others Some cling the whole year round, to trees O’er fallen twigs, they hover Fallen down, ground leaves dye brown- no wind to carry lovers. Breeze blew by and knocked her off the branch, now sits here, smothered By mud, dust, sticks, rain drops, soft licks- as beaks pull back the covers. Digging through dead to search for life, to keep the wings a-flutter Twigs lack a comfort nest to rest when nature brings on thunder. ——————— Spinning downward Whirlpool drowning Bitter breezes Trees are frowning

Clocks tick faster Pressures mounting Pale as plaster Heart beats, bouncing

Flashing forward Day dreams bounding Where thoughts are bright With more profound things No present, past Sustain resounding Wood turns to ash Mind stuck in lounging Feeble attempts to accept surroundings Sweet struggles shift soul into higher grounding.

———————

Feather blowing in the wind Drifted close, a breeze-blown friend Felt you as my fingers bent Softness surrounding a slightly snapped stem I wake up cold, dreams of a gem Made up a mold, filled in split ends Carefree energy holds sweet things, as friends Strive to brush off, with clashing intent. Aiming to find, though passing of time Strength to overcome this misalignment Try to find reason, but can’t compile this Classic diversion of defiant Values envisioned, blind-state of content Drown in feelings sparked through wine and Sell them off as cheap consignment Try not to let drive fall behind, then Wake up to find how far the time’s bent Words allow to redefine, vent Sorting through jumbled letters, intertwining when Stacking rows and columns of rhymes, hence Attempts to make sense through unproved science From afar, I’ll hold you in the highest A cloud above the desert’s dryness.

———————

(When I don’t feel like writing, sometimes I make puzzles. The following poem is a mashup of several that seemed to fit together.) Cycles continue, much like the seasons Reflecting through fall, letting go when the leaves bend Unlike springtime sun, spreading soil to plant seeds in Trying not to give in- to feelings short of reason. Leaves trickle to the ground from the treetop, so tall Hanging from a limb, fearing the fall Exhales turn to mist as I gaze all the stars Perched high and pretty but they’re still so far. Not much of a singer- Though rhymes form through fingers No matter how loud, soft notes often linger Drawn out, sustained; though the spark's released like lightening As water retreats, tsunami wave's heightening. That which lifts you up Can also bring you down But which feelings should you trust When the sun comes back around?

——————— Flower moon envy as May nears its end  Full- Glowing green grass, feelings break, begin to bend  Filling up the night sky- hypnotizing sphere Glares down with a cross-eye, though it’s up I peer

Wind breaks the silence- an unknown car creeps by Try to be compliant, try to let go, though with night Comes unwanted feedback from the corners of the mind Ideas from tiny seed sacks grew too big- no longer mine

Sky so bright with moonlight- Cannot hide it from the blind Perhaps I hold on too tight- With no reason to the rhyme This will dissolve one day- As the moon, it wanes Hoping to forget the times love was confused for pain

Cycles continue- much like the seasons Reflecting through fall, letting go when the leaves bend Warm springtime sunlight, spreading soil to plant seeds in Trying not to give in- to feelings short of reason.

———————

Rays shine onto your skin Comforting bliss Feeling lingers through the evening  Hovering mist The next day wake Sensations replaced By a stinging cold chill Warm in the face That which lifts you up Can also bring you down Which feelings can be trusted When the sun comes back around? ——————— Time goes by so slowly, that time can do so much Light travels so quickly, stars fades within my clutch Pleasure blocked by pain Words dumbed down to bluffs Ever hiding ‘neath the surface Run out of feelings I can trust.

———————

Lingering in space comprehending the flying of time The stars within night’s blackness gleam like silver on a dime Lying under covers, confined- Am I the one committing the crime? Why hide trapped in space, when I could break free flying? Later perched on the rooftop alone, nothing to prove, only nature’s soft tone Sentimental space cadet searching for home- hair dancing through soft winds blown Sitting lonely in silence, patience, compliance- mind journeys through skies like a dove Searching for guidance amidst the horizons, hoping fear will not keep her from love.

——————— Problem, solution, climax, revolution Confusion, illusion, psychosis, delusion Impairment, improvement, resolution As seasons spin round like a lazy susan.

———————

Of the lovely letters that make up the words Like feathers make up the wings of a bird A good man told me these beautiful things The flow of the sentences made my heart ring “It was no pleasant accident Going over the facts again In my head, writing like I have a sack of pens No happy coincidence, more like synchronism Collective consciousness shines; light beams from a prism Our lives defined by choices executed Relationships of love or others ill suited The prism reflected through eternity & fate Life holds surprises like flowers to a vase. One of these days you’ll be something great But first you must open the eyes on your face.”

———————

Some fade away Into the dark, they go Toward their own light Surrender to their own flow Not all paths coincide But I’m happy to have seen The light in your eyes Hope you know how much it means. Wishing you well on your journeys And accept this here divide We’ll meet somewhere in the middle When the tide isn’t so high. Perhaps during a full moon Within glee our gloom Reconnect once we’ve slept it off Once we’re back in tune.

———————

A seed not meant to be planted in the ocean But sprouted anyway, leaking toxic notions Molecules multiplied, infesting as erosion Rippled- butterfly effecting- cold water encrosion.  Never meant to happen Though thought maybe it’d make sense To drop the seed into what gives it life Not knowing the expense Too much, too little, split-end bow to a fiddle In attempt to build one up, one succeeds to belittle.

———————

The earth spirals Through one universe, of many Just a drop into the ocean To a millionaire, a penny Two strange combinations Of stardust combine Weaving webs of fate together All threads intertwined Shifting the energy Surrounding the subconscious Thus aligning fates awaiting No need to be so cautious.

———————

I fell through a haze Of polluted vapor Landed in a daze Of cursive on paper Slid down a rainbow, as prisms bent light, Led by a breeze, concealed from plain sight. Leaves trickle to the ground from the treetop, so tall Hanging from a limb, fearing the fall Exhales turn to mist as I gaze all the stars Perched high and pretty, but they’re still so far.

———————

Nights spent in silence Staring through glass A fish-eye lens view; Distorted mask All things unmoving Not living, just still Monotonous existence In attempt to refill. A knock on my door Creating vibrations; Stir up a breeze In my imagination. Numbness ceased; Then turned back- Hesitation As I started to see ‘Tis mere infatuation.

———————

Although I feel a failure Only hope to succeed All the times pushed over I got up off my knees Yearning to feel enlightened But must water the seed To grow from a mere speck in soil Into a Redwood tree. Although I’ve been mistaken I try to try my best ‘Cause after blind risks taken I accept past regrets; Stepping stones to evolve Tree limbs grown to climb As the world quickly revolves ‘Round its axis like a vine. Although I’m still a lonesome Girl within a home A recluse with my piano Used to being alone No room for late night phone calls Or knockings on my door Refuse slip or fall Into traps- No more. And although sometimes I cry, Listen to music til I hear- Laugh away my tears And let the sorrow die. Although I still look back On what could have been I know I am still young And wise deep down within. Although life’s in the process And I fear what’s coming next, All around I look for kindness That’s when I feel my best.

——————— Can’t shake it off Try to walk a straight line Taking utmost care The burrs still bind Needle of a pine Let our true colors shine But all that you saw Was a thorn left behind Thought the perfect combination Of stardust combined The universe had Shown its signs But stars realign as You discard your kindness Search for your new Highness And push me aside.

———————

Dandelion fluff floats in the wind Bouncing off obstacles thick and thin Sticking around in puddles, on bark Then the sun evaporates or erosion sparks

Pushing the fluff on with the rhythm Of life, the torus, ohms, prisms It’s all a part of something intertwined Like a ware to the silver; needle to the pine.

The cycle flows on, the fluff comes to a halt Intentional, like the laws of Gestalt? Is it at a standstill for all time, or will life Come out of this fluff like the stars in the night?

The seed is attached to the wings of this thing That carry it far as if on pogo springs It drops onto the grass Sits for a little And sighs when the time passes without a dribble

Of water to push it into the soil Now at a standstill, seed yearns to uncoil Sprout the roots deep into the earth Serve the purpose for which its mother had birthed

———————

Flower in a vase Sits by the window Sunshine to gaze Lounging in limbo

Soft, colorful- to the eyes, appealing Delicate, thoughtful, petals gently peeling Down the stem- day by day- wilting and jaded Drying up- life source evaporated

No soil to expand roots into the earth Rock ceiling, glass bottom, what is it worth? Forgotten, downtrodden, trapped- caught in- can’t blossom Temporary eye candy- since the store it was bought in

Displayed the beauty, marked it cheap, providing extra bonus seeds Flower in a vase, nothing more to see But a dry stem and some fallen leaves.

———————

Mind tells me I’m tired Due to my lack of sleep My chest has been on fire Since I got up to eat As breakfast settles in I merge onto the highway Just half an hour late Lounged in bed to make the dreams stay I step into the class To take notes with my mind Making note of face expressions Others often turn a blind Cheek- Like they aren’t there For it’s common occurrence To focus on the teachings Rather than the ones a'learnin’ I gather up my bags And I head straight for the door Thinking for a second, that the class was just a bore Although I know its purpose, and what teachings are for I suddenly remember, to this day, there’s so much more. I stroll out to the side walk As I wave a friend so-long Until next time, do yours, I mine, And find where we belong. Now speeding down the road With some music and caffeine I suddenly remember That I had the strangest dream. What it was, I don’t recall But it made no sense at all If only I’d remember Before I walked out of the hall The path we take to re-awake To glide out of the realms Which guide from subconscious Peaceful to overwhelmed. Walking up the driveway I miss a couple beats My skirt just blows up with the wind While cars pass on the street. Taking note I shouldn’t mind For nothing could’ve changed The instant that had just flown by One moment, no exchange. I laugh it off, take off my socks, and sit down for a minute I think of you, energy blue, your head, what thoughts are in it? Distract my mind, step into time, this time within the present Realize I’m no longer tired; the moon is waxing crescent. The day has been repetitive, yet everyday is new Each and every day on earth creates a better you Negative and positive effect our everyday But the way in which with cope with both speaks all there is to say.

———————

Memories Consequences Hopping through Barbed wire fences All alone, forever will I long for someone here to fill The gap within this lonesome space Have reason to fill an empty vase Never going to settle For a broken loop pedal Or unspoken words Evaporating from a kettle Repeating back all that was left in the past- The roads that led to this place on the map Grateful for this life beyond what I conceive I dream of the day one will share it with me.

———————

Water rushes, violent currents Collects stems, leaves, chaos divergent Dreaming of times, amidst the verdant Open fields-  Divine permanence. Focus, though undeniably nervous Forgetting all reasons to serve the purpose Crashing like current waves seen on the surface No more room to misinterpret. As so above, ever so below Underneath is where roots start to grow The surface crumbles- Aligned dominos Spiraling up- Arpeggios Sadness lingers, rhymes form through fingers Pianissimo- Soft notes often linger The fight inside strikes out like lightening Retreats on the surface; tsunami wave heightening. Eyes leak- Letting them flow, ‘cause I can Tears rolling down- catching them in my hand Feeling them land, running down from my fingers Too wet to play keys, I let the sustain linger I knock one time, two, but no knob on the door Sometimes it feels nice to lie on the floor No sense in sitting in soft, cushioned seats Discomfort distracts as the flashbacks retreat.

