#because i am simply a strange person on the boat of despite being his ���experiment”

[fatedroses]

Elidibus informing Emet of a pivot in their plans in the most messed up way he can manage.

[ohhthereuare]

cannot believe we’re back to shipping wars in the year of our lord 2021 but with the overwhelmingly stupid cancel culture and moral police on every corner making it almost impossible to simply enjoy stuff these days I had to chime in my 5 kruge cents or else I’d choke

nobody gives a flying fuck about who you ship and neither should you because this is very rarely up to you. it’s like a god-chosen enlightenment, a sudden rush of serotonin that mysteriously dictates what’s gonna rock your boat from now on. that is great. grab that wheel and get on with it.

you don’t have to justify any of that. and I wish it was clear enough but apparently it still isn’t that villains are called villains for a reason and murder is murder no matter the motive. we know. trust me we do. but I guess that’s half the charm of a work of fiction that a character can be interesting despite its flaws. hell most of the time it’s interesting thanks to its flaws. when you say you like them it doesn’t mean you run to justify their sins and therefor imply these new moral conclusions to your everyday life and real people in it. it just means that this particular fictional creature makes your brain go happy. be them a ball of sunshine or a ball of darkness. you’ll enjoy their actions in a specific media and then get on with your life as an intelligent, morally responsible member of a society that will definitely not go on a killing spree because a fictional guy in a cool cape that doesn’t even exist did so in a story.

now getting that lengthy introduction out of the way I cannot believe that people cannot engage in an intellectually stimulating critical thinking discourse (that back in the day we just called meta) without criticizing every thing or else apparently they’ll go to literal hell. the Darkling is overall a bad guy and Mal is overall a good guy. that’s what the story it built upon. then again both of them are grey to some extent as people are because they are people. they have thoughts and desires and justify themselves because they believe in a greater good that sometimes they personally created. there’s no reason to compare the Darkling who’s straight-up a millenium-old murderer who just happens to be very charismatic and sexy to Mal who’s more human and the mistakes he makes are less of the murderous nature and as it unfortunately happens he’s just more plain. I’d be happy with Alina ending with either of them, knowing full well that there would be good and bad sides to either of the endings. even if the positive outcome of Alina ending up with the bad guy was only a sense of aesthetic fulfillment. that is all. I can say I see and understand the manipulation and the toxicity and still enjoy a power couple dressed in black cloaks the same way I’d enjoy childhood sweethearts leading a safe and quite life. whatever rocks my boat.

if we look at Leigh Bardugo’s work in a simple, quite superficial way then yes it is the question of black and white, good and bad. but it’s more than that and it’s one of the many reasons why it’s one of my favorite books series ever (let’s not go all JKR on her because as I’ve seen some of you do because apart from obvious situations no creator of anything should to held to impossibly pure moral standards making their work morally flawless because it’s based on their own personal experience and it’s impossible to stop some of it from seeping into the work itself even if you personally might find it problematic but they’re human just like you and me and I cannot believe I even have to type this rn). now I’m not wasting my time writing this essay and you reading it to stir up a ship war and I am NOT here as a darklina shipper because in the end I was quite happy with malina getting their happily ever after. but I cannot STAND this sudden wave of frantic justification and of hate towards it because it’s all missing the point.

the Darkling is a villain. the Darkling is a human being (to some extent). the Darkling is the bad character but he’s more grey than black and it’s Alina’s own opinion. THAT’s what’s so interesting about their relationship. he hurt her and the people she loved and hurt people she didn’t even know only to pin the blame on her to guilt trip her to do his bidding. we know it’s toxic and manipulative. Alina knows that too. she hates him and fears him and at times would kill him without hesitation. but she also comes back to him and can’t help but marvel and his beauty and genuinely sheds a tear when he falls. it’s hard to say whether she loves him to some extent, I think even she wasn’t sure and felt quite guilty about it. there’s was a strange pull she couldn’t deny, a wicked sense of understanding that could not be matched by anyone else. despite their chemistry she couldn’t overlook the murder part and that’s who she chose. that’s also who she became because if she had accepted his offer and went down that powerful path we would have been given a completely different story with Alina being a different character. it’s that magic of fiction that lets you explore such extremes but it still is just fiction. it’s okay to type lengthy essays about it to pick it apart and examine with interest but there’s very little point to criticize something so obvious or defend the impossible.

now still on the topic of the Darkling that’s what I love about the show. how Ben Barnes looked for the human parts in him (which is also literally his job as an actor to find parts of the character that he could sympathize with idk why are y’all so surprised and scandalized and y’all better leave my man Ben alone). parts that might have been lonely and misunderstood because that’s how the Darkling saw himself. he had to justify his own actions somehow because he believed he was right. a bad villain is bad by nature. a good villain makes you question whether he’s really bad, makes you justify his villainous actions with him. showing the Darkling express real emotions towards Alina, hope for their shared future, tears in his eyes as she turns her back on him just made him that much more interesting and multidimensional as a great character should be. a great character can still be a murderer. a murderer can still be a great character. it has nothing to do with them being a good person. but it doesn’t erase the toxic behaviors just by being sexy the same way that toxic behaviors have a hard time erasing the sexy part and if you find it sexy in fiction that’s great go on reblogging passionate darklina gifsets and if you can’t stand it even on paper that’s fine too enjoy your heartwarming malina handholding posts. fill in your “rip to alina but I’m different” preferable scenario and let it bring you joy.

Leigh Bardugo is a great author. Ben Barnes is a great actor. actually all the actors are great actors and they did a marvelous job of bringing our beloved characters to life and we cannot even imagine the burden of responsibility they must have felt. let’s try to be less negative and more grateful for a really well-done book adaptation and surround ourselves with people that share our likes and dislikes in a respectful and positive manner and hopefully not foolishly trust that people can tell the good from the bad in real life and still enjoy both in a work of fiction.

[teawaffles]

There’s No Business Like Show Business: Chapter 5, Part 1

T/N: This is one super-long chapter ( ; ω ; ) so it has been split into 2 parts.

One week later. This was the night Maya’s company had been invited to perform.

The West End of London, stretching from Soho to Covent Garden, was renowned for its large theatre district, crowded with historic names such as the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, Haymarket Theatre, and St James’s Theatre, in addition to newer entrants. [1]

Right in the centre of the district was Piccadilly Circus. At this time in history, the “Eros” fountain had yet to be built [2]. Here was the intersection of numerous thoroughfares, with pedestrians and horse-drawn carriages coming and going, day and night — the busiest spot in London.

It was here that a certain elderly noblewoman drove past in a carriage. But the next moment, she saw a strange sight in the middle of the square, and ordered her coachman to stop the carriage.

“……My word, what could that be?”

The words fell from her lips.

In the centre of the square was a simple stage about ten metres wide, composed of wooden boxes placed together and covered with boards. Passers-by had stopped to look out of curiosity, and a small crowd began to form.

After a short while, a lone woman appeared on stage.

She wore a sky-blue dress and a long, blonde wig. The crowd stared blankly as she gave a reverent bow.

“——Ladies and gentlemen, good evening. We are a small theatre company hailing from the East End. I am Maya, its chairperson.”

She raised her head, and gazed upon the whole of Piccadilly Circus.

“You may be feeling confused as to why a stage has suddenly occupied the Circus, but first, let me express our deepest gratitude that we, a theatre company of humble origins, have been able to meet you in this miraculous way.”

Her dignified voice resounded across the square, causing a stir among the onlookers. As more people noticed what was happening and gathered in droves, the crowd encircling the stage gradually expanded.

“Without further ado, let us bring you a little dream in a fantastic world.”

Maya ended her introduction with a graceful bow. Then, a man appeared on stage. Facing the crowd, he began to speak in a sonorous voice.

“It was a radiant afternoon filled with golden sunshine. A boat cruised leisurely down the river. Small, young hands gripped the oars. They seemed to lack strength: rising nimbly, then falling left and right as if to guide the oars’ movements.”

“……Hmm?”

The crowd listened intently as he narrated, with accompanying hand gestures.

“Oh, how terrible: what a cruel fate this is, to meet three girls! I’m all warm and sleepy. But still you wish to talk to me! You move my feathers, and do not breathe. But I’m all alone. I’m no match for the three of you.”

“This— Could it be……?” someone in the audience murmured.

With his monologue complete, the man took his leave. Then, another woman appeared at a corner of the stage. Holding a book in one hand, she began to read fluently from it.

“Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank——”

In tandem with the narrator’s words, the blonde-haired Maya gave a small yawn. It was as if she had swapped places with a young girl herself. Without realising it, the audience held their breath.

Then from the side of the stage, a person appeared wearing a vest and rabbit’s ears, with a pocket-watch in one hand.

By this time, the crowd encircling the stage had become fully spellbound.