———————

A door opens from behind I hear it, but must keep Walking my feet forward Afraid to miss a beat. Should I turn around? Ignore the sound? Drown it out- unclaimed lost and found? It calls me back, yet on I walk Foot scrapes by an unseen rock I trip, I fall, then turn on back ‘Though the unknown lies beyond black Shadows creeping through the creak Instinct overrides fear- yet cannot speak. Will the black shadowed mystery lead to a light? In our own universe, we’ll take off in flight. You could be my string, but I am the kite Striving to soar- Though scared of the height Above clouds is where sun shines the brightest Where the moon hypnotizes The stars shine, ignited Turned me on like a light switch Heart’s being guided Intuition ignited Why must I fight it? ——————— Flowers in the spring Hang from trees where birds sing Their whistling songs ring Like a guitar with twelve strings. The petals white and soft Wind blows, stems sneeze them off They cover the driveway In a perfect world, the trees could hold on To their leaves; all that’s gone But cold air breaks the bond The leaves must move along. Much can be learned from the nature of the petals Letting go of the bass only allows treble To sing with ambience- glockenspiel metals Melodies must reach their peak long before they settle. The flowers turn to soil and the water turns to rain To pour down on the garden, rebirth’s infinite change No allotted range, no bird feeders hang- Tossing seeds onto the ground; no limits or restraint. ———————

Life blossoms Along with the trees As summer approaches Sweet humming of bees So much to let go So much to take in So much to remember Memories set in Surrounded by love And new found joy Spiraling up Like a hula hoop toy Sipping tea from a cup As we sit in the grass Sweet emotions erupt Like a volcanic mass ——————— You know what it feels like to Be an option lacking chance? But I’m not being lied to ‘Cause we both know where I stand I hopped onto the back burner You fiddled with you pants Perhaps I’m a slow learner Never fit your puzzled plans Improvised, laid out by the thought process of your dick Melting me a little bit; it also makes me sick Running ‘round through sacred squares- still I’m here, yet you lack Respect to ever turn around and see who’s looking back Burner holding heat- You lie, asleep Furthest from fresh meat, though when bored, you make that leap Regardless of your mind games and seldom-proclaimed conceit We both know I’m that shiny thing you never wished to keep.

———————

Erasing drawn lines, I step back in time, imaginary lenses

In attempt to commence contrasting life paths, land beyond the fences Throughout time, the reasons and rhymes thought up to numb our senses Fall through the mind while seasons and time fly like the light, while prisms bend it It’s sad as can be how the earth and the seeds live on, yet so pretentious Going about the day like we’ll get another, yet you’ll never know just when it Will all go black, like wings of a bat- never cherish a moment to mend it. Feeding the fire that taints our spirit Search for an answer as though we’re near it Feeling the chaos before we can hear it Take in reflections- staring into mirror bits Spread on the ground as vibrations, sounds Travel on through; collectively resound Down they crash, reform to the sea Waves of music caress the weak As the strong let go and minds wander free United by projected energies.

———————

[itsnotresilience]

How I Feel About My Mind and Body

A Reflection on poems and journal entries from 1994-2002, 2005-2009 and one single one from 2017.

In 1994, I wrote, “I know something you don’t know. Be glad you don’t know it. I hate my mind for knowing it. I hate my body for feeling it.” I was 16 years old when I wrote that. Anyone that believes children don’t have emotional experience or dismiss it as a youthful dramatic exercise has likely forgotten they were children. Yes, a 16 year-old is still a child! I had just changed schools and felt, again the new girl, again so different. I couldn’t bear to see and be around the people at my local high school. My parents, to their immense credit, saw that I needed a smaller and more structured environment. Looking back, I’m not sure a Catholic school was the next best choice but it was better. Maybe it’s just my observation but my new high school class seemed a combo of catholic school “lifers” who’d been in school with each other since Montessori, troublemakers who couldn’t be in their local school and then- kids like me, there because they are hopeful for an education devoid of so much drama.

In my youth, I knew I was smart. I knew school came easily for me. I was always focused and always driven to do better. As a young women, as I progressed through school and experienced the social anxiety of peer groups, I started hiding my success or doing things that countered that. It didn’t feel cool to be the smart girl unless you were also an amazing athlete ( I wasn’t) or you were the picture of pretty ( I wasn’t that either). To me, what I could do in school, starting in middle school, seemed more like an ugliness, something that only mattered when some kid I needed approval from wanted to cheat off me or have me on their team project so I could do all the work. Those weren’t the only two experiences. I had teachers that were very supportive and pushed me to be more confident. I had some friends, friends like me, that loved learning and hated school. At least that’s how it all was before my Freshman year of high school.

I’m not ready, in this essay, to talk about my freshman year. Maybe soon. Most of you reading this know I’m a sexual assault survivor and know either all or parts to that story but there’s people who I was friends with that year, and the year after, that didn’t know what happened to me until recently. I can’t explain that today. What’s important for this essay is to know that happened and whatever girl that existed before that is gone. I remember her in bits and pieces. Parts of her personality exist in me-lifelong habits (liking structure, propensity to anxiety, loving to learn) are still there but there’s large gaps of who I was missing. She exists in the memories of friends, save 1 or 2, who I no longer really know. That might be true of a lot of us, that we are different people than we were then but what I’m saying is a much starker contrast. All that I cared about stopped existing in the same way.

Anyway, back to my brain. I was good at expressing myself, in written form, almost always. In person, I could clearly express an opinion or recite a fact and not feel ashamed. I have an endless amount of useless trivia and cool facts in my brain. I became more brash, almost to a rebellious level, at my new school. I kinda felt the whole religion thing was a joke (more on that in a future essay). I walked around, nearly all the time, with that chip on my shoulder- I know this horrific, inexpressible thing that you don’t know. I hate you for not having to know it. That seems grossly unfair of me now. It wasn’t a feeling of superiority, but envy. Envious of their naivety. Envious that their minds could be filled with soccer, boys, girls and secret parties that I was never invited to. Those things were in my mind, but there was always a rather large part of my brain involved in emotional conflict. I learned to fake a lot of things. I joined more activities then I had before. There’s a part of me now, that realizes, I made people uncomfortable. I know I still do. My brashness. My this is how it is way. That person didn’t exist before 1992. I don’t recall being that way before.

Earlier this week, I from memory, thought my high school love and I broke up in 1994, but I see the journal entry now. It was January 1995. I see that now because my dad gave me a silly card on Valentine’s Day to help me feel better. I wrote it down. I was devastated by that break up. I wrote about that rejection nearly every day. I was convinced this was a rejection of my damaged body and mind, that my ugly truth was visible and disgusting. I wrote in March, “no one will ever love this person.” That seems weird now. This person? Why didn’t I say- me? That breakup started a pattern that sent me off the rails for the next 5 years. A pattern that didn’t care what happened to my mind, my body, or consequences.

I’ll tell you one secret I don’t share. The one thing I learned but didn’t really understand until 1995. Men liked me and I knew it. I didn’t think it was because I was pretty. I didn’t think it was I was smart or funny or interesting. After 1992 I knew they just liked me for my body. The body I hated. I’m pretty sure that’s a distorted and broken view, but I wrote about it often. “Why are men obsessed with my chest? Why do I have to be ashamed of it? My breasts are all that seem to matter and the indicator that I’m easy or showing off.” I don’t remember dressing provocatively in high school. My body seemed obvious no matter what I wore.

There was another group of men and a seemingly endless group of women, who hated me. Men who teased me, made fun of me, didn’t appreciate my opinions. Women who I made uncomfortable or just wasn’t cool enough for. Now I see we all probably felt some measure of not fitting in but at the time, the rejection fueled my desire to out accomplish them. I was editor of the school paper and used that to “poke the bear”. I wrote things that would create controversy, purposely to create discomfort and then I’d ironically muse later, why doesn’t anyone like me? I had friends for sure, and some good ones, but I know we didn’t really talk about those things.

In my senior year, my English teacher assigned us this essay. I can’t remember what the theme was supposed to be but it was meant to be personal story, I think. The evening I wrote that paper, I wrote this, “ I will show you all your ignorance.” My rage was definitely at a peak. I was particularly isolated given some girl friendships that were broken for reasons that I can’t even recall now. One I was thoughtless to. The other abandoned me for her boyfriend. I was really really hurting and escaping into terrible behavior that I made their fault. All of these people, now my perceived enemies, had further damaged me. I hate this Meghan, so much. Her reflection is abominable to me. She seems so incredibly unlikeable and making choices that don’t increase her chances for winning friends and influencing people. All I cared about was college and my chance to escape this Meghan and be someone else.

In that essay, I revealed to my entire class that I was a sexual assault survivor. I castigated them for treating me like shit. I took them to task for their judgment, arrogance, and naivety. I used their religion against them to say, this is not Christian, your rejection of me. I don’t know what I expected to happen. This wasn’t “ The Breakfast Club”. We weren’t all suddenly going to relate each other and frankly, I was being unfair and aggressive. I feel sad now that I didn’t see some of the things I should have. I wasn’t all that smart after all.

.....................................................................................

In November of 1995 I write, “here my soul is free but I still box myself in by the lies I tell. I’m abusing my body while growing my mind. This seems to end in my mind just knowing that I’m shitty”. My first year of college is kind of a blur of partying, classes and endless social drama. I wasn’t as good at being a woman as my social circle. They all seemed like they could be themselves ( they were probably faking it too because this is just my perspective). I pretended to be someone I wasn’t and was uncomfortable and anxious all the time and didn’t make the connection I was creating that problem until later. I felt like if I was someone different, people would like me. The problem was my created persona was not someone I liked. In January of 1996 I was found out, exposed by a high school classmate who I know didn’t know they were playing into my super manipulative suite-mates hands. She turned it into a long term high school bullying session, complete with ostracizing, prank calling and other forms of harassment. One night I wrote, “I can’t be myself, or someone else. I am no one. I’m just this body, I continue to abuse and this mind who yearns for an exit”. I finally worked it out to move to a different building and enough women experienced my suite-mate to know, even if I am a liar, no one deserves that shit. I found friendship and community with a new set of friends, some of them old high school classmates who I never really knew in high school or at least, didn’t seem to like me.

Toward the end of my Freshman year, I felt increasingly disillusioned with college and college life. I was partying too much. The person I was still didn’t sit right. During the summer, I decided to take a year off and make sure college was what I wanted. That wasn’t the best decision I ever made. Being in school provided a structure and confidence I hadn’t realized. I spent the next year partying even harder, abusing my body more, putting myself with terrible men. I now see I didn’t care what happened to me but there was always a later- the later “accounting” my brain would take of my body. That face the music moment where the escape faded and all that was left was broken reality.

I returned to school with some new friends, a new boyfriend, a new purpose. I had a very fun year that I explored different passions I locked away. I became involved with the campus radio station and it was like my heart exploded. Thinking, talking and listening to music became an obsession. But there was another person, still there. I was still pretending. I was still lying. I still didn’t believe anyone wanted to know me, that I was ugly. Stupid never came into it. My intelligence always felt like a burden rather than an attribute. I had some brilliant friends and still felt like it wasn’t enough to be smart even though they were enough for me ( they weren’t just smart either but I loved them for their smarts). I hated my body. It just felt like this thing that existed for men and getting love. I didn’t feel loved by my boyfriend. I felt like his property, like I owed him and he felt I owed him, my body. My body didn’t care about sex. It didn’t see sex as pleasurable. My brain didn’t participate. It was just a vehicle to get what I wanted, love.