✦ ✦ ✦ ✦

“——All the world’s a stage. And the men and women merely players.” [3]

An actor delivered his lines from the stage of a gorgeous West End theatre, as its owner, a nobleman, looked on from the box seats.

The actor himself knew the height of his fame, and hence his actions were somewhat egotistical. Nevertheless, these were the acting skills of a true professional: his clear, bright voice resounded in every corner of the intricately decorated theatre, delving into the ears of his audience, and producing an indescribable feeling in their chests.

His salary was eye-wateringly high, but evidently, it had been an excellent decision to hire this actor. Still, despite his self-satisfaction, the nobleman had a pained expression.

The reason for it was clear. This was a renowned theatre company famous for its acting talent. Even though it was their opening night — a momentous occasion, the stalls were unusually empty.

He’d made sure to advertise the play well in advance, so this was unexpected. As he admired the actors, who were not bothered in the least by the empty seats in the audience, the nobleman stood up and headed to the entrance.

“Hey, you. Haven’t there been any more visitors?”

He directed his question to the young man behind the ticket window.

“About that— Just a while ago, it seems a show’s begun at Piccadilly Circus.”

“A show?”

“Yeah, though I heard about it from someone else. A stage suddenly appeared in the middle of the square, and it looks like there’s a play being held. It’s about…… that; the one where a girl chases a rabbit and falls down a hole, uh……”

Those keywords alone led the nobleman to the answer.

“——Do you mean, ‘Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland’?”

The young man clapped his hands in appreciation.

“Oh, that’s right. Yeah, that.” He sighed wistfully. “Ahh, it brings me back: I read it when I was a child. And as I recall…… was it ‘Maya’? It seems that’s the chairwoman’s name.”

“Wha……!”

Upon hearing that name, the nobleman recoiled in shock.

“That theatre company from the slums?”

A play held on a stage that appeared out of nowhere. The young man saw it as a mere street performance, but to the nobleman, this was something different. As soon as the image of the perpetrators surfaced in his mind, his face turned red with anger.

An extraordinary turn of events, happening right on the opening night of an important production — as if it had been carefully planned to do so. In other words, Maya and her company had intended to sabotage his production out of spite, by putting up a play out of the blue, and not even in a proper theatre. That was what the nobleman concluded.

To add insult to injury, they had chosen to perform “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland”. To stand up to a classic with a piece of children’s literature. To pit Lewis Carroll against Shakespeare.

Although it was a ridiculous idea worthy of scorn, the fact remained that they had stolen his precious audience.

He posed a question to the young ticket seller.

“Well if that’s the case, wouldn’t there be a huge commotion? The Yard should be on to them any moment now.”

“That’s the thing…… It seems they’re already gone.”

Hearing that, the nobleman threw his head back in laughter.

“I told you so. It’s all because they’re out of their depth. They can recite their lines in jail for all I care.”

However, the young man made a troubled expression.

“Uh…… Sorry. I didn’t make myself clear. Actually it seems that after finishing one scene, they specified a different location, packed up their sets quickly and left.”

“……What?”

✦ ✦ ✦ ✦

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Alice; a great girl like you, to go on crying in this way! Stop this moment, I tell you!”

Behind the church of St. Martin-in-the-Fields, in Trafalgar Square, Maya and her company acted out the scene in which Alice shrank and grew larger, panicking all the while. The front of the stage had been covered with a white cloth, and a light shone on it from the back, allowing them to show the changes in Alice’s size in the manner of shadow puppets. As Alice grew until her head struck the roof, the audience buzzed in excitement.

Watching from the wings of the stage, Bond could see that everything was proceeding smoothly.

His plan to demonstrate the true abilities of this company, was a moving theatre that roamed all around the city of London—— a “guerrilla theatre”.

They would perform in busy areas to attract people’s attention, then quickly cut off their act and leave before the authorities arrived to stop them. After which, they would continue the performance at another location. One could say this method was the exact opposite of performing in an officially-recognised theatre.

There was a reason why they had changed the contents of their play. As their original performance comprised three short stories, there was a concern that the audience would grow bored after watching just one scene. However, staging a full-length play across various locations would keep up their interest for the next scene.

In addition, “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland” took place in a nonsensical, chaotic world, with no apparent connection between its acts. As a well-known story in itself, anyone joining in halfway would still be able to enjoy their performance — a perfect work to be presented in this manner.

The main issue was the acting, but that was helped by their practice in performing on a big stage.

As part of this plan, the play they would put up was not of the type that drew the audience’s attention to the stage right from the start, but rather one that was performed outdoors to people passing by. Hence they would have to project their voices and exaggerate their actions, but this was simply an extension of the two weeks’ practice they had done before.

Moreover, Maya and her company had extensive experience in performing children’s literature, with a focus on ease of understanding, so much so that they had almost learned the entire tale by heart. Memorising their lines had been no trouble at all.

Furthermore, the preparations at each of the locations they moved to — the very heart of the operation — were borne by the East End residents, who appreciated their performances.

The plan inevitably required manpower, but there would be no point in Bond providing it. However, with the trust of their fellow residents, Maya and her company had managed to recruit the stage crew by themselves. This achievement was their own.

As the company performed in one location, the stage crew would set up the temporary stages in the other locations across the city. They had accepted the company’s request with pleasure, and Bond couldn’t thank them enough for the depth of their kindness.

As he looked upon the crowd, all standing with eyes locked upon the stage, Bond chuckled.

——Even without a theatre, there would always be a place for acting.

It had been a wild idea to turn the city of London into their stage. But the East End residents lent them their support. And Maya and her company were putting up an excellent performance.

In a manner of speaking, this play was an all-out challenge from the people from the East End, to the gilded theatres of the West End.

Ten minutes till showtime. The players announced the location of their next act, then quickly descended from the stage.

“I’ll be leaving the cleanup to you then,” Bond addressed the remaining crew at the square. Then he directed the actors to board the carriages he had prepared. Taking the reins of one himself, he urged the horses forward in a gallop.

“Um, we owe it to you that our audience has enjoyed our play thus far, but…… I’m not sure if we can continue to do so,” Maya asked with a worried look.

Hearing that, the other actors in the carriage, who’d been going over their lines, turned solemn.

Although things had been going well so far, if their acts attracted too large a commotion, it stood to reason that Scotland Yard would put its full attention into stopping the play. Moreover, bad actors may also seek to take advantage of the hubbub. As far as possible, they wished to avoid their audience falling victim to crime.

Bond fully understood their apprehension. Because of that, he kept calm as he reassured them.

“Not to worry. I have some dependable colleagues.”

Saying that, he gazed in the direction the carriage was going, and smiled.

“It’s a popular saying, isn’t it? The show must go on.”

The curtains had been raised. Now all that was left, was to play their roles to the end.

Footnotes:

[1] This district is known as Theatreland (Wikipedia). The first two theatres listed are still standing, with St James’s Theatre having been demolished in 1957.

[2] If you were to go to Piccadilly Circus now, you would see a very prominent bronze fountain with a statue of a winged angel on top. Actually, the statue isn’t of the Greek god Eros at all. (Wikipedia)

[3] A line from Shakespeare’s As You Like It (Wikipedia).

Translator’s notes:

Quotes from Alice in Wonderland All dialogues from the East Enders’ production have been heavily referenced from the Project Gutenberg version of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, by Lewis Carroll.

Thinking about what year the series was set in In this chapter, we learn that the “Eros” fountain hasn’t been built yet — it was unveiled only in June 1893. But we know some events of the Phantom of Whitechapel arc, such as when the people of Whitechapel formed a militia, did take place in history — these were broadly in the autumn of 1888. So this actually works out, and gives us a sense of when the events of the manga unfolded.

Edit: The manga seems to be canonically taking place between 1879-1882 latest — you can read my analysis here!

Piccadilly Circus in 1868 This is entirely for fun — here’s a screenshot from the game Assassin’s Creed: Syndicate (set in London 1868), with Evie standing at Piccadilly Circus:

I couldn’t find any pictures of the Circus from before the “Eros” fountain was built, but in Yuumori’s time, it would’ve still had the circular shape shown here. When Shaftesbury Avenue was built in 1886, it transformed Piccadilly Circus from a circle into the sort-of trapezoid crossroads layout it has retained today (British History Online).

[what-is-your-plan-today]

Riding On

Ch 16- A Whole Fucking Hand Of Aces

Part 1

Summary: It’s the run up to Christmas now for our favourite family, but it isn’t all happiness and smiles as Greg brings Fliss and Frank some worrying news about their adoption application. When Fliss enrols Bonnie’s help and the two women turn detective they uncover something that leaves Fliss both stunned and shocked. But, after a little contemplation, her and Frank realise that maybe, just maybe, they can work this to their advantage after all.

Warnings: Some VERY Bad Language words (Frank has a potty mouth…) Descriptions of panic attack-please avoid if this triggers.

Pairing: Frank Adler x Fliss Gallagher

A/N:  Some nitty, gritty action and angst over this chapter so I hope you’re ready… buckle up! Big thanks to @icanfeelastormbrewing​ for reading this (sorry Frank had to put a shirt on) and @southerngracela​ for helping me with a crucial bit here that I have very limited experience on. And to @sweater-daddiesdumbdork​ for her opinions and also being as in love with dirty boat daddy as I am...

Chapter Song: I’m Gonna Love You Through It by Martina McBride (Ok, so this song makes me damned cry due to the sentiment behind it, and fits Frank and Fliss here so much…)

Series Masterlist //  WIYPT Masterlist

When you’re weak, I’ll be strong. When you let go, I’ll hold on. When you need to cry, I swear that I’ll be there to dry your eyes. When you feel lost and scared to death, like you can’t take one more step, just take my hand, together we can do it. I’m gonna love you through it.

December 2019

Fliss set the mug down on the coffee table in front of where Greg sat in the arm chair. Their friend had called earlier that day to say he had finally had a response from an attorney representing Bradley Polland, Mary’s biological father regarding the Adoption.

And it hadn’t been good news. Frank’s worse fear had been realised, the man was contesting. Frank hadn’t received the news particularly well, storming out of work and straight home, blazing in a fit of anger that was very unlike him, and Fliss had taken charge and asked Greg to come over later that night once Mary was in bed so they could discuss it in a calm and hopefully logical manner. As always, he was happy to oblige.

Greg flashed Fliss a smile and thanked her before she sat next to Frank on the sofa, her hand reaching for his. Their fingers laced together and she gave a little squeeze and he looked at her, giving her a tight smile.

“Don’t get too despondent yet.” Greg sighed, “I know it’s shitty but like I said on the phone Frank, we have a damned good chance on winning this in court.”

“I just don’t fucking understand Greg.” Frank shook his head “Why? Why is he contesting? He doesn’t give a shit about her, we know that. He’s never even laid eyes on her in person. Fucking ass hole.” His tone we venomous, his face creased in anger and Fliss gently squeezed his fingers again. He took a deep breath and shook his head “Sorry, I’m just…” “Buddy, I can’t begin to imagine how you feel.” Greg sighed, “And I’m sorry I can’t answer your question because I don’t know what his reasoning is.” The man shrugged as he took a sip of his tea. “Maybe the fact that the adoption would completely remove any rights he has to her has sparked some deep buried paternal instinct...” “Bull shit.” Frank scoffed, leaning back in his chair. Greg looked at Fliss who took a deep breath.

“So, what happens now?” she asked, trying to keep calm. One of them had to have a level head after all.

“Well, there’ll be a little to-ing and fro-ing before court but my first action, which I did as soon as that letter landed this morning, was to get onto Child Welfare. They’ll prep a report on Mary, how settled she is, happy, basically in support of the adoption.” Greg licked his lips “But I want you both to know, that there is absolutely no way that Mary is gonna get taken away from you.” He looked at Frank straight in the eyes as Frank looked back. “Even if Polland petitions for custody, which he won’t…” he held his hand up, cutting Frank off before he could start again “No Court in their right mind is gonna rip her out of her home here and put her with him, not now. You have Legal Guardian Status Frank, that’s not gonna change. At most he will get visitation.”

“What if Mary doesn’t want to see him?” Fliss asked as Frank looked away, his eyes roving over the garden are which was light up by the various solar lights speckled around the decking and lawn, the pool lights turning the whole area to the left of the garden a vivid shade of aqua, desperately trying to keep his cool.

“Then the CWD will reflect that in their report.” Greg nodded. “But this is absolute worst case scenario. You both need to understand that there is a really, really high chance that the court will overrule his objection and allow the Adoption to go through anyway. She’s been with you all her life Frank, whilst he may have a biological link to her, he has nothing else. And the court won’t look favourably on his actions. We saw that in the case versus your mother.” “So this might actually not mean a thing?” Fliss looked at Greg.

“Exactly.” Greg smiled “You’re in a very good position. This…it’s just a little bump in the road.”

“Then why does it feel like a huge fucking road block?” Frank looked at Greg and his best friend sighed.

“Because you’re panicking.” Greg said simply “You’re over thinking it, like you always do. Trust me Frank, this is going to change nothing…” “How can you say that?” Frank looked at him. “Of course it’s gonna change something, that little girl up there thinks we’re gonna be adopting her and now I’m gonna haff to tell her that that might naht be the case…”

His accent grew thicker, the way it always did when he was emotional and Fliss squeezed his hand once more and turned to face him.

“Frank, nothing changes from our home front, that’s what Greg means.” She said, and Greg nodded in agreement. “And as for telling her, then we do what we always do. We be honest, we explain it simply and we reassure her if she gets anxious. That’s all we can do for now. And then, whatever happens we face it together as a family.” Frank sighed and looked down at his feet before he looked at Greg, shaking his head “Sorry man, I didn’t mean to snap.” “Don’t sweat it.” Greg shook his head “But I mean what I say pal, this isn’t like last time when, I’ll be honest, I didn’t think we had a cat in hells chance of keeping her from your mother, despite how much I was behind you, and you know that. This time, well, not only have your entire circumstances changed now in that she has a perfect home, a family, stability…” he took a deep breath, “And you are her legal guardian. No court will strip that from you unless there’s exceptional circumstances. And these are not. The only card Polland has to play is that he still has his Parental Rights, he’s got nothing else. He has never met her, never talked to her, never paid a dime towards her. In contrast, you on the other hand have a whole fucking hand of Aces to play back. There’s no way she’s going anywhere, adoption or not, which is the main thing here. That she stays with you. You two are her parents in everything but name and the court and CWD will see that.”

There was nothing much more that Greg could tell them at that point, other than to walk them through the next steps in a little more detail. He talked them through how the CWD would be in contact and that they’d want to speak to Mary alone, then they’d want to speak to both of them too, and that was as far as he was prepared to go, refusing to even think about anything beyond that. Which in itself was frustrating the hell out of Frank, but Fliss understood exactly why Greg was being so reserved. It was information overload, and Frank being the very analytical and cerebral person he was would end up even more frustrated as Greg would have no answer to the barrage of questions he was likely to have.

It was only when Alex made the familiar noises of hunger that the 3 of them called time on their discussion and Fliss stood up and headed to the bassinet to the side of the sofa. 

"He's getting so big." Greg beamed and Alex, momentarily forgetting his hunger, locked his eyes onto his godfather's and gave him a huge smile. "Hey fella!" Greg ran a finger down his cheek and Alex wiggled his arms in response. "He looks like you pal." Greg looked at Frank as he grinned. "Poor little bugger." 

“Fuck you.” Frank snorted, and Fliss pouted dramatically.

"I happen to think is daddy is very handsome." She looked at Frank whose lips curled into a smile at one side for what felt like the first time that day before he turned to Greg. 

"I'll see you out."

Greg looked at him and then nodded, and with a final goodbye to Fliss, he left the family room with Frank behind him

“Tell me honestly Greg, and no bullshit…” Frank looked ad his friend as they strode towards Greg’s silver benz which was parked behind Fliss’ Cherokee “Am I gonna lose her?”

“Have you just listened to a damned word I said Frank?” Greg looked at him. “Read my lips. Not a chance. Honestly Frank, you have the upper hand here. This is nothing like last time.”

Frank nodded and gave his friend a tight smile.

“Thanks for coming over.” he nodded and Greg smiled.

“Any time, I got your back. You know that.” he promised as he climbed into his car. Frank watched him leave, tossing a hand at the tailgate to the car before he turned and headed back inside, giving a whistle for Thor to follow him, the dog having wandered outside at the same time he had. But despite his friend’s assurances, he just couldn’t shake the worry from the back of his mind that this entire thing was going to rip their family apart.

He paused in the doorway and watched Fliss who was now feeding Alex his bottle, her eyes locked on that of their son and he felt a little lump in his throat. He swallowed and spoke, his voice sounding strangely far away to him.

“Want me to do that?” he asked. Fliss looked at him, immediately recognising his offer for what it actually was, a request. He wanted to do it. And she knew why. It was a way to keep himself grounded, away from the spiralling thoughts in his mind.

“Sure.” She nodded as Frank sat down. She handed Alex over and then kissed Frank’s cheek. “Try not to worry sweetheart, I know it’s a shitty set back but it’ll work out.”

“You’re optimistic.” Frank looked down at Alex as he took his milk before he glanced up at Fliss “I wish I was.”

“You heard Greg.” She gently lay her hand on his neck, her fingers softly stroking at his skin of the nape “This isn’t like last time.”

“I know.”  He nodded, before he fixed a smile on his face “Why don’t you go for that bath you were talking about before?”

“You gonna be ok?”