My boyfriend and I increasingly fought over sex. We were together two years but didn’t really get along too well. We both had a lot of emotional baggage we were too young to deal with especially fueled by drinking and partying. My relationship was a constant drama. My boyfriend was not nice to me. He was controlling, manipulative and emotionally abusive. I was volunteering in a women’s shelter while being in a relationship where I had sex with someone to avoid fights. I couldn’t even see my own fucked up shit. I was extremely thin because my boyfriend was very focused on my body. I will say, and want to say, I know he was broken too- by different things- and while I wouldn’t want to go hang out with him for hours, I forgive him and have seen him since and feel like he’s still a good person.

At the time though, the messy end of that relationship, one filled with fear, fueled another few years of rash decisions and escape from dealing. That’s not his fault though, how I chose or not chose to deal with what happened in our relationship. I walked away a more broken woman, grasping for love and acceptance. In 1999 I wrote, “I’m just here, going from person to person, seeing if any of them ever really like me. My brain wants to run from this body. My body just got used by another man, one I loved long ago”. I got back together briefly, with my high school boyfriend. It was intoxicating to be around this person, the first person, I trusted to love me. He was harmless and so fun but our realities were different. I was essentially his Navy port girl and he was the person I was going to convince to love only me, forever. It was a fantasy that didn’t really have an end so much that we both moved on without saying it.

......................................................................................

In 2000 I wrote, “my brain is my enemy and my friend. my body belongs to another man who seems to care nothing about my mind". That was a lie i told myself. That man was my first husband. i did feel pressured to have sex. we never fought about it, i just felt like it was a duty to do for him to love me. He encouraged my academic pursuits, always said i was smarter than him, so he did in-fact value my mind but i experienced only the constant feeling that my body was not mine. My body had been stolen from me, long ago.

......................................................................................

In 2005, I have a poem, its barely readable to anyone who has seen my upset chicken scratch.

"i wore lingerie for you today

you laughed at me

i was a cruel joke

you think its funny i want to be seen

you think its funny i want to have a say"

i married that man too.

i was coming into my own, feeling empowered by my education and career growth but i was still this broken person who didn't feel seen or loved for who she was. My mind became my worst enemy starting at this time and still today i feel that way. My body belonged to another man, one who didn't even really appreciate it or care what it looked like. There wasn't pressure. there wasn't anything! instead of understanding that i wasn't a walking sex doll to my second husband, i understood it as rejection. i didn't know how to be with someone who didn't want me for sex. that kind of situation hadn't existed for me. i also felt though, and still do, that it wasn't a normal evolution of a long term relationship. it felt too early to be deciding we were best friends that weren't lovers. we loved each other but physical expressions weren't part of that. even before my marriage ended epically i felt he wasn't the right person. i had chosen him and we had started failing because he didn't want me for sex.

..........................................................................................

in 2017, 4 weeks before my 40th person i wrote in my first journal entry in five years, "i hate my body. its now fat and my face is ugly. i cant remember ever liking my physical appearance while also acknowledging that I've used it to get what i wanted in romantic relationships. my mind is a cage, of argument, criticism, doubt, fear, anger battling another side that argues reality, ration, logic, and also criticizes knowing its smarter than the other side."

that night, i wrote a letter to my friends and family, saying goodbye. i had a plan. i would take too much of my anti-anxiety medication with booze. i would drive somewhere and do it, on a weekday, when my absence wouldn't be noticed. i wrote out my plan, in excruciating detail, in my goodbye letter. i wanted everyone to know id thought this out. i was tired of my internal battle, my external battle, my inability to just be in this world without strife, self hatred and conflict. i felt i should be somewhere better at 40 than where i was. i got to the section where i was addressing my stepson, specifically, and couldn't write it. i picked up the phone and called my sister. she saved my life that night.

i haven't journaled since that night. i write my blogs. i. write for work. i don't stick pen to paper. this is the most I've written in a long long time. i didn't trust myself to write again. since 2017 I've been on a journey to build that life i think i should have, to be that one body, one mind or at least love whats there and stop fighting myself. i have some amazing loving friends who continue to support my journey and love messy me.

I'm not so different from other women. plenty of us hate our bodies. I'm not so different from other women. plenty of us aren't rewarded for our smarts. I'm a feminist because i see so much opportunity in womanhood. so many things the world could learn from all women, even the Karens. but i also hate my womanhood, my experience of being a woman. i hate that there's still things that happen more to women and even more to women of color. i hate that people think it doesn't exist. i still struggle everyday, to look in the mirror. I'm notorious for despising photos of myself and now, my face is a reminder that I'm not safe. There’s no big finding in this essay. i don't have hope for closure. I'm still just going, in this path, hoping i can find healing.

[still-finding-our-way]

W11, W12, W13

30/12/2020

Waking the dead, life, love and gossip

Flakey, flake, flake flake. I admit it, I let myself down and my nearest and dearest. Oh, the fucking self pity. Despite the ever changing rules and regulations over lockdown, we had planned to get out and walk with our respective menfolk during Christmas and New Year. We set a date and located a route. The forecast looked splendid—crisp and clear—it was going to be amazing. The day came round. I got up late, too late for my early morning climbing session with my daughter. I got dressed in my walking gear, and half an hour before leaving I couldn’t do it. I just could not walk out the door. So I cancelled and went back to bed. Yup, the diary of a depressive. Jen was her usual sage self and pointed out it was ‘twixmas’ and everyone was feeling shit, upside down and the wrong way round, and I should stop beating myself up about it. As Jen and A were already on route they continued on and later sent a breathtaking photograph of the high moor with the sun setting in one direction and the moon rising in the other. Studying the image on my phone in bed, I might have been peering into another world—a martian landscape, the light from the setting sun scattering a Persimmon glow across the moor grass—bronze and gold, molten lava, heat and searing passion. Dear Persephone, Queen of the underworld, you should eat all the seeds. These are winters treasures. Am I looking at a take from an African plain or perhaps a still from the film Dune? No, this is Dartmoor in searing clarity. The sky divided, storm grey cloud drawn low on the horizon and above an endless cyan—a blue to swim in. I could breath the freshness, feel the cold stinging my skin. Oh, the guilt and longing. So, I went out for a run to try and temper the physical yearning, and the next day messaged Jen to see if she could squeeze in another Dartmoor visit, with the promise that I wouldn’t bail this time. Two seconds later—a ping back with ‘Hell yes’. 

This time we kept our sights local, and though not a long walk we were going to colour in three whole squares on the 365 map: W11, W12 and W13. It felt like an accomplishment, nearly a full house—a line of colour beginning to emerge on the southernmost part of the map. The proposed route bypassed our previous walk to Western Beacon and headed for Ugborough Tor. The day arrived and clearly Santa Claus had been kind to Jennie. She cut quite a dash in her new walking gear, all booted and suited with military style walking shoes and thermal clothing. We exchanged gifts. From me to her a pair of essential gaiters—or ‘garters’ as Jennie likes to call them, and from her to me, some stylish ultra retro sunglasses. We agreed walking on the moor does not mean having to leave aside fashion. We parked up in the tiny hamlet of Harford and headed straight for St Petroc’s church, a Grade 1 listed building dated to the late 15th / early 16th century.

On this grey mizzly day at the very end of the year, the church looked bleak and unwelcoming. It wasn’t helped by the metal grill shuttered across the porch with a blunt no entry notice. We mooched around the graveyard at the rear of the church. Neglected and overgrown, it had a definite gothic air. We read the gravestones and pondered over the groupings of names and families. New to the term, I find out we are quickly becoming ‘tapophile’s’ or ‘grave stone tourists’—a person whose hobby or pastime is visiting cemeteries, graves and epitaphs; not to be confused with ‘necrophile’ and the perversion of showing a sexual or physical interest in the dead!  Not so much a morbid past-time, but one that is curious about past lives. Anyway we are apparently in good company as Shakespeare was supposed to have been a ‘tapophile’, and the related study of ‘taphonomy’ investigating processes of decay in archeology sounds fascinating and important. The hierarchal order of a graveyard is telling. Usually the bigger the slab the more powerful, influential and wealthy the incumbent, closely followed by the decorated memorials of war heroes protecting the former, whilst the women and children and those that had to live out the consequences of the deeds of the big slabs are marked by simple headstones. With this in mind when we came across a large plot encircled by low iron railings, containing a headstone marked John Jeffrey Dixon, 1756-1828, and surrounded by several smaller plaques, engraved with initials and the year of death all listed as 1855, we were intrigued. What could have happened? Were these children? A family tragedy, disease or perhaps a virus or infection?

I should not be surprised to discover that I have leaning towards taphophilia. Death came a blunder-bussing down my family’s own door a few autumns ago bringing with it a tsunami of destruction that took away three loved ones in a matter of weeks. In our highly polished antiseptic 21st century lives, tragedy is supposed to happen elsewhere, on the telly or as macabre titillation on news feeds. Having seen the havoc caused by the sweep of death at such close quarters, I seem to have developed an ear for the hidden tragedy that lies behind the bureaucratic recording of birth and death dates. One such story came with the accommodation that Al rented in the early days of our relationship. He lived in what was part of a 15th century manor house, in the quarter that would have housed cattle whilst the servants lived above. It was basic and cold—think rickety immersion heaters, cranky plumbing and layering up to go to bed—it was also delightfully romantic and we found our own ways to keep warm. Sometime in the mid 19th century the resident family, farm-workers, lost all 9 children in a matter of months to either cholera or diphtheria, the parents surviving probably because they drank mead and not the contaminated water. Some of our friends said they picked up prickly vibes in one room, but we never did, though there was the one time when I woke up in the night to someone blowing gently on my leg dangling out of bed. It was so focused, like someone blowing through a pea-shooter on skin, and then it was gone. It definitely wasn’t Alex, he was snoring contentedly next to me, nor were there any drafts in that particular area, and so overcome was I by my  primordial nighttime terror that I dare not look under the bed. I could never find a rational explanation for it, other than a waking dream, perhaps? I like to think that if there is any paranormal phenomena out there, spirits or otherwise, they would be up for having a laugh and hiding under the bed playing ghoulish peek-a-boo. Never mind wailing ghosts and ghouls, the universe seems set up for tragedy and comedy, see-sawing together, tempered with a dose of absurdity to keep the balance.

But how to imagine the desperation and hopelessness of loosing all your children, of not being able to do anything—no mercy forthcoming, from god or layman, through prayer or witchery. Heart wrenching, gut wrenching, unrelenting grief. The stuff of nightmares and surreal in the telling. A tragedy, they say. Indeed, a tragedy that reveals the limits of knowledge, failing systems and medical bungles. Death can tell so much about a time, and I needed to find out what had happened to this family in 1855. 

I found limited information online so I contacted the church secretary and swiftly received a response that explained that a memorial existed inside the church to the Dixon family. The Dixon’s had been a local family, the father John Jeffrey Dixon dying in 1828 leaving behind a family of six daughters and one son. The daughters never married or had children and continued to live with their mother Mary Romeril Dixon. The son married and moved away. The eldest daughter Sophie Dixon (1799-1855) was a poet, of the Romantic tradition, and had had some of her work published. Maintaining a household of seven women and living the life of a published female poet in the early 19th century suggests a level of education, cultural knowledge and financial comfortability, however I could find no further detail on the fathers preoccupation. Instead I was delighted to find copies of Castalian Hours. Poems by Sophie Dixon (1829) online, alongside two travelogues she had written about walking on Dartmoor: A Journal of Ten Days Excursion on the Western and Northern Borders of Dartmoor (1830) and A Journal of Eighteen Days Excursion on the eastern and Southern Borders of Dartmoor (1830). 