He nodded “Yeah, I’ll be up once he’s finished.”

“Ok.” Fliss nodded, kissing him again before she stood up and left Frank alone with his son.

**** Try as he might Frank couldn’t sleep that night, his mind was whirring at 100 miles an hour, and in the end he gave up before his tossing and turning disturbed either Fliss or Alex. He climbed out of bed, pulled on a pair of sweats and a t-shirt before he peered down at Alex who was asleep in his crib. As he headed to the door he reached down and gave Thor’s ears a scratch as the dog looked up from his spot in his basket before he padded silently into the hallway and softly pushed Mary’s bedroom door open. She too was fast asleep, Fred curled up next to her head on the pillow. She looked so peaceful, so content. And Frank knew that’s because she was. She was safe, she was loved, she was wanted- boy was she wanted- and the thought that her life, that their lives might be upturned by that shit head Polland made Frank’s stomach churn.

He knew he was over thinking things. He had always been the same. He retreated into his mind, and no matter how many times Fliss or Greg had told him not to worry that night he just couldn’t help it. He’d almost lost her once, and the thought that he might actually lose her for good this time was unbearable. His mouth suddenly became dry and he needed a drink, so closing the door behind him softly he headed down the stairs and pulled open the fridge, reaching for a bottle of water.

He the cool liquid in one but that did nothing to help the hot and clammy feeling that was now washing over him, causing a light beading of sweat to dust his brow. He wiped it away with the back of his hand and as he did so his belly dropped out from him and a sick feeling spread across his body, almost like he was going to puke. He gripped the edge of the counter, hovering over the sink, eyes closed as the room began to spin and his chest suddenly began to hurt. He found himself unable to catch his breath as his throat tightened and he scrunched his eyes shut as they were burning from the unshed, salty tears. Then, he could hold the feeling of desperation and panic no more and he turned, sliding to the floor in a dishevelled heap, his back banging painfully against the lower kitchen cabinets as he struggled to ground himself. When his chest finally released enough for him to take a huge, shaky, painful breath it was all too much and his anxiety poured out in a flood of uncontrollable tears, the deep emotions stirring with no other outlet but his silent crying.

How long he was there he had no idea, locked in his own mind and worries, but then a voice broke through the cloud in his mind and a familiar presence filled his senses.

“Frankie…” Fliss gently placed her hand on Frank’s shoulder as she knelt down next to him. “Oh Baby…”

He mumbled something incoherent, choking on his sobs, his face buried between his arms as they hugged his knees to his chest, and she moved to wrap her arms around him. His own arms moved and he wrapped them around her back, clinging to her with a desperation she’d never seen or felt from him before as he pressed his face into the crook of her shoulder.

“Shhhh, I got you…” she whispered to him, kissing his head. “I got you.”

The two of them sat on the kitchen floor, Fliss soothing him, pressing the odd kiss to his head, running her hand up his spine over his t-shirt with one hand, the fingers of the other fingers brushing the back of his neck, a movement she knew he found comforting. Knowing from her own experiences, there was nothing else to be done other than stay with him and let him cry it out she did just that. Eventually, she felt his broad shoulders begin to relax a little as his sobs turned into smaller cries, which then morphed into small hiccups, until eventually they subsided completely and there was no sound in the room bar his deep, ragged breathing. After a moment or so of relative quiet,  he pulled away and Fliss turned her head towards him, taking in his appearance and it broke her heart. His face was red and blotchy, those blue eyes she could drown in were bloodshot and looked at her sadly from beneath puffy eyelids. He moved his arm to wipe at his nose and then took a deep, stuttering breath.

“You with me?” Fliss asked gently and he nodded, taking another shaky breath.

“Sorry, I didn’t want to wake you.” He spoke, his throat felt raw and his voice was gruff and croaky, not sounding like his own. Fliss shook her head.

“Don’t you dare apologise Frank.” She said gently “There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

“We had such a wonderful Thanksgiving a few weeks ago, and we should be looking forward to Alex’s first Christmas and now…” “Hey, hey…” Fliss cut him off, her hands taking his face gently, pads of her fingers threading into his beard. “Thanksgiving was wonderful, because we were all together. Christmas is gonna be wonderful because we will still all be together.”

“I can’t lose her Liss, I can’t lose any of you, I just…” “And you’re not gonna.” She said, her voice calm and quiet. “Greg told you this before. The worst that can happen is Polland is gonna get visitations.” “But what if she wants to live with him? What if she-“ “Oh Frank.” Fliss sighed “That’s not even a remote possibility. Mary worships the ground you walk on. She adores Alex. She loves her home, her life…if anything, I think she’s going to refuse to even see him. You saw how heartbroken she was that day we had to talk her out of the bathroom during the court-case. She won’t have forgotten that.”

Frank raised his eyes to Fliss’ and she smiled at him softly, her hands still on his face “Baby, she might only be 9 but she’s not stupid. She knows you gave everything you had to make sure she’s had a good life. You kept her safe, loved. I’ll say it over and over till I’m blue in the face Frank, you ARE her father. In everything but biology. And Bill and I are proof here that biology doesn’t mean a fucking thing.”

“She adores you too you know.” Frank said, and Fliss smiled softly pressing her forehead to his

“Good because I adore her right back. And her big, soft, lump of an uncle-slash-father who happens to be a wonderful man with a huge heart, who knows he isn’t perfect but doesn’t try to be.” Her hands slid down from his face, one resting on his shoulder, the other back to stroking the nape of his neck. Frank closed his eyes, taking a deep breath as her touch washed over him. “A man who strives every day to be the best version of himself, but doesn’t really need to because he’s already the best daddy and partner in the world.”

“Liss I’m not-“ “You’re not perfect, yes I know.” She smiled “But that makes you perfect to me.”

Frank took a deep breath and closed his eyes as her fingers continued to gently stroke at his neck, all the time her movements sending gently sparks of warmth down his back. His breathing had settled down now, his tears stopped. He felt calmer.

“I love you.” He said softly and Fliss smiled, pulling back a little

“I know.” She looked at him “I love you too.”

His hand reached up for the one that was resting on his shoulder and his fingers tangled with hers, and he squeezed gently, relishing the feel of her engagement ring as it pressed against his middle and ring finger. And then, almost by magic, a soft gurgle came from the baby monitor on the side in the kitchen.

“See, Bean loves his daddy too.” Fliss smiled and Frank gave a little chuckle. “Wanna come back to bed?”

He nodded.

Fliss stood up and offered Frank her hand, tugging him up beside her. Without a word she led him down the hall and up the stairs. Frank headed straight to Alex who was on his back, his eyes flickering as he was clearly still sleepy, his head turned gently to the right, little hand curling by his cheek. Frank softly ran a finger over his soft skin and the little boy reacted to the touch, his limbs stretching a little before he settled back down, his breathing even, his eyes closing.

“I still don’t know how we made something so special.” Fliss whispered, her arms curling round Frank’s waist from behind.

“He’s part you.” Franks replied softly, and Fliss gave a chuckle.

“Yeah, well, like I said, his daddy’s pretty awesome too.” Frank turned round to face her and dropped a gentle kiss to her mouth, his nose sliding against hers before he gave a little yawn. “Sorry…” he said as Fliss chuckled.

“Come on Sailor, let’s try and get some sleep before he wakes us up.”

Frank moved and slid into the covers, settling down as Fliss led besides him. He turned onto his side to look at her and she brushed her hand through his untidy, fluffy hair and then opened her arms. With the air of a small child he sank into them, his head resting against her chest, arms moving so that they wrapped around her, like a koala bear. Her hand once more resumed its gentle stroking on his neck and it wasn’t long before Fliss felt his tense shoulders relax, his breathing grew even and she glanced down to see those long eyelashes resting against his freckled cheeks as he slept. She pressed a kiss to his head and closed her eyes and finally let her own emotion crash over her as she let out a few silent tears of her own.

***** “I just don’t get it Bonnie.” Fliss said gently, as Bonnie took the coffee she was offering, the two women heading over to the breakfast bar. “Why now? Why after so fucking long is he suddenly interested?”

���I wish I could answer that for you.” Bonnie sighed, as Fliss’ eyes flicked over to Mary who was led on the play-mat by the TV with Alex. He was led on his back and Mary was playing peek-a-boo with him, hiding her face behind his large stuffed Elephant pillow which had been a present from Steve and Sian when they’d taken the kids to the zoo.  Alex showing his appreciation by smiling at her and giggling, his arms and leg waving as he shrieked with happiness.

“I just can’t shake the feeling that there’s more to it.” Fliss bit her lip and Bonnie looked at her.

“What do you mean?”

“Well…” Fliss shifted a little, dropping her voice even more. “When Polland turned up in the Custody case, Frank was always adamant that Evelyn had paid him, even though he denied it and she denied it and we had no evidence. Frank’s still to this day 100% convinced that’s why he came forward. He wasn’t interested in Mary…”

“Has he asked Evelyn since?”

“No.” Fliss shook her head. “They’re in a good place. It’s not perfect but its ok, and they have this unspoken agreement now that they don’t talk about it. They moved on so…”

“Maybe you should ask her.” Bonnie said.

Fliss shrugged “I don’t know if I want to drag it all back up.”

“Yeah, but if you think someone is putting him up to this…”

“I don’t, well, I do, maybe…”  Fliss hesitated as she tried to put what she was thinking into words “I don’t know, what I think to be honest, other than there must be something else in it for Pollland. Sorry, I’m not making much sense.” “No, I get it.” Bonnie assured him. The two women sat in silence before Bonnie clicked her fingers as she looked at Fliss “Facebook. Have you checked him out?”

“Already tried, he’s blocked me and Frank…same on Instagram. Not that I’m sure it would help but…”

“Well he won’t have blocked me…” Bonnie shrugged “Might be a dead end but you never know. Worth a good old social media stalk, don’t you think?”

Fliss looked at Mary, then to Bonnie again before she nodded “Ok…do it.”

Bonnie pulled her phone out and scrolled down, tapping open the App. “What’s his name?”

“Polland.” Fliss said gently “Brad…”

Bonnie tapped at the screen and then turned it to Fliss, “That him?”

Fliss nodded. “Yeah…”

“Damned it his profile is locked down…” Bonnie said, her eyes roving over the screen. “Let me try his insta…” She continued to tap at her phone and grinned “Well he hasn’t locked this down…”she started to scroll down the screen and then stopped, frowning a little “Hang on…why do I recognise this woman?”

“Let me see?”

She pushed the phone over the counter and Fliss stared at it for a moment. It was a picture of Polland in a suit, with a team of people she assumed must be work colleagues. “Which one?”

“The one 2 down from him to his right.”

Fliss looked closer and then she felt her heart skip a beat. “I don’t fucking believe it…”

“What?”

“That’s Anna.” She said gently “Richard’s wife.” “Richard as in…” Bonnie trailed off as Fliss swallowed and looked at her.

“My ex brother in law. We saw them in Miami…” The realisation crashed over Fliss in a huge wave as she stared at the photo, the ghosts once again of her past back to haunt her only this time in a way she could never have imagined. This was the link, the Stazikers. She’d bet her life on it.

“Why now?” Bonnie asked gently “I mean this photo is from a few years back, so…” “I wasn’t with Frank when the case went down, not fully anyway.” Fliss said, biting her lip “None of them would have made the connection back then, they didn’t even know where I was. This will be their way of punishing me. John died whilst in prison for an attack on me, Richard did a few months inside too for his part. They’ve always blamed me, even when John pleaded guilty.” She took a deep breath and looked at Bonnie “Ok, can you go through and screen shot ANYTHING you see that links him to the Stazikers, then send it to me.” “What you gonna do?” Bonnie asked “Tell Frank?”

“Not yet.” Fliss said, “I need to speak to Evelyn first.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m gonna ask her once and for all if she paid Polland.” Fliss looked at Bonnie, her eyes blazing “Because if she did, it makes it all the more likely he’s taking a back hander again.” *****

“Fliss?” Evelyn’s voice hit Fliss’ ears as she sat in the study, sitting at the desk.  

“HI Evelyn.” Fliss said, taking a deep breath “Have you got a minute?”

“Yes, of course…what’s the matter?”

“I need to ask you something. And I want an honest answer. Bradley Polland…” “What about him?” Evelyn’s voice took a gruff turn.

“Did you pay him?”

“What?”

“When he appeared at Mary’s case. Did you pay him?”

“Why are you asking me this?”

“Because yesterday we had notification he’s actively contesting the Adoption application.” Fliss said, keeping her voice calm “And I’m trying to understand why. I have a theory but…”

“It’s nothing to do with me if that’s what you think…” “No, I don’t.” Fliss appeased as Evelyn’s voice was harsh. “I’m just trying to gather the facts before I go back to Greg. But I need to know honestly Evelyn, did you pay him.”

She sighed “Not exactly, no.” “Well what exactly did you do?”

“Polland works for an accountancy company.” Evelyn hesitated slightly before she continued “He’s in charge of their New Business department. I had a word with my contacts at the University and it ended up in a very lucrative deal for his firm, meaning he got a promotion. I’m not proud of it…but…”

Fliss took a deep breath. There was some satisfaction that her suspicion had been correct but also an underlying sense of frustration at how Evelyn could have ever been so damned sneaky. But, she had to remind herself that this was all in the past now. They had all moved on, and made some pretty monumental steps in that department. But this was now threatening to blow all of this out of the water.

“Thank you for being honest with me.” She replied after a second or two.

“Fliss, you have to understand, I was desperate.” Evelyn said gently. “I’d do anything to take it all back.”

“Look, I’m not interested in dragging this up for an argument.” Fliss shook her head as she spoke “As we all keep saying, what’s done is done. I just needed to know if I was right.” “You think someone is paying him to do this?”

“Yes.” Fliss said bluntly “And I have a good idea who.”

“Are you going to tell me?”

“Not yet.” Fliss licked her lips. “I need to talk to Frank first.”

“Ok, well if there’s anything I can do please let me know.”

“Of course, I’ll let you know.”

After bidding her mother-in-law goodbye, Fliss hung up and dropped the phone onto the desk before she let out a little groan and stood up, heading back into the living room. Mary looked up at her where she was sat on the sofa, and Fliss smiled as she saw Alex was curled up on-top of his comforter on the play-mat, cuddling to his beloved elephant.

“He fell asleep” Mary said, “I was watching him but you said not to try and lift him without you here so…” “It’s fine babe, he looks comfy enough.” Fliss smiled, “Honestly, you did good. Top babysitter.” She leaned over and gave the girl a hi-five before she took a quick photo and sent it to Frank. Placing her phone on the coffee table she dropped down besides Mary. “What you looking at?” Fliss nodded at the laptop.

“I’m chatting to Rosie.” Mary said, turning the Macbook so Fliss could she see had the instant messenger service from the school network open “We were talking about Christmas and stuff. She asked if I can go and sleep over tomorrow night.”

“You wanna?”

“Yeah.” “Then fine by me.” Fliss said, giving a little yawn “I can’t see Frank having a problem with it. I’m teaching in the afternoon so I can drop you either before or after.”

“Ok, I’ll tell her you said yes.” Mary smiled, “See what time she says I can go over. I can ride Monty in the morning again like I did today.”

“Sounds like plan, kiddo.” Fliss nodded “We can do the trail if you want when I’ve done the classes for the morning.”

“Awesome!” Mary grinned.

“Oh, and I know I said I was gonna make chicken parm for dinner but I seriously cannot be bothered. I’m thinking I might throw some frozen pizzas in and do some dirty fries instead.”

Mary grinned “I love dirty fries.” “So does Frank.” Fliss smiled

“He needs cheering up.” Mary nodded “He looked sad this morning.”

“He just has some stuff going on at work.” Fliss said, batting the question away “He’ll be fine.”

At that point her phone went off, it was a message back from the man in question responding to her photo of Alex.

Lucky little bastard!  I’d kill for a nap right now, I’m exhausted. Finishing early so should be home in an hour or so. Love you all xxx

“See.” She showed it to Mary “Just tired.”

“Can we bake some brownies?” Mary asked, her face hopeful “They always cheer him up.”

“Sure.” Fliss smiled, standing up, completely not bothering to point out to Mary that was more hassle than the chicken parm, it was such a thoughtful thing to want to do that Fliss instantly felt her heart melt as she agreed. “Go get the bowls and stuff ready, I’ll put Bean in the crib.” To be fair it only took half an hour to mix the batter and get it in the oven. They then turned their attention to the fries and pizzas, shoving those in too before they returned back to the sofa, Fliss finding “Miracle on 34th Street” on one of the channels so they settled down to watch, the Christmas tree lights twinkling in the corner of the room. And that was how Frank found them when he came in from work about 20 minutes or so later. Both of them sat on the sofa, Mary snuggled into Fliss as they were giggling at the TV in the now dim-light of the room.

“Hey.” He smiled and Fliss looked up at him, taking the kiss he offered before he ruffled Mary’s head “Again?” he nodded to the TV and Mary glared at him.

“It happens to be one of my favourites.” “Don’t I know it.” He rolled his eyes. He then paused, the smell of baking hitting his nostrils, and looked around, before he glanced back at them, grinning “You made brownies?”

“Not just any brownies…” Mary grinned “Salted caramel ones.” Frank groaned “I love you both.”

Mary sniggered “Fliss said you would say that.”

Frank smiled “Imma take a shower ok? Be down in a second.”

“Actually, I need to talk to you.” Fliss said, looking at him significantly.