I find an online copy of the two journals bound together with an unauthored handwritten note that describes how the ‘two journals are seldom found together, and in this state are exceedingly rare’. The unauthored note instructs the reader not ‘to despise the untutored writing’ instead recognise that Dixon recorded what she actually saw, and ‘that she really saw a great deal more than most people’. Written nearly 200 years ago, the journals read anything but ‘untutored’ instead they present a style ahead of their time, combining acute observation with opinion that covers a range of subjects from education, poverty and religion that would not be out of place amongst the current plethora of travelogues and writings about place today. Nor was Dixon a faint heart—she was an endurance walker, with Donna Landry writing in The Invention of the Countryside how Dixon was not averse to enduring ‘incredible discomfort and fatigue’ walking up to 28 or 30 miles a day, and that she wrote to ‘expend feeling as much to capture or contain it’ (2001: 239). This is an impulse I can relate too. She was 30 years old when these works were published and was writing at a time that saw the countryside shift from being seen, at least by the middle classes, as a dangerous and impoverished place, to becoming appreciated for its leisure and therapeutic value. Despite Sophie’s passion for Dartmoor and poetry, little is recorded of her life unlike her male contempories—the walking poets—Samuel Taylor Coleridge and William Wordsworth, nor are her writings given due acknowledgment in the round up of important historic literature about Dartmoor. A woman writing about walking across Dartmoor—a harsh and unforgiving landscape at the best of times—and being published at a time when women weren’t allowed to go to university is no mean feat. Sophie’s poetry and writing reveal a sensitivity, of trying to capture the immensity and rich diversity of the moor; an artist, creating through doing, striding out in all weathers, feeling the raw elements, being buffeted by the wind on the high tor’s. And all in Georgian attire, heavy skirted, possibly with pantaloons and with no GORE-TEX or triple layered waterproof performance technology in sight. Despite her absence in the text books Landry observes that ‘the slightness of Dixon’s oeuvre is no measure of the significance of her achievement’ (239). My impression after reading her works, is a writer who is capable, forward thinking, engaged in current affairs and confident in communicating her thoughts, yet I have so many remaining questions about Sophie that perhaps a historian will give the time to uncover. She deserves to be more than just an initial or a footnote in history.

But what of her death and her family? In her preface to Castalian Hours Sophie writes about the loss of her father and subsequent grief and illness effecting her writing, however further tragedy was to come. According to the GRO death certificate her mother died of heart disease on the 14th December, 1855 aged 80. Three days later her younger sister, Emma Romeril, died of Peritonitis, and ten days after that, on 27th December, Sophie herself died from what is recorded as Typhus at the age of 56. The two other sisters, Cora and Lucy, who are listed on the church memorial and on the grave stones as dying in 1855, actually died two weeks apart in 1876 at the age of 69 and 70 respectively of Bronchitis and exhaustion, a contagious illness undoubtedly spread through close contact. How they all came to be listed as dying in 1855 is a mystery, with the assumption given that the memorial was erected when the brother Clemsen Romeril died in 1893, and that somehow the dates were conflated or misremembered. 

***

Wide, open moorland, away from the clutter and noise of modern life where we are constantly ‘ON’, hyper-stimulated, reading the codes, the signs, the subtext. Classification and analysis, polish the mask and smile ‘ta da', who do you want me to be today? It is exhausting. From my studio, I used to watch my chickens scratching and busying—pre bird flu lockdown—and envied their freedom, whilst I was penned in, tied to a screen and working 10/12 hours a day. Sometimes I forgot to move, going hours without drinking or eating. I had become a battery hen and no matter how many golden eggs I laid it was never enough. Putting in numbers and words that churned out more numbers and words until one day the machine broke. Now I have become frozen, a glitch in the matrix, stuttering and locked in. I have to rebuild, start again, set a new framework but to do that I have to first find a way to reboot the frozen system.

We marched up the hill chattering eagerly, airing and giggling over the silliness of families and Christmas frivolities. Despite the chill in the air we warmed up quickly and had to stop to strip off layers, breathing heavily and taking in the sweeping view. It stopped us in our tracks, the vastness of the rolling landscape calming us down, bringing us back to rights. Body and earth, right here, right now. We were heading for Spurrell’s Cross, a medieval stone cross that marks the crossing of two old tracks, one running from Plympton Priory to Buckfast Abbey and the other from Wrangaton to Erme Pound, but we had been too cocksure on setting off, wrongly assuming we were on familiar ground. As a result of our cocksurety we had missed the path and, as is becoming routine on our walks, we once again found ourselves stomping over tussocky ground. The lesson learnt from this walk is that perspective changes everything—so obvious in hindsight but familiarity, as they say, breeds contempt, which in our case was for the map. We were walking on the east side of Western Beacon and though only a few miles into our walk we had quickly become disorientated. The ground undulated unexpectedly hiding the tors previously used as landmarks and we realised that we hadn’t quite got to grips with distance on the map, and as a result could not work out whether we were too far north or south? Scanning across the moor, and with better long distance eyesight than I, Jen spotted a shape partially camouflaged against the moor grassland. With nothing to lose, except our bearings, we ploughed ahead and thankfully hit base, laying hands on the cold stone of the old cross in gratitude. Back on track, we were able to stroll comfortably up to Ugborough Tor.

A space to decant—we talk about all sorts, everything and nothing, from work to children, to ageing and sex; to clothes, cooking, cars, consciousness and ex's—the ex's are most fascinating, the other women, they are set up as the opposition that we share so much in common with and who you can never, ever, know too much—to fungi, lovers, philosophy and death. It is not so much Sex and the City but Sex and the Moor. Everything gets emptied out and overturned. Nothing is trivialised, it all has its place—the worries, the niggling anxieties, superstitions; the casting thoughts that might dissolve into nothing or rankle away and fester without the ear of a trusted confident. Our grandmothers were right all along, a good airing, whether clothes, houses, babies, people or thoughts, makes everything feel better. Men and children so often fascinated by what women talk about… and no wonder, women talk about the under belly of life, paring back the fat and gristle, sifting the wheat from chaff. The talk that unites, strengthens social bonds and builds trust—what social psychologists refer to as cultural learning. In the stone age, this chatter was crucial for sharing information that would enhance survival, and whilst we no longer have wild animals to fear, sense checking about who’s who and what’s what remains essential for our well being. 

As children, Jen and I used to be fascinated by our mothers afternoon chats, tongues loosened by a dab or two of sherry. We’d quietly linger in the kitchen, turning the tap ever so softly to get a glass of water, or sit on the stairs ostensibly playing, all the while zoning in on the hushed tones, regularly punctuated by raucous laughter, our eyes widening at what we heard. Rogue men and wildish women, the drawn out agony of someones death, money—the lack there-of; clothes and weight gain, diets, boobs, hot flushes and farting. When they caught us listening they’d call us elephant ears and the conversation would drift to more mundane matters. On occasion the conversation would lower to a whisper, to more darker talk. We’d strain hard, catching snippets of a violent man and a vulnerable child. The school bully, the blond and pretty girl, always with shiny new things turned out had a not so happy home. This was a grown-up world that was somewhere else, far more entertaining and scandalous than watching an illicit late night episode of Dallas or Dynasty huddled together under the bed clothes.

Today out on the moor we find ourselves talking, amongst other things, about the origins of cellular life—as you do. Where once life was understood to have started at a particular point in time and from there on in evolution began spiralling outwards in a chronological timeline from A to Z. We’ve all seen the poster, some of us have the T-shirt—cell blob, lizard, monkey, ape-man, human, Trump. Then some clever spark asked the question, if life started at A—assuming it was down to 'abiogenesis'—where life emerges from non-living matter through natural processes as opposed to counter theories that posit life came from outer space, then surely life must have emerged previously, and continues to appear at point B and C, and so on and so on? Between huffing and puffing up the hill, it is not so much the biology but the shift in the question that fascinates us—alter the boundaries and framework of the question and a whole different perspective opens up, revealing the wood and not just the trees; the whole picture and not just the jigsaw piece. No surprise that Jen and I have dabbled in statistics—she in teaching the subject and I by presenting different sets of data, coloured pie-charts illustrating how the Arts can change lives, which is very difficult to prove in evidential terms but ask a slightly different question and the coloured pie-charts will look ever so pretty, so give us some money, please. It is all about the questions, the scientists and statisticians cry. If only we could step outside of ourselves we might understand so much more. But it is hard to shake off our human skins. 

Keep turning the stone over and take a walk around the hill. Anything and nothing. Our conversation continues to spiral upwards and outwards. We bat around ideas, snippets of information snatched from radio, social media, books, conversation—finding relevancy, knitting them together. It feels like moulding and sculpting, work in the studio with most falling to the floor as detritus. The artist Paul Klee said drawing was like ‘taking a line for a walk’, and so it is with conversation—take it for a walk and give it a good airing. Walking in the time of viral contamination is vital. It has become the new 18th century coffee-house, the place renowned for scintillating conversation (if you were a man of course); it is George Seurat’s glistening Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte, minus the fancy pants and with walking boots, purpose and pace. It is the city flaneur but without the pomp or privilege. It is Piet Mondrian's Broadway Boogie Woogie, but without the boulevards and pulsating lights. It is our mother’s sherry and Sophie’s journals. Hitch up your skirts and put on your garters and take a walk on the Wild Side. A walk in the park. An escape. Let the words wander or wonder, drawing shapes, hitting dead-ends and taking u-turns.

From the origins of life, depression and death our drawing circles around to the language of love, with Jen telling me how the ancient Greeks had several words for different kinds of love: love for children, love for god, sexual love, self love, whereas in the English language ‘love’ is pinned to its romantic roots—the all or nothing kind, of passion and intensity, valentines cards, red roses and the impossible happy ever after. We find ourselves wondering what is the word to describe the love between old friends? 

We reach Ugborough Tor, the temperature has dropped and we think it might snow. In truth, this is the southernmost tor as Western Beacon is not classified as a tor. There are four rocky outcrops: Creber’s Rock, Eastern Beacon, Beacon Rock and Ugborough Beacon; several cairns and a tumulus—an ancient earth burial mound. The view to the East is striking, what is known as Beacon plain slopes gently away then suddenly descends steeply into a valley, so abrupt is the descent that we can’t see the bottom from our vantage point on the tor. The effect is dizzying; the fields and houses rising upwards on the yonder side of the valley look like play mobile houses. We are 378 metres high (1240 feet) above sea level and can see the A38, or the Devon Expressway, snaking northwards. Jennie points out a prominent landscape feature, what looks like a Drumlin, a large teardrop shaped hill probably caused by the receding ice flow of the last ice age some 11,700 years ago. It was previously understood that Dartmoor lay beyond the ‘Quaternary glaciations’ however recent research of the landscape has challenged this notion. We amble our way back and it starts to snow; big heavy flakes, some the size of coins come down thick and fast. We are alone in this vast landscape and run and whoop like children. Back at our cars, as we turn to say good bye, we shout ‘I love you’ to each other. I think we might have always said this, but now we know somewhere it has a name.