“Ok.” He frowned.

“You ok here Mary?” Fliss looked at her. “Keep an eye on Alex for me again?”

“What are you going to talk about?”

“Nonya.” Frank looked at her.

“Nonya?” Mary frowned. “Who’s Nonya.”

“Nonya-business.” Frank retorted, straightening up as Mary gave a groan.

“That’s so lame.” she sighed, rolling her eyes. Fliss and Frank headed upstairs into their bedroom, where Fliss took a deep breath. She didn’t even bother telling Frank to stay calm, because she knew it was futile. And, true to her prediction, when she explained what she’d found out he reacted exactly how she had predicted. Angry, upset, frustrated. He grit his teeth, swore and then started stomping around the room.

“I know, I know…” she soothed as he slammed a drawer shut, tossing a pair of joggers onto the bed. “But, this is good Frank.” “Good, how is any of this good Lissy?” he seethed “I…” “Because it gives us an angle.” She said gently “If we tell Greg about this…whilst we may not have any solid proof it provides him with a line of attack. Raises questions. And we have Evelyn too, I’m pretty sure she’ll go on record about what went down last time. It’s a total smear on his character.”

Frank took a deep breath, running his hand through his hair. “You know what, I can’t…I can’t process this now, I need to think.”

“Ok.” Fliss said, looking down at the carpet, swallowing a little as she took a deep breath. “I’m sorry.” “Sorry?” Frank frowned “What are you sorry for?”

“Because this is my fault isn’t it?” she stated, more than asked, and Frank was horrified to see the tears in her eyes. “It’s all down to John, again.” “Stop.” Frank said firmly, shaking his head as he strode round the side of the bed to where she was stood. “Lissy, this isn’t your fault baby. Not at all. I’m not mad at you, I promise.”

“Maybe, but if I wasn’t involved, this wouldn’t be happening and…” she took a deep breath and Frank shook his head once more, wiping her tears away. “He’s fucking dead Frank and still…” “Look.” Frank sighed, “You don’t control what that shit head family do now any more than you did back then, ok? I’m sorry for snapping I just…” “I know.” She nodded, her hands wrapping around his wrists as his calloused fingers caressed her cheeks.

“But please don’t for one second think I blame you for any of this. This is down to him, and if the Stazikers are the only reason he’s doing this then he’s an even bigger shit head than we thought.”

“You know, Steeb says he can make him vanish.” Fliss shrugged “Concrete shoes, bottom of the ocean.”

Frank chuckled and his hands dropped to her hips “Don’t tempt me.”  

“So what do you want to do about it?” Fliss asked. Frank bit his lip for a moment as he considered his play and then he looked back at her, determination on his face.

“Once I’ve showered I’ll call Evelyn and check she’s ok, as no doubt she’s pacing the floor at home now, panicking.”

“You not mad at her?”

“Mad? I’m fucking raging but what’s the point of going over it all?” he sighed, “I always knew deep down she’d done something and we worked so hard to put it behind us…”

“And the rest of it?”

“Well after I speak to Mother, I’ll get onto Greg, tell him what we know.” He spoke determinedly “If the fucking cunts want a dirty fight, then they can have one.”

PART 2 

[emeraldtawny]

Dazai Osamu Character Analysis: How Human Is He?

Before I get into this, allow me to preface this with a disclaimer: I AM NO EXPERT IN ANY OF THE TOPICS I AM ABOUT TO DELVE INTO, THIS IS JUST WHAT I INTERPRET PERSONALLY. This is just a fan of the character rambling about him and his real-life counterpart for the sake of sharing the thoughts rattling around inside my brain. However, I will link all sources that I used at the end of this so you may wish to investigate further if what you read piques your interest.

Okay, so… Dazai Osamu. This man is as much of an enigma as he was in real life (which… makes sense). Whether Cybird did this on purpose for a gradual build-up to his route or because he just wasn’t as popular a character, who knows? (I like to believe the former just for hope’s sake gbsdukgdx). Because we know very little about him in-game, the majority of what I will be mentioning will relate back to IRL Dazai. If you know little or nothing of Dazai Osamu, please proceed with caution if discussions of substance abuse, depression and suicide upset or trigger you. Consider this your disclaimer. Now then, let’s dive in.

History of Dazai Osamu

Born in 1909 into a wealthy family as Tsushima Shūji, that didn’t ease his early life from burdens. His father was a politician and often spent long periods away from home. His mother was often sick so he was mostly cared for by his aunt and the family’s servants. His father died of lung cancer when Dazai was 13, but he seemed mostly unhindered by the death of his father and continued through schooling before being accepted into the literature department of Hirosaki University in 1927.

Things started taking a more outward effect on Dazai around this time, the linchpin likely being the death of his idol - author Ryūnosuke Akutagawa - who committed suicide. He started losing interest in his studies, investing more time into alcohol and prostitutes. He also experimented in Marxism, even joining the Japanese Communist Party. His first suicide attempt was in 1929 - right before his school exams - by an attempted sleeping pill overdose. This wasn’t enough to kill him so he subsequently survived. He graduated from Hirosaki the following year, then moved to Tokyo University in 1930. There, he met a prostitute that he ran away with, prompting him to be disowned by his family. 

His second attempt at suicide came that year - an attempted double suicide with a young woman he barely knew. They threw themselves into the ocean. Sadly, she died, and Dazai was rescued by a passing fishing boat. He was suspected in the woman’s death, but his family’s influence saved him. He then married the prostitute he ran away with.

It was after this that Dazai began networking with established writers and started publishing his own works, his pseudonym of Dazai Osamu being established with his short story ‘Ressha’ in 1933. In 1935, he attempted suicide for the third time by hanging, failing once again. That same year, he suffered from appendicitis and was admitted to hospital where he developed an addiction to a morphine-based painkiller. He was admitted to a mental institution in 1936 and was forced off of his drug addiction. When he was getting treated, his wife had an affair with his best friend. With their marriage deteriorating, both Dazai and his wife attempted a double suicide - Dazai’s fourth attempt. They both consumed sleeping pills in an attempted overdose. Both survived and Dazai divorced his wife after this.

The 1930s and 1940s were Dazai’s golden years literature-wise. He wrote many novels and short stories. When World War II rolled around, he escaped being drafted due to tuberculosis. He continued writing through the war period and met and then married his second wife in 1941. They had three children together.

The last years of Dazai’s life produced his most infamous works - ‘The Setting Sun’ and ‘No Longer Human’ - in 1947 and 1948 respectively. Around this time, Dazai met a woman who he left his wife and children for to take as a mistress. On June 13, 1948, Dazai and his mistress committed suicide by drowning in the Tamagawa Reservoir in Tokyo. In a cruelly ironic twist, their corpses were discovered on what would have been Dazai’s 39th birthday - his fifth attempt was the one that succeeded. An unfinished novelette eerily titled ‘Goodbye’ was left behind, many believing this as his last will.

Dazai’s works became a cult classic after his death, his undertones of nihilism in a postwar society greatly appealing to the masses. ‘No Longer Human’ became his most famous piece, eventually being translated into many languages and is among the most popular books in Japanese literature. He inspired different movies and anime (and otome) with the story of his life and the works he crafted from his experiences.

(All info in this section is derived from Source 1)

No Longer Human’s Effect

When you think Dazai Osamu, it’s not uncommon to immediately think of his novel ‘No Longer Human’. Whether you’ve read the book or not, worry not, as I will not be discussing any plots in the book; I will instead address the overarching themes and (the lack of) conclusion and message the novel leaves you with.

Many consider ‘No Longer Human’ - and many other of Dazai’s works - as semi-autobiographical, as he took many of his story’s ideas from his own personal experiences. This is illustrated through the way in which he wrote his stories; focusing on first-person perspectives to an excruciatingly analytical degree. This was and still is known as the “I-Genre” in Japan and became a staple for Dazai, the viewpoints and mindsets he wrote his characters in portrayed very vividly in a way that made you question how much of it is the character, and how much of what he wrote was the author’s own words and feelings to the world.

‘No Longer Human’ is not a happy story. It follows the story of a man through childhood, university and finally adulthood - the story written in three parts as notebooks to show his progression of age. Without spoiling the contents of the novel in case you wish to read it for yourself, the story focuses on an overarching question: is being a human the solution, or the problem in and of itself? Throughout the novel, it’s clear of how questioning the main character is of this, almost to the point of obsession and compulsion. However, his language always shows how unconvinced he is; a “mundane and dream-like writing, incessantly miming the words “I think … ,” “I am … ,” “I could … ,” “I should … .” Dazai’s characters are never quite convinced.” (Source 2).