Later, I look up Aristotle’s definitions of ‘love’, in particular ‘philia’ which is usually translated as friendship love, or ‘brotherly love’, denoting an altruistic loyalty between equals. This research takes me on a journey that considers what Aristotle defined as ‘good’, and ‘diakaios’, meaning what is ‘fair’, ‘just’ and ‘right’ in accordance to the laws of the universe—laws that draw on the ancient Greek idea that there exists within the universe an order. According to Simon May in ‘Love: A History’, Aristotle elevates ‘philia’ above all other forms, including romantic love and the virtuous love of god. May then goes on to explain how self-knowledge, a virtue much prized by the Greeks, is essential to becoming a well-balanced human being, yet Aristotle understood that ‘it is hard to know ourselves’, we are masters of our own deceit and that we need the aid of a ‘second self’, a person who holds similar values but serves as a mirror reflecting back to us who we are. May goes on to explain that it is not so much that our second self tells us who we are, but that we see in them a part of ourselves, quoting Aristotle directly ‘… with us [humans] welfare involves a something beyond us, but the deity is his own well-being.’ Of course, for this to work the second person has to be the right person—a person who has similar virtues, or values, as ourselves, then ‘philia’ becomes ‘diakaios’—‘when it is in accordance with the laws of the other person’ nature … If love isn’t in such accordance it is inauthentic and hollow’. (67)

How does this analysis of love, nearly 2400 years old, relate to my life long friendship with Jennie? Without a doubt Jennie is suitably different in character to myself—more gregarious and outgoing, her humour is deliciously wry and observant; she is clever, astute and canny, her readings of people and situations are always spot on and she is open-minded whilst still being firmly rooted in reality (the latter being a virtue that I cannot always say about myself); she is a fierce and protective mother, committed to family; ambitious and tenacious. Equally, she is interested in ‘self-knowledge’, if not ‘self-love’, which our deferent Englishness finds a little too gushing, however, she has never been afraid to look in the mirror and face her demons, to own up, reflect and rebuild. Her honesty about our lived contradictions—how we say one thing and do another, that we self sabotage to avoid shattering our fragile self-image and so on—is so refreshing in a time when you might be socially hung drawn and quartered for taking thoughts and words for a walk that do not directly fit the current view. Some of these characteristics I share, others extend my world view. If she serves as a second self, then hell, I need to learn to love thyself! I can count on three fingers the friends I share this type of relationship with, though I’d argue that we are constantly shaping ourselves against our interactions with others—whether children, parents, the shop-assistant, the teacher or colleague. Perhaps I need to be more discerning in my choice of lovers and husbands, as when it comes to the language of love I am clearly better at ‘philia’ than the ‘eros’ kind. In the meantime I’m going for a walk.

SC

Reading

Crossing, William. (1888) Amid Devonia’s Alps; or, Wanderings & Adventures on Dartmoor Plymouth: Simpkin, Marshall & Co. Online, 05, January, 2021: https://www.google.co.uk/books/edition/Amid_Devonia_s_Alps/lfoVAAAAYAAJ?hl=en&gbpv=1

Dixon, Sophie. (1829) Castalian Hours. Poems. London: Longman, Orme, Hurst, Brown, and Green, Print.

Dixon, Sophie. (1830) A Journal of Eighteen Days Excursion and Dixon, S.(1830) A Journal of Ten Days Excursion on the Western and Northern Borders of Dartmoor. Online, 05, January, 2021:https://play.google.com/books/reader?id=d_4GAAAAQAAJ&hl=en_GB&pg=GBS.PA2

Evans, D.J.A. and Harrison, S. and Vieli, A. and Anderson, E. (2012) 'The glaciation of Dartmoor : the southernmost independent Pleistocene icecap in the British Isles.', Quaternary Science Reviews., 45 . pp. 31-53.

Landry, Donna. (2001) The Invention of the Countryside: Hunting, Walking and ecology in English Literature, 1671-1831. New York: Palgrave Macmillan.

May, Simon. (2011) Love: A History. London: Yale University Press.

Sampson, J. ‘Women Writing on the Devon Land: The Lost Story of Devon Women Authors up to circa 1965’. August 13, 2018. Online, 05, January 2021: https://newdevonbookfindsaway.blogspot.com/2018/08/on-ways-to-old-literary-roads-around.html

[dpargyle]

Radio Free Lucy: Episode #1: Out from the Wardrobe Transcript

[RADIO ARGYLE INTRO STING - This 5 & a half second sting involves: the fumbling of a needle onto vinyl, the low murmur of vinyl crackle, what sounds like some sort of scifi engine ramping up, the rumble of thunder paired with a distinct sonar blip - then finally - a high-pitched female youth with a British accent (filtered through the subtle distortion of a phone/radio line) saying “Radio Argyle”]

[Lead In Background Music FADES IN: It’s playing soft & low in background as lead in rolls on. Lead In Music - it’s “Arrival” by How the Night Came - an upbeat, brief, acoustic guitar piece]

[Podcast VO - Lucy. A youthful female British voice]

Welcome! You lovely lunatics & worthwhile weirdos! This! is Radio Free Lucy.

[Lead In Music FADES OUT.]

[Episode Background Music 1 FADES IN: - it’s “Fluidscape” by Kevin MacLeod, which serves as a slightly hopeful, slightly ambient underhum for the piece.]

Episode One: Out from the Wardrobe

~

Hi.

I’m not sure how to say any of this out loud, yet. This Radio Argyle Bot player, which is a modified text to speech robot voice, will serve my purposes best. She’ll be clearer than my, actual, garbled disabled, boy, voice. Anyway, here goes. This isn’t going to come out perfectly, sequentially, or even logically, but I hope it’ll come out, me.

This isn’t a persuasive essay. You’ll either listen, & at least try to understand, or you won’t. I know a lot of what I say may be shocking, & it’ll definitely take some time to adjust to, even for me, but all I’m asking, is that you try.

This is more a memoir, or a prose poem. & poetry is flowers. Beautiful. But they can, & they will, cut you with their sharp pointy thorns. Truth, like the gods, can be a fickle bitch. She can hurt you. So please, be patient with me, while I bleed here before you, for a bit. I also ask that you make yourself comfortable, & listen to this in a safe space, away from prying ears.

Thank you.

While my primary purpose here will be to explain to, you, what’s truly been going on, with me, I think it will also be very helpful for me, to explain to, myself, what’s been going on with me. In as concise & as clear a manner, as I possibly can. Conciseness, however, has never really been my strong suit.

So you might as well buckle up, buttercups. Shit gets heavy from here.

*

I’ve always had a pretty contentious relationship with my body. When you drive a wheelchair, essentially as big as a Warhammer forty k mech, into the first day of suburban kindergarten, you realize pretty quickly, you’ll always be set apart. Not only in all, Their minds, but also always in, your own mind, as well. This isolation has lasted my whole life, & increasingly in my adulthood. Please understand, I don’t blame anyone. It’s just been a fact of my life. Family has been a boon, but family can’t, & shouldn’t be, my entire social circle.

The thing is, this isolation isn’t merely social. It’s mobility wise. If something is off my local light rail line, I simply can’t get to it, without extensive help. It’s logistics-wise. If people want to hang out at night, which let’s be honest, that’s when most people are available, I can’t participate due to having people who take care of me working at specific schedules & times, which means I have to get in bed way before any fun parties, even think, about ramping up. Not that I’m much of a partier, but perhaps there’s a reason for that. & now I’m too old for any of that shit, anyway!

This segregation. yes, segregation! Has also affected my career prospects, which I won’t get into here, as I no longer dream of labor. Just know that I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to make any sort of consistent money in this life, even after graduating college, & jumping through all the world’s nonsensical hoops, & playing along with their games, which have all been rigged from the start. In the end, though, I’ve always wanted to earn my way through my creative endeavors alone, so that’s why I’ve been working so hard on my podcasts lately. I don’t know how much I can earn from them, but I’m giving it my best go.

More painfully, the world’s reaction to my disability has deeply affected my romantic prospects, too. Not just because a lot of people refuse to even see me as a sexual being, or are repulsed by my disabled monstrousness, or whatever, but because, even if I did happen to meet a girl who reciprocated any kind of romantic slash sexual feelings, if we did get married, the bastard government would slash my healthcare entirely, immediately rendering me completely financially dependent in that relationship. I’m not saying monogamous marriage is the only valid endpoint to any successful romantic relationship, but these cobwebbed bureaucracies, running all our lives like great evil capitalist elder squids, have severely limited my choices in life. I’m not even legally allowed to save up more than two thousand dollars in my own bank account, before they start slashing my funds. I have, increasingly, felt as if my life is not my own.

So if I ever do get married, it will be an elopement & the government will be none the wiser. I have no use for illegitimate certificates from the, equally, illegitimate Powers That Be, anyway. The holy union will be between myself, the woman in question, & the gods, alone. Though these days I’m beginning to realize, a polyamorous situation, like a polycule, or a commune, or something, would be healthier & a stronger support network for someone in my situation. We were always meant to live communally. It’s what our noble ancestors once did. Hashtag every day we stray further…

Anyway…

I am getting slightly off topic. What I’m trying to illustrate with these examples is how the world, & my experience within it, have severely affected how I see my body, & how I see myself as a person with any value to give, in, that body. It’s hard not to start feeling a little bit like Quasimodo, thrust high up in the bell tower, shunned from all the realms of mortal men, after a while.

My whole life, I’ve tried to make the best of it. I survived by carving a distinction, in my head, between my mind & my body. I saw myself. & then I saw my body. They were always these two bifurcated things. Weirdly, I always saw my mind as sort of like those hilarious detached floating Presidential heads from Futurama. I found my worth, not in my two headed boy, circus freak in a jar body, but in my mind. I was a brain, & nothing more. I was my words. My wit. My passions. My epic, ineffable, nerdery. I could rely on that. I could never rely on my Judas body. I hated it. I still do.

I’ve never told anyone this, but back when my babby sister was born, when I was fifteen, I remember so vividly the first time I saw her precious face. I remember the moment like it was yesterday, because, well, obviously, because it was the first time I met this person who I knew, even back then, was immediately one of the most important people in my life, but also because, I remember the first thought I had when I gazed upon, the infinite galaxies of her kaleidoscope eyes. “How could anyone so beautiful, be related to me?”

I hated myself for thinking this, because it was otherwise this transcendental, celebratory, jubilant moment, & I had to go & make it all about me, at least in my head. So I never told anyone about it. I just let my self-hatred fester. I pushed it down. I endured. As men are expected to do. Stiff upper lip, always look on the bright side of life, etcetera etcetera.

I built this happy, plucky, go get ‘em! persona, who doesn’t want, nor need, the finer things in life. The finer things, like happiness, non-digital community, & self-actualization. I don’t remember the last time I was happy. Maybe it was back in college, but even then, I struggled mightily. I’ve suffocated myself so long, I’ve forgotten how to breathe. But sometimes, even drowning folk get sick of being wet!

I don’t tell you all this so you can pity me, or feel guilty about not seeing this, because first of all, I’m a phenomenal actor, & a seasoned liar, so how could you possibly know what lay beneath? Pity & guilt are pretty useless, in my experience, in any case. I tell you all this, so you can truly understand where I’m coming from.

Life is too short to keep concealing the things I really want. The things I really need. The things I really am.

For the last several years, with increasing intensity, urgency, excitement, curiosity, &, ultimately, hope, I’ve begun to realize some things about myself. Well, one thing about myself, really.

Holy shit, time to be brave, for once.

[Lucy inhales FX]

Sometimes. OK. a lot of the time. I wish I was a girl. A woman.

The yearnings began to coalesce six years ago, when I was. Uh. You know. fantasizing, as one does, & suddenly I was imagining myself as a girl. It scared the ever, loving, shit, out of me. I immediately stopped.