The character Dazai portrays is relentless in his self-examination, which leads to his estrangement - not just from those around him, but to the very species he is meant to be a part of. Estrangement is common throughout the story and “It is this fundamentally unhuman feeling that, paradoxically, reveals to Dazai’s characters exactly how human they are.” (Source 2). The inner monologues and conversations can be unsettling if you find yourself relating, alien if you don’t, but ultimately leave you walking away from it questioning even an inkling of what you thought was innate and normal. 

‘No Longer Human’ is not a story designed to tie up all of the loose ends it produces. Dazai leaves it up to you - the reader - to interpret for yourself. The character is infuriatingly, yet ultimately in character, indecisive in how he wishes to perceive the world; “To be a nonentity strangely indifferent to all the accoutrements of human life and society, and yet strangely drawn to the unhuman world of sky, rain, sand, sea, this is where Dazai’s novel ultimately leads, and it’s at this point that it has to end.” (Source 2).

Depression and Nihilism

I mentioned earlier that Dazai was admitted to a mental institution. From the sources I found, I couldn’t find anything concrete about why he was admitted aside from battling his drug addiction. However, mental illness was prevalent in Dazai’s life and it’s widely believed depression was a large part of this. Few recounts of people who talked with Dazai recalled his dark, wry tone in his writings, yet found his humour witty and oftentimes exaggerated (hmmmm…). Since I found nothing credible for this discussion beyond this, I’m going to step away from psychology and instead have a look at philosophy, specifically Dazai’s philosophy on life.

Again, this is just assumptions. However, I find this more comfortable theorising about over sensitive topics like depression and mental health (plus, I find this incredibly interesting, personally). You could argue that Dazai believes in sophistry - the use of clever but false arguments, especially with the intention of deceiving - but I’m inclined to disagree simply because of how deep Dazai digs himself into his own deception; if he himself believes what he tells others, I think it’s a more deep-rooted philosophy than false arguments. I mentioned nihilism earlier and this is what I ultimately believe is the philosophy in how Dazai saw the world. What type of nihilism is the question.

Most people think nihilism and assume the whole “God is dead, I feel nothing” hypothetical; I know I used to always assume so. But, of course, it’s not as cut and dry as that (nothing is simple…). There are different types of nihilism, but I will only talk about the one I think applies to Dazai. Throughout his stories, despite the gloomy atmosphere, there’s usually a(n attempted) glimmer of hope - a snag in the character’s mindset that draws them back into their repeating thoughts of what they should and should not perceive and believe in. Because of this, cosmic nihilism (also called cosmic pessimism) can be eliminated - Dazai’s characters don’t renounce everything they feel and take meaning in as illusions to make existing easier, they’re slightly more lenient in believing what they perceive.

I offer the type of nihilism I believe Dazai’s mindset for writing - and subsequently his actual mindset - falls into: existential nihilism.

Existential nihilism operates on the premise that there is no inherent meaning or purpose; “existence itself–all action, suffering, and feeling–is ultimately senseless and empty.” (Source 3). While not denouncing beliefs like faith and love like cosmic nihilism, existential nihilism relies on values being created and sustained lest they risk falling into the mindset that there is no hope, the world is truly empty and there’s no point in existing in a world that doesn’t even try to give you a reason to hold on. Existential nihilists don’t believe that happiness doesn’t exist; they simply believe that “miseries vastly outnumber pleasures, happiness is impossible” (Source 3) and, therefore, are constantly at odds with themselves over striving for this impossible happiness or simply leaving it behind to find something else to root themselves to reality. Many of Dazai’s character’s internal conversations echo this philosophy; they either despair over being who they are, or they despair because they can’t be who they think they are. In a specific example, they feel estranged and uneasy about how they think - being what they deem “not human” - or they feel trapped and alone in believing that they can’t be who they think they are, so they’re forced to play a character - a facade - for their entire life so as not to be discovered.

Search up ‘Dazai Osamu quotes’ on Google and you’ll find a plethora to read that seem to portray this very idea. Constantly battling within himself over what he should believe, what he should feel and, ultimately, never voicing his pain to the world itself. These two screenshots from the game seem to mirror this sentiment. 

Soo… what does this mean for Ikemen Vampire Dazai?

… Who knows? I don’t work for Cybird so I couldn’t possibly tell you sorry :3. The PV for his route had heavy implications of atonement and death being the only true salvation, so I’m intrigued on what angle they’re going to tackle that from, since Dazai’s reasoning for being revived was “well, death wasn’t what I thought it would be lol”. (Unless it’s a red herring… who knows with this eccentric man gbdukgdfx).

So… yeah. I just wanted to ramble and with his route dropping in Japan before April is done, I thought it was a good time to just ramble into the Tumblr void. Please feel free to broach further conversations about this, correct me if I slipped up anywhere or to just say you’re excited for his route (because I know I am huehuehue). 

Sources can be found here (Source 1 | Source 2 | Source 3)

[kgstoryteller]

LOVE in the time of corona-possible prologue for “killing justice: the taste of knives”

Either you learn to live with paradox and ambiguity or you’ll be six years old for the rest of your life.-Anne Lamott

At 5:55 pm, on 3/30/2020 I do hereby declare, under penalty of perjury, that I am a child of chaos, and that my true name is scared kel. Strike that. May the record reflect that for the past 56 years, since my adoption in the spring of 1964 at the age of eleven months, my true name has been scared kel.

Of course I was scared. I had just been kidnapped from the only home I’d ever known, and taken away by two strangers to their little yellow house in Chilliwack, British Columbia, Canada. I cried, and cried, and cried, from dusk until dawn, but as the sun slowly began to rise, and I had not yet been returned home, I finally stopped crying. I would have to adapt to this strange new world, it seemed.

Paradoxical New First Name

These two strangers kept calling me by this strange new name I’d never heard before: “Kelly”. I resisted this name for the longest time, and kept calling myself Toddy instead. I would later learn that my oldest half-brother, who was born shortly after I was adopted, is named Todd. Go figure.

I would also later learn that my new name, Kelly, means “brave warrior.” But wait, that can’t be right. After all, my true name is Scared Kel. Put the two together, and it would seem that my complete true name must be Scared Brave Warrior. No wonder I was confused. No wonder I am a child of chaos.It seems that I have been wrestling with paradoxes and ambiguities like these my whole life. 

Yet my adoptive parents were conservative Christians, and my mom in particular seemed especially concerned that I learn the difference between good and evil, between right and wrong. And it seemed that a lot of my childhood was spent doing what was evil and wrong, as what I heard mom say more often than anything else to me was “Your will must be broken young man.” In other words, her will must be good. My will must be evil. How else to explain the fact that I’d been given up twice in the first year of my life? I knew that because, at the age of three and a half, on a ferry boat ride to go get my baby sister, I’d asked my mom why we weren’t going to the hospital. She had gently replied, “Because we’re choosing to adopt your baby sister, just like we chose to adopt you from a foster home when you were eleven months old.” Being “chosen” was a double-edged sword, it seemed. I would have to be really, really good if I wanted to make sure that mom #3 wasn’t going to give up on me too.

We moved around a lot in the first few years after I was adopted. Three times during my first six years with them. Every time we’d move, mom would say “Look how much I’ve sacrificed for you.” If my will was evil., then all Mom’s sacrifices must be good. If I was a child of chaos, it was clear that mom’s world was a world of order. And that mom’s God was a God of order. Once again it seemed as if I was just going to have to adapt to this strange new world.

If my true name was Scared Kel, but my new name meant Brave Warrior, I would simply have to bury my chaotic true name, and adapt myself to my orderly new name.

Now as luck would have it, (and with our first of many visits to my mom’s Irish dad, my grampa Bob, and Norwegian mom, my gramma Myrtle, I would learn that my mom was half-Irish), my new mom and pops not only gave me a new first name, they were kind enough to anoint me with a new middle name as well.

Paradoxical New Middle Name

Now what sort of middle name might you expect a young conservative Christian couple to choose for their newly adopted son? Perhaps they would name me after one of the Gospel writers, and I would be Matthew, Mark, Luke or John? Maybe they would aim higher, and I would be Michael, named after the archangel? Going Old Testament was another possible option, as Joseph may have been the name they settled on. Had I been the one to choose a biblical character to be named after, I would have gone for Moses, the tragic hero who was adopted by Egyptian royalty.

Going for the obvious was never Mom and Pops’s style, however. In fact, I have a theory that my practical joker Pops chose both my names, and then convinced mom to go along for the ride. Since I never thought to ask, I grew up believing they’d named me Kelly because it was a good Irish name. Mom was half-Irish, after all. It wasn’t until I was in my mid-twenties that I finally learned that my new name was inspired by them having adopted me from a foster home on Kelly Street. Go figure.