It scared me so much, because…

I liked it.

The thought excited me. In this fantasy, I was still disabled. But I was desirable! Girl me finally felt, OK, in my body. I was happy in my body! I could celebrate my body! It felt like coming up for air. It felt like freedom. Like some sort of, & forgive my nerdy metaphors, they are all I have, Pacific Rim mech pilots style, drift compatibility. At long last, both my body & my mind hooked together seamlessly. But it was just a dream, right? A fantasy? A fetish! I’ve felt so few moments of, genuine, freedom in my life, I instinctively crawled back to my comfortable, miserable, corner.

I tried to push it out of my mind. It wasn’t real if I didn’t think about it, right?. Denial has kept fossilized empires running, simply on calcified inertia, for hundreds of years! I could do that in the comparatively short amount of time I had left on this dumb rock, right? But my denial couldn’t last. I couldn’t just put these intrusive thoughts out of my mind that simply.

I tried to tell myself I was just a creep. Some sort of pervert with a fetish. I was appropriating trans girls’ experiences, & obviously making light, of very real, incredibly terrifying, hardships they go through in this world. I’ve done a lot of research & soul searching since then, but back then I still believed the lie, in order to be trans, you absolutely had to have had gender dysphoria as a kid. & I didn’t think I had. But upon further reflection, I realize I’ve had dysphoria, my whole life. I just thought all these feelings were what being alive felt like, for everyone!

I grew up in an Evangelical Christian household, so I was incredibly sheltered as a kid. I didn’t even know trans folk could even be a thing! until I was 21, & in college & literally face to face with a friend, who got called a name of a different gender they no longer went by. I asked them, “why did that person just call you by that name?” & they graciously explained they were trans, & that they had just been ‘dead named,’ as the community calls it. In retrospect, they were being incredibly generous with me, considering the mental violence. yes, violence, which had just been wrought upon them, right before my eyes.

As you can probably imagine, that conversation blew. My. Freaking. Mind. It was like some scifi crap – like the trill symbionts from Star Trek Deep Space Nine, etcetera, who always made my mind go brrr, but in a very good way, back when I couldn’t quite verbalize, or even admit to myself in my own mind, why even the thought of them made me feel. A certain something I didn’t even have words for, at the time.

But talking to this trans person was in the actual, flesh & blood, realm! I knew about Drag Queens, & cross dressers, thanks to that dusty library copy of, Rocky Horror Picture Show, my brother & I hid from our parents, which I only vaguely understood anyway, but changing your actual, GENDER? In real life? Wizard shit!

At the time of this college era conversation, I was still drowning in Evangelicalism, Patriarchy, chauvinism. all of the things, but despite all this, I remember this moment so vividly too. Because my friend, who had just been violently dead named, was leaning across the table from me, being honest with me, open with me, almost begging me to accept them, & I realized right there, right then. This was a human fucking being. & even though my mind had just been BLOWN, & I was still HIGHLY CONFUSED, & terrifyingly curious, I could be a cowardly dickhead, or I could follow the path of love. True love, not White Jesus Love, (TM). & that night? That night, I chose love. & I’m so freaking glad I did.

Looking back on it, this moment turned out to be one of the first bricks I tore down in the Tower of Babel, that had been my Evangelical Faith. I was still a sexist, phobic, (of everything!), clown at the time. I still had a lot of deep character building & reworking to do, far down within my soul. I still do. I always will. Self-improvement is a life-long, internal battle. but this became one of the first steps.

Which have led me all the way to here. Staring down into the chasm of femininity. I am scared, but determined. I am leaning across the table from you, but I will not beg for your acceptance. I’ll have it or I won’t. & we’ll just have to live with that, won’t we?

I still posture, at least somewhat, masculine. I still often get my head shaved, down to the skull, like I’m going off to war. Because, living in my body has often felt like a war, to be quite honest. So I try to be masculine. No frills. Surgical. Spartan. Because I’ve been terrified if I grow my hair any longer, people will, know. My judging parents will, know. The true believers in this red as a rash state will, know. & what if they all, knew, the truth?

Would they hate me?

Would they hate me if they knew, I yearn to grow my hair out long, & dye it blonde, or pink, or blonde & pink, like a total badass? Would they turn their heads in shame if I wore cute makeup & sweaters, & not wear the same scruffy football hoodie & T-shirt combo I’ve been wearing, every day, since I was fifteen?

Truth be told, I hate wearing men’s clothing. I’ve always hated it. Especially male dress up clothes. The jacket & tie? The monkey suit you wear, for getting choked by the noose of always looking like every other mediocre asshole dying, a little more each day, in some dark dungeon of a cubicle?

I don't want to be mediocre anymore. I want to be. fucking. spectacular.

Look. I know how hard it is in this society for disabled people to be seen as sexy. As desirable. Clothes never fit right because they are often not made for us. They’re always cockeyed, or ruffled, or simply utilitarian. But damn it! I want to be sexy! I want to be desirable! I want to be lovely! Not just for other pretty girls, (though for them too, obviously!), but for me. For my confidence. For my self-worth. For my fulfillment, & happiness.

I no longer seek the dullness of masculine sexiness, either. Muscles, in my honest opinion, are wasted on dudes. I don’t want to wear anything with lots of buttons, either. I never have. My hands aren’t great at working them, anyway. For the last few years, I’ve made a whole index of feminine clothes I like the look of on Tumblr. I want to wear girly jeans, skirts, dresses, & on, & on. I want to experiment with jewelry & makeup & nail polish.

I don't want to live in a box anymore. I want to live in a curve. I want to, be, the curve. I want to be the fire, & the twinkling lights &, the hair on the wind, & the giggle on the grass. I don't want my stupid testosterone holding back my tears. I want to weep, & laugh, & LIVE! I know it sounds like I want to become a manic pixie dream girl, or something. But. Like. Why the hell not? Girls can be whoever the hell they want to be!

I’m tired of sublimating everything. I’m tired of holding back what I mean. Holding back who I really am. I’m done with the mask. Give me the cape, & the show. Give me the whole damn theater, & I’ll light up the world.

Though, look, just because I want to be more femme, does not mean I want to immediately, if ever, wear pink layer cake dresses like I just stepped off the carriage from Versailles, or somewhere. A lot of this is going to be an adjustment period. For everyone. I still love a lot of traditionally masculine things. For example, I’ll always love my Packers. (That’s the Green Bay Packers, who play American football, by the way, for those who thought I may have been referring to the, other, kind of packers, trans masculine folk sometimes use.) Again, I want to reiterate. I’m still going to be me. Just new & improved.

Over the last few years, I’ve also come to realize I’m not, entirely, alienated from my body. In fact, there’s parts of my body I’ve always had affection for. I’ve spent the last twenty nine years, (since I was three), sat in a wheelchair every day, eight to twelve hours a day. As a result of this, my growth has been stunted. So, I'm five feet nothing basically. To be honest, I've always liked being short.

Also due to my disability, (but probably also as a result of my genetics), I have small, delicate hands & feet. I've always loved them, too. I've often been complimented on my feminine eyelashes, & my thick hair, (usually by jealous girls), & my hair grows faster than a chia pet! I’ve liked those aspects of my physical body.

I understand to be femme, & or feminine, you don't need to have any of these attributes. That would make a boring ass world, no doubt. These are just, 'traditionally,' feminine attributes. & the parts of myself I've always liked, are, in fact, girly. Again, in the, 'traditional,' sense of the word. I am, of course, qualifying all this, however, due to thirty two years of drowning in patriarchy, & beauty standards, & racism, & fatphobia, & just a whole bunch of nonsense. That's all bull, obviously. Femme is whatever we make of it.

Along with preferring these, more, traditionally, feminine, aspects of my physical body, I have also always preferred the company of women in general. I always felt more comfortable with them. Not just because of my attraction to them, but because I’ve never found their presence anywhere near as exhausting, or demanding, as the presence of men, at least in large groups. Perhaps this is a biased assessment, & the only reason I feel this way is because women, & girls, have always clocked me as male, & therefore never involved me in the infamous vicious backbiting, of their group politics.

Even so, women, on the whole, have always seemed, softer, to me, in every way. With men, especially in groups, there’s always this endless jostling, this never ending posturing! There can never be two male lions in the pride, two tigers in the cage. You must always, always! PROVE YOURSELF! & FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT to assert dominance. What a weary way of life. Meanwhile, I always just wanted to talk, & laugh, & hug, & be affectionate, & be myself. I suppose I was yearning for something I could neither have, nor ever, be, as a man.

The way in which I have always related to women, I realize now, has often been in a quite feminine way. I’ve always like girls. I’ve always, loved, girls. I had my first crush when I was five. At least on a non-fictional girl, anyway. (More on my first fictional crush, which occured even earlier, if you can believe it, a bit further along in this mini manifesto.)

I was fascinated with girls. Obsessed, with them. Enthralled, by them! Not just because I found them pretty, or beautiful, or captivating, though there was always these aspects to it all, humming hungrily in the background, but I hungered for other things I saw in them, too. Subtler things. The way girls moved through the world. What soft, heavenly, potent, magic! I wished I had even one ounce of their fairy dust. It was, & is still, intoxicating.

I didn’t always dream of making love to them, though there was quite a bit of that, admittedly. I yearned for them in less carnal ways, as well. For their companionship. Love. Trust. Affection. I was always entranced by the ways in which they navigated the world. With a dignity & strength men could never hope to match. (They don’t have, THE RANGE!) & then when women put on ARMOR? Holy shit, HEART EYES! It was like, they were almost, underdogs, in the patriarchy.

As a disabled kid, I knew what it was to be an underdog. I saw me in them, & them in me. I'm not saying being disabled & a woman are equivalent in this society, they are most certainly not, obviously. But I could, sympathize, with being seen as less capable than I actually was. Still can. Every day of my life.

Also, from my teenager hood all the way up through my long & lonely years, I had this very irritating habit of falling in love with sapphics. Which is, to be honest, kind of devastating, when you are under the impression you are a dude. But once you realize you certainly are, not, a dude, things begin to really click into place for this aspect of your sexuality. I kept crushing on lesbians & the like, because I, am, one!

Duh!

Speaking of sexuality, & please bear with me if this makes you uncomfortable, I’ve been realizing I have always, actually, related to my sexuality, & therefore my body, in a feminine manner. I’ve never really been interested in pornography, or other titillation, which panders to the assumed male gaze. This genre of cinema’s incessant focus on men’s pleasure bores the hell out of me, to be quite frank. But show me genuine female pleasure, or erotica focused on feminine sexuality, especially if the arousal is conjured by another woman, & I am, all about, that good time. Not in the leering sort of way, either, like, “oooo look, two girls making out, that’s, soooo, hot!” I never imagined myself watching them. I always imagine myself, being, them.

Lately, I’ve even come to accept that I long to relate, & indeed do, now, relate to sex, as a woman. The thought of having sex as a man, with male parts, doesn’t hold as much interest, excitement, or fulfillment, for me, as the thought of making love as a woman, with female parts. It’s the difference between machine-like mechanics, & almost, animalistic, apotheosis. I don’t know how I’ll ever get there. But I will.

OK, the really sexy times confession session is over. Apologies if I over shared there, but I felt it was necessary. If not for you, then certainly for me, in my quest to become more honest with myself.

I’m a writer, & a lover of stories, so I find a lot of solace, strength, & truth in fiction. The deep lore, the myths, the characters. They all matter. So much. Long past the moment the poets who wrote them, turned, to dust. So that’s why I’ve chosen a name for myself, straight out of fiction.

A brave girl who believed.

Queen Lucy the Valiant.

The character who has always been closest to my heart, & who always will be.

Now. Look. I know she comes out of C S Lewis, & The Chronicles of Narnia, & therefore there is, A LOT, of baggage wrapped up in all that. The particular flavor of Christianity, forever entangled with the narrative & thematics. My boy Clive’s, GAPING, blind spots, specifically when it came to the portrayal of a faux Islamic world, or girls & women, particularly at the time he wrote those books. But. Look. I have a lot of baggage too. These are still my roots.

Narnia were the first books I read when I was three. Or listened to the abridged audio versions, anyway. The first fictional character I ever fell hard for? Lucy Pevensie. I told you. I’ve always, loved, girls. The first fictional character I aspired to be like? Lucy. Not because she was a warrior. But because she was still the bravest, despite being the littlest. Perhaps, because, she was the littlest.

[Episode Background Music 1 (MacLeod’s “Fluidscape”) FADES OUT.]

[Lead Out Music (Instrumental) FADES IN.]

She was always the best of them. Lucy believed when the others could not. Would not. She was the first to go to Narnia. She had seen the next world, & it was nothing short, of spectacular. Lucy believed in its wonders. In its endless promises. Lucy had hope. Sure, it was all meant as some sort of stilted Christian allegory. But I’m taking what I want, & leaving the rest. Because, I believe her story speaks to something universal. Lucy believed in, a BETTER, world. A BETTER, tomorrow. The name ‘Lucy,’ originally meant, ‘as of light,’ or, ‘born at daylight, or the dawn.’ She is the light bringer. & that’s who I aspire to be. The girl full of hope. Belief. Faith. Maybe not in any single church, or doctrine, but in love. In that, BETTER, tomorrow.

So here’s me. Rolling out from the darkness of my old wardrobe.

Lucy.

I’ve been terrified to talk about all this for the past several years, as I already feel like a burden, with all my disability stuff, & then I lost my job, & then the pandemic happened, & then, & then.

But I can’t live as I was living. Not anymore. I hope you can understand that.

I still don’t know how any of this will work. How my future will look. How I’ll figure out how to scrape the money together, on my own, I won’t be asking for any money for any of this, to transition in a safe manner, with all my other medical crap. I don’t know how my caregivers, throughout my life, will react. I don’t know how, anyone, will react. All I can control, right now, is myself, & how I need to be, myself.

My babby sister came out as bi this year, at least to the immediate family, & her self-assurance, & joy, have given me hope. I want to learn how to be brave like that again. Like my sister, before me.

Like Lucy.

~

[Episode Lead Out Music FADES IN: - playing soft & low in background as lead out rolls on. Lead Out Music - first the instrumental & then the vocal versions of Josh Woodward’s “Words Fall Apart” - which is a piano piece - almost a lullaby - featuring the following words:

“We're here at the start, where the words fall apart

Where language is lost in the wind

The syllables sway, in an ancient ballet

The meaningless sounds that we sing

Sleep, baby, sleep, baby

Sleep till the feeling is gone

Sleep, baby, sleep, baby

Everything's new in the dawn

The faces and sounds, where the truth goes to drown

In the deepest expanse of the sea

Our dreams and our hopes are concealed in codes

And no one would dare hold the key

Sleep, baby, sleep, baby

Sleep till the feeling is gone

Sleep, baby, sleep, baby

Everything's new in the dawn

Everything's new in the dawn”]

Lucy VO: Radio Free Lucy, is written by, Lucy Argyle, & performed by Lucy, a Radio Argyle Bot Player. Join Radio Argyle’s Patreon at patreon dot com slash Radio Argyle. All one word.

Music in this episode included “Arrival” by How the Night Came. Find their music at the Free Music Archive.“Fluidscape,” by Kevin MacLeod. You can find their music at Incompetech dot com. &, both the instrumental & lyrical versions of Josh Woodward’s “Words Fall Apart”. You can find their music at the Free Music Archive, Spotify, iTunes, Google Play, etcetera.

Other episode credits, as well as free transcripts for the show, are available on my Tumblr, where my user name is Radio Free Lucy. Also all one word. Simply search the hashtag Radio Free Lucy on my blog there & you’ll find them.

I’ll be back. Soon! Until then, I send you all, my love & strength. Take care, you lovely lunatics, & worthwhile weirdos.

[Lead Out Music eventually FADES OUT.]

[RADIO ARGYLE OUTRO STING - This 7 second sting involves the intro sting, mostly in reverse: the scifi engine powering down, the high-pitched British girl saying “Radio Argyle” - and then the needle fumbling off the vinyl - into radio silence…]

EPISODE CREDITS:

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Music (All Edited):

“Arrival” by How the Night Came. Find their music at the Free Music Archive.

“Fluidscape” by Kevin MacLeod is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 license. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/

Source: http://incompetech.com/music/royalty-free/index.html?isrc=USUAN1100393

Artist: http://incompetech.com/

“Words Fall Apart” (Lyrical & Instrumental Versions) by Josh Woodward: https://freemusicarchive.org/music/Josh_Woodward/Addressed_to_the_Stars_1995

Sound FX (All Edited):

“45rpm needle drop” by FreqMan: https://freesound.org/people/FreqMan/sounds/42819/. Courtesy of Freesound.

“Girl, female, inhale, exhale, sigh, breathing” by SpliceSound: https://freesound.org/people/SpliceSound/sounds/218309/. Courtesy of Freesound.

Podcast (& Ephemera) created with:

Scrivener

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Affinity Suite

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FreeSound

Free Music Archive

VoiceMaker

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Mannequin

[ecotone99]

[RF] - Alice

For the longest time I have risen from sleep prematurely. The first fleeting rays of sunlight stealing through the gaps in the blinds and playing across my bedroom wall, waking me from the sickly darkness of dreams; the horrible coldness of the bedsheets next to me serving as a bleak reminder of my goal- to discover which element, divine or human, that has stolen Alice from me. I pause suspended in that timeless space betwixt consciousness and unconsciousness, my memory calling forth sensations of her body, impressions of which vary through time; there being the Alice I first experienced at a distance during University, then the Alice of my thirty’s time beginning to trace its cruel pen across her face, and finally the Alice of my dotage: time’s wrinkles already etched with permeant pen onto her eyes; all these Alice’s existing simultaneously and separately within me, pressing forward as each face brings fresh meaning. And all of them stolen from me. No longer can I experience the warm touch of her hand outside the imagined phantasms my memory offers me, and that loss weighs heavy on my heart.

Few pleasures remain for me now. However, there still harbours a certain satisfaction within the scent of freshly ground coffee. The dark aroma traces a pattern of hot steam and wetted growth, conjuring the image of a pastoral vignette or a Vermeer study and the blend of taste and fragrance emerging within me, defusing its warmth throughout my bones, relieving the ache of decay from them. Alas, my poor Alice has left me. She used to make such a delicate drink, truly a masterpiece bordering on the sublime in its experience. My own weak efforts cannot bring upon me the previous satisfaction I once felt from her culinary artistry. My weak broth brings to mind the old Modernist joke ‘I would rather kill myself than have a cup of coffee.’

A pen is what I need now, such inspiration that has caught my mind, to ensnare the sweet reminiscences that my mind calls forth. Of meeting Alice. Of losing Alice. This diary shall be the record of my search for her; we might call it "in search of lost girls.” The scratching of my fountain pen against the page brings back the recollection of things past. Of being a boy, not a particularly boyish boy, but a boy nonetheless who used to write such negligible things; plays and poems, mere imitations of the art contained inside the leather-bound tomes I enjoy. When the sight of a shopping mall was enough to hold my attention, my gaze playing over the intricacies and aesthetics of a shopping cart or a superbly decadent McDonalds. And always Alice.

The day has passed like one long stream of regret frozen in the lakes of time, and my work, my recollection and search for Alice, has progressed along certain parabolic and perpendicular lineages. The call of sweet momentary oblivion calls from beneath the covers of my sheets, and I return, heart and soul yearning only for her. Only for her.

#

I lay flat on the grey, rocky surface of the mountain, my chin resting on my arms, and high overhead the wind blew through the clouds. I had tracked Alice down to a small, run-down, rotting wooden hut, and was waiting patiently for the opportunity to rescue her. A few hours ago, I had seen a man, probably about twenty, coming in and out of the hut. I was waiting for the cover of darkness to infiltrate the building and surprise Alice’s captor.

The sun blasted hot rays into the side of the mountain, heating the grey rock of the mountain. I gulped down some expired whisky, pulling back my lips at the sour taste, but thankful for the numbing effects of the liquor. To pass the time as the afternoon cooled into a soft night, I opened my diary and tried to write. After I found Alice, I intended to write a true account of it, experience being the touchstone for truth, an account so unquestionable that it reflects the sins of the world back at it.

The sun set on the mountain and I watched as the grey man turned the hut’s light’s on. I strained my eyes against my binocular’s trying to glimpse Alice through the windowpane but seeing nothing. I cursed myself that I didn’t have more liquor or even some young broads from the village, then steeled my will on my task. Eventually, the lights turned off, and it cast the mountainside into darkness. I waited more, then snuck down like a soldier or a spy towards the hut.

I reached the door of the hut and paused. I pulled out the old hunting knife my father had passed down to me, and steady myself. One strike, quick and true, then I could escape with Alice. I pulled open the door, not even registering my surprise that it was unlocked, and stormed in. The man in grey was sitting at a table playing solitaire and smoking a cigar.

“Where’s Alice,” I growled.

The man in grey sighed and looked up from his game. “I told you she couldn’t come out today. She’s seeing some of her friends from the club, it’s very important for the old folk to get together, you know. Anyway, she sent me along for her, didn’t want you to be alone here. Ha! What good it’d do you.”

“Who are you? What have you done with Alice?”

The man in grey hung his head in his hands. “She’s dead, I killed her. Is that what you want to hear, old man?”

“No, she’s not dead, look,” I held out the diary with the recollections.

The man in grey put down the cards and looked through the diary. A tear ran down his cheek, and his hands shook. “Can I… Can I keep this?”

“Keep what?”

“Nothing, I suppose. It doesn’t matter,” the man in grey got up and went to the door. “I’m going for a walk.”

“Where’s Alice?” I growled.

#

I am in Alice’s room. It is I who live there now. No. That’s not right. Alice died today. Or maybe yesterday, I don’t know. At the funeral I gave the address, I got up in my best suit in front of all the waiting people, even the man in grey was there.

I took in the sight of them, all dressed up proper horror show like, and said my bit. “Alice, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. A-lice; the tip of the tongue taking a one-way trip down the palate to tap on the gums. A. Lice. She was Al, plain Al, in the morning. She was Ally in the evenings. I first met her when we were at school together. She was mine on the dotted line. And in my arms, she was always Alice.”

Afterwards, when the body was taken away to be burned, I sat outside and smoked cigarettes with the man in grey.

“Hey, that was a great oration, old man. That was a great Tolstoy quote you slipped in there,” he said with a confidential air.

“I thought you noticed something. French literature is universal. By the way, what’s your name again? I can’t keep thinking of you as the man in grey.”

“It’s Fredrick.”

“Pleasure to meet you Fredrick.”

“Nice to meet you too. Come on, I’ll take you back to your room.”

I followed Fredrick back to his car. A polished red thing that gleamed in the morning sun. He turned on a Beatles track and pulled out of the car park. The dull backdrop of suburbia forming a beige blur as we sped past it. I lost track of time and soon a squat complex of medical buildings appeared in front of the windscreen.

“We’re here, old man,” he said. “Do you need me to help you get inside?”

“Who are you? Where’s Alice?”

END

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[stara-ljubavi]

9 Mar

You may noticed from my name that I'm a Muslim and it's indeed a problem when I deal with most westeners. They usually step back two three steps, supposedly that I'm another close minded backward or fundamentalist or even a terrorist who would yell "Allah akbar" and blow the keyboard or cellphone in their faces. It takes a lot of effort to explain who I am and how I deal with others.

Years ago I was debating faith on Facebook groups. I debated with atheists, Christians, Jews, and Hindus, and I always used a respectful and decent manner, never preached but tried to explain Islam that i live not Islam that media or stupid fanatics show to them. It wasn't accepted from many of them anyway.

Then I completely stopped when I figured out that it's pointless and it usually bring hate and anger.

One day I met an atheist and he told me something I didn't forget.

He said "Do you think that losing faith is a virus that you catch from the air and you become infected so next day you wake up as an atheist! Absolutely wrong. Faith is something deep inside the person and it takes time to be gone specially from those who had a theist life experience. It takes a lot of situations, contradictions, evidence, unanswered questions to reach the state of giving up"

Well, I don't know that guy and I didn't speak with him again after that day.

I'm still a Muslim and let's close the religion talk completely from this point.

So, why I tell you this all!?

You will know later.

First let me introduce myself from a different point of view.

I'm a straight man, my path is clean and clear. My history is a source of pride to myself and my family with lots of successes and least failures.

I'm known as a quiet, polite, respectful man for colleagues and strangers, and I'm active, funny, talkative as it gets with family and close friends. I sing, dance, create instant funny poems, jokes. I play with ten kids at the same time, telling them stories with cartoon voice, creating attractive games, throwing them in the air and around my arms like a roller coaster.. giving them a quality time of fun and happiness. I'm full of life.

I'm a man of honor. I value my duties and responsibilities more than my dreams and desires. Is it a curse or virtue? I don't care.

I never failed in anything I planned to achieve. NEVER.

I believe in freedom, I value and cherish it, but when it comes to my woman I'm a damn hot blooded man. Really hot blood.

When I'm jealous or angry my blood boils in my veins that I can burn the whole world. If someone tried to annoy my woman I can eat his raw meet.. I can't absorb the idea that my woman spend summer in a bikini while lustful eyes eating her body, or dancing in the arms of another man not me, or spending nights talking to "friends" or whatever.

My passion is wild, my capabilities are limitless. I can learn anything and can do everything.

And, I always yearned to a dream that is out of this world. I yearned for the perfection, the completion.. to create my wings stronger than those of Ikarus and fly fearlessly to the sun.

I had a dream. A 180 degree life changing dream.

And for that dream I sacrificed alot of the above.

I sacrificed from my sanity and happiness and soul. I lost myself, my satisfied eye look and positive smile.

Day after day, month after month, I try and try and fail.

Then try and try again and fail.

Then try harder, and eventually fail.

It was a come/go, yes/no, forever/never kind of a game.

I've been fooled, manipulated, humiliated, ignored, replaced, played with, lied to..

I was an experiment. A treat with expiry date.

The past never died, the present is not mine, so is there any expected future? Nah

Capturing myself in a cage of illusion of my own creation. Collapsing a wall of steel by scratching it with a nail clipper.

Suddenly, I remembered that atheist man talk about faith, when I realized that I'm changing.

Faith is a general word, not must be associated with religion.

I love my dream, it was not a choice, it will not change. It wasn't something I regretted or wanted to free myself from.

But my faith in achieving it is changing. I'm giving up.

I'm watching all the situations, contradictions, and unanswered questions like a flashing light inside my tired mind.

Not everything I want is mine.

Not everything I love suits me.

I don't want to waste my life in riddles and hidden twisted truth.

Myself has a right on me. I must love myself more, like I've been adviced one day.

Perhaps I could find my old "me" once again.

Perhaps I could find another promising dream that make me feel worthy, that could bring back my confidence and genuine smile.

[illegalpeople]

A word or two on symbols.

The United States loves its symbols.  The flag, the American eagle, the Statue of Liberty, Uncle Sam.  What do those symbols mean?  How important are they?  How powerful are they?  Sometimes a creator’s intended symbolic meaning becomes different for the “viewer.” Whether by misunderstanding, changing circumstances, or by co-option.  Symbols can be claimed by someone else besides the creator.  In other words, symbols can be stolen.  Or perverted.  

 We pervert with glee in “Office of Illegal People.” We steal several United States symbols and icons and warp them around our little devices.  We stick it to Uncle Sam, the Statue of Liberty, the US flag, and, of course, the President of the U.S. of A.  Heck, nothing is sacred to bouffon.  Symbols get their power from their meaning and when the meaning is perverted it’s so darn easy to make fun.  

A flag usually takes on its meaning in battle. They’re usually waved to identify an army, a group of fighters, to lead the charge and to claim ownership, mark a territory won in battle.  Even the LGBTQ community’s Pride flag gains more significance and meaning from the battles for rights that it waves over.  The significance of the US flag is no exception.

“The Star Spangled Banner,” is about our flag and the song is another national symbol, itself – a musical symbol.  The song’s lyrics are a poem composed by Francis Scott Key that tells the story of a particular US flag that Scott Key observed still waving triumphant over a fort that was attacked by the British in 1814. The music is actually appropriated from a popular British song. Who cares what that original British song was about - it’s ours now.  Suck it, Britain.  And happy to continue the thievery, Office of Illegals jacks the flag and national anthem, too.  No honor among thieves.

 Yes, the meaning of any piece of art or symbol can be appropriated and changed, despite the creator’s intention, despite the tribe that claims ownership and definition, despite what the art or symbol meant for years.  To many Americans the flag and “The Star Spangled Banner” stand for freedom, for US pride, for loyalty to country.  Not to Colin Kaepernick.  Not to anyone burning the flag.  Presumably, to many of them the US flag is the symbol of conquerors, the grand old red-white-and-blue is a symbol of oppression.  Ouch.

 Changing a symbol’s meaning causes a lot of hand-wringing, a lot of loud debate, and a lot of anger.  By changing the meaning of our flag, flag burners are robbing us of our collective delusions.  Why, that ought to be against the law!  By not standing for the National Anthem, not honoring the ritual associated with the symbol of the nation, Colin Kaepernick, makes us look at a side of our institutions that challenges our collective self-image.  How dare he?!  Please note it’s AOK to hang the American flag in your window as a curtain.  That’s both patriotic and practical.

 Commentators on Fox News recently complained that the costume in the new Wonder Woman movie is not patriotic enough.  The costume is a good updated version of her old costume. The noticeable difference is that it doesn’t have white stars on her skirt or bloomers, as it has in the past. Updating superhero costumes is standard movie design and there’s a good story-based reason for WW’s costume change but Fox News commentators don’t care.  It’s not worth mentioning to them that she’s actually Amazonian and an immigrant. They just want to claim Wonder Woman as their symbol.  Or lament that she’s no longer the US flag wiggler.

 Luckily DC, not Fox, owns the Wonder Woman copyright and DC upheld her source material and the vision of her creator, Philip Marston, as a symbol of peace, love and female power.  DC’s ownership doesn’t stop Fox News from claiming they know what Wonder Woman means, though.  If Fox owned Wonder Woman they probably would have made her some hollow jingoistic symbol of American patriotism and exceptionalism.  Yes, symbols can be notoriously easy to pervert.

 I thought the meaning of the Bull of Wall Street statue, or “Charging Bull” by sculptor Arturo Di Modica, was to satirize the unstoppable power of Wall Street.  The oversized bull seems ready to run over downtown pedestrians and anything else in its way.  I must have gotten that interpretation from the story of Di Modica installing it on Wall Street without permission.  But Di Modica meant his sculpture to represent the resilience of the United States and hoped it would bolster confidence in the stock market after the crash of 1987.  It honors Wall Street.  I didn’t know that until I read about the recent controversy surrounding the installation of “Fearless Girl” by Kristen Visbal facing down the bull.  

 Fearless Girl was commissioned by an investment firm and installed, also without permission, during International Women’s Month.  Many people have taken to it as a symbol of diversity and the power of women, which seems its intended meaning.  It’s become so popular Mayor DiBlasio said it’ll stay there at least until next year.  But Di Modica is filing a law suit to have Fearless Girl removed because it changes Charging Bull’s role from hero to villain.  He says, “That is not a symbol.  That’s an advertising trick!”

 Now another artist has added a dog next to “Fearless Girl” – “Urinating Dog.”  Hee hee - not laughing - heh heh.  

 No one knows who exactly created Uncle Sam, he’s probably a combination of many elements including real people, the initials U.S., and a red, white and blue suit that eventually became the walking, talking, pointing embodiment of patriotism.  The federal government often enlists him to represent patriotism and duty (the “I want you!” poster by J.M. Flagg).  Political cartoonists use him to represent United States, both good and bad. Uncle Sam is all over anti-immigration cartoons of the 19th and early 20th centuries.  So he’s an easy avatar.  

 Call me lazy but my bouffon, Richard P. Scatman chooses to play a perverted version of Uncle Sam.  It’s a natural progression to turn my bouffon, Scatman (“my friends call me Scat, but you can call me Dick”) into Uncle Scat.  He already wore a suit and a top hat, I just added the red, white and blue.  Since Uncle Sam has been an object of ridicule at least since the 19th century that’s not going to get much of a rise out of people.  The outrage will have to come from what Uncle Scat says.

 There’s more to subvert and therefore more risk in a portrayal of the Statue of Liberty.  Lady Liberty is more beloved and cherished than Uncle Sam.  The Statue of Liberty is a derivation of the goddess Columbia, the goddess of liberty.  She’s kind of the Blessed Virgin Mary of freedom.  As a matter of fact, after the French revolution Columbia replaced Mary in Notre Dame Cathedral for a while.  This goddess of freedom has appeared in different incarnations since at least Roman times.  

 The Statue of Liberty’s actual name is “Liberty Enlightening the World” and she was designed by Frederic August Bartoli.  A gift from France to the United States, once it was located on the island near Ellis Island it became associated not only with freedom but with immigration.  That association became even stronger with Emma Lazarus’ poem “The New Colossus” which gives Lady Liberty her most famous lines:

 Give me your tired, your poor,

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

 Even though the Statue of Liberty is often depicted in political cartoons, unlike Uncle Sam, she’s usually noble, sometimes the victim of some dastardly politician or other un-American villains.  Audrey Crabtree’s bouffon, Graspy McTakeitall, has her own mischievous plans to play a version of the Statue of Liberty.  We know from experience that she’ll be gloriously demented and hilariously mocking in her perversion of Lady Liberty.  Until then, we have an audience member stand in for Lady Liberty. We still manage to twist Lady Liberty’s meaning to our own ends.  

 Our national symbols are ripe for the stealing, perverting, and mocking.  Our symbols’ meanings are the most exposed to theft or change by our own hypocrisy. Bouffon take advantage of hypocrisy. Bouffon live to mock.  To the bouffon nothing is sacred, anyway.  As Grouch Marx says, “Whatever it is, I’m against it.”  Bouffon love to stick feathers in our caps and call them “macaroni.”  Nyah.