But Pops outdid himself by coming up with Darwin for my middle name. Who knows, maybe he was secretly preparing me for a lifetime of wrestling with paradoxes and ambiguities. God knows how many of their conservative Christian friends they had to patiently explain to that no, they had not abandoned their faith in a Creator God, but instead had chosen the name so that I would challenge Darwin’s theories. At least that’s why mom said they chose it. Pops’ said they chose it because he’d heard that Darwin had converted to Christianity on his deathbed. Even though that story has now been widely dismissed as an urban legend, I still like Pops’ reason for choosing the name better than mom’s. Mom’s was a world where you had to be a brave warrior in the battle for truth in order to survive. Pop’s was a world where even the most hardened materialist like Darwin could be redeemed in the end.

My way of living out this Darwinian paradox was three-fold. First, when I would later become an adopted American, I chose to add Einstein, but keep the Darwin. The cover story I told anyone who happened to ask was that was my way of honoring my parents. The real reason: I just thought the initials K-EDG sounded way cooler than KEG.

Second, rather than challenging Darwin’s theories, I chose instead to defend my namesake against the blatantly false charge that his worldview amounted to nothing more than “survival of the fittest.” Bullshit. That worldview belongs to Thomas Hobbes, a seventeenth century English philosopher. According to Hobbes, the state of nature is a "war of all against all," in which human beings constantly seek to destroy each other in an incessant pursuit for power. Life in the state of nature is "nasty, brutish and short."

The third way I chose to live out this Darwinian paradox was to adapt. For Darwin explicitly rejected the Hobbesian “survival of the fittest” when he declared that “It is not the most intellectual or the strongest species that survives, but the species that survives is the one that is able to adapt to or adjust best to the changing environment in which it finds itself.”

Fear and Love in the Time of Corona

As the coronavirus races madly around the world, in seemingly unstoppable fashion, from the way the mainstream media and the political establishment are chronicling its assault, it would appear that Hobbes was right. For the coronavirus appears to be primarily laying waste to the weakest members of our species, to those whose advanced age or compromised immune systems make them especially susceptible to its deadly rampage.As someone who’s been forced to wrestle with paradoxes and ambiguities his entire life, however, I have learned from painful personal experience, time, and time, and time again, that things are rarely as they seem to be on the surface of things.

My personal paradoxes and adaptations

As a terrified little eleven month old, I learned that crying would not take me back home to my mommy.

One way I adapted was by becoming a scared brave warrior, so my new mommy would see what a brave warrior I was and love me for it.

Another way I adapted was that despite mom’s best efforts to raise me as an anti-Darwinian Christian fundamentalist, after leaving home at the age of seventeen, I adapted and eventually became the Darwinian Christian mystic that I am today.

How my healing journey has helped prepare me for the Time of Corona

One of the most frightening things about the current coronavirus pandemic is that it is forcing our human species to finally begin to humbly acknowledge that WE ARE NOT IN CONTROL.It is a lesson that I have been forced to learn, and re-learn, time and time again, over the course of the past fifty six years, ten months and eight days.

When I was torn away from my birthmother Adele after nine months spent blissfully swimming in her amniotic sea, I WAS NOT IN CONTROL.

When I was torn away from my foster mom Grace, after eleven months of being pushed up and down on swing sets by her and my First Nations/Native Canadian foster sister Diane, I WAS NOT IN CONTROL.

When I told my adoptive mom Pat, when I was sixteen years old, that I’d learned in my careers class that day that I’d be a great hotel manager, and she said that I didn’t need to go to college for that, I WAS NOT IN CONTROL.

When I had a near nervous breakdown in my first semester at Pepperdine Law School at the age of twenty one, after I’d blown my scholarship, and was so driven by despair that I ended up taking three or four sleeping pills a night to get an hour or two of sleep, I WAS NOT IN CONTROL.

When my beloved adoptive dad Pops, who’d saved my life four years earlier after my near nervous breakdown, suffered a traumatic brain injury from a near-fatal car crash and was left with the cognitive capacity of a twelve year old, when I was twenty five years old and halfway around the world in London at the start of the first semester of my last year of law school, and I couldn’t come home that whole semester because I’d taken two years off to recover from my first year from hell, and once you start you must finish law school in five years, I was left with the emotional capacity of a terrified six-year old, better known as scared kel, because I WAS NOT IN CONTROL.

When I trusted a friend of twenty years and he betrayed that trust, and the life I’d tried to create for myself out of the ashes of Pops’ traumatic brain injury for those same two decades came crashing to the ground when I was forty six years old, I was left once again with the emotional capacity of a terrified six year old, whose true name is scared kel, because I WAS NOT IN CONTROL

For the past ten years, five months, and fifteen days, I have been attempting to love and parent scared kel, my terrified six year old self, back to life.And for the last eleven days that Los Angeles has been under lockdown, I’ve been wrestling with the question of why this coronavirus crisis has been so triggering for me.

And then just a few short days ago, my performance poetry instructor Rachel Kann hosted an online poetry crawl in which she performed her poetic masterpiece “Kindness/The Murmuration of Starlings”, in which a single stanza left my weeping and gasping for breath: “Behind every protective wall of defensiveness is a frightened child fearing for their very life.”

And then the masks slipped away, and it became so clear that for all those with eyes to see, ears to hear, and hearts that can understand, and turn, and be healed (Matthew 13: 15b-16) that we hold this truth to be self -evident: we are now living in a world made up entirely of terrified six year olds.

The Time of Corona has Revealed a War for the Soul of Humanity

While the fear of God may be the beginning of wisdom, the love of God is the end of wisdom, and the spiritual journey is the journey from fear to love. The coronavirus pandemic has torn away the veneer of civilization to reveal that a war is now raging for the soul of humanity. This war however, is not the war that the mainstream media and the political establishment are trying so desperately to frame it as.

The war is between fear and love, between Hobbes and Darwin, and between chaos and order. But it is not about one defeating and destroying the other. It is about learning to live in the tension of opposites between fear and love, and between chaos and order. For as Solzhenitsyn wisely wrote: “the line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being. And who is willing to destroy a piece of his own heart?”

While the mainstream media and political establishment are painting this war in Hobbesian terms, as a winner take all duel to the death between the forces of fear and chaos, that frame is far too small, and an illusion at that, the illusion of power and control.

For in one corner, we have the hypocritical legalists on the right. They are convinced that Trump and the forces of order and goodness must destroy the Deep State, which represents all that is chaotic and evil in our world. Yet the rules the hypocritical legalists insist we all must follow, so that order and goodness might triumph over chaos and evil, they are unable to fully follow themselves. For as Jesus reminds us, there is no one who is truly good but God alone.

In the other corner, we have the amoral rebels on the left. They are equally convinced that only the Deep State can defeat and destroy Trump and his followers, in order that chaos and freedom can finally emerge victorious over order and slavery. Yet the freedom the amoral rebels proclaim as the key to victory is simply a fear of order which is the mirror image of the hypocritical legalists’ fear of chaos.

In other words, both the hypocritical legalists on the right and the amoral rebels on the left are prisoners of fear. They simply cannot see the bars of their prison. As a result, both sides believe that their only option is to engage in a Hobbesian war of all against all. If Hobbes were right, then there would truly be no hope for our survival as a species. Nor, quite frankly, would we deserve to survive.

Spoiler alert: the war has already been won

However, the hope that sustains me, which I have seen embodied by my fellow deep souls time and time again throughout the course of my life, and time and time again over the past eleven days, is that even if two thirds or more of humanity have surrendered already, or will surrender at some point during the time of corona to the forces of fear, there will always be a remnant of deep souls, who will go to our graves knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that LOVE IS STRONGER THAN FEAR.

We are the Principled Rebels, my fellow terrified six year olds of planet earth, and this is the hope that sustains us: we shall never lose our humanity, no matter how much it may look like the forces of fear are going to strip it away from us.

For as I’ve been constantly reminding my own terrified six year old self for the past eleven days in the time of corona:

“Be still, and know, that you are loved.

Be still, and know, that you bring joy.

Be still, and don’t, abandon yourself.

Is the stillness, at the heart, of your chaos.”

So be of good cheer, my fellow terrified six year old principled rebels, for greater is the love that is in you, than the fear that is in the world. So please, please, please know that YOU ARE LOVED, please, please, please FEEL YOUR FEELINGS, and hopefully you won’t have to make all the mistakes I made by so often forgetting that I was loved, and by so often being too afraid to feel my feelings. For the hope that sustains me, and the hope that will enable us to survive as a species in this terrifying time of corona is that WE ARE ALL GOD’S BELOVED CHILDREN, and God does not wish for any to perish but for all to come to repentance.(2 Peter 3:9b)

[spiritsdw]

{Letters} - Sent at Stroneth Port

The Right Honorable The Earl of Carneath, Clarence Temple

Dear Lord Temple, 

I have never been a man prone to drinking, but right now I think I could definitely lock my cabin door and spend the rest of the day nursing a few stiff drinks. 

We are still in Nibiru. I aim to post this before we leave tomorrow morning. 

I fear today is going to be a long one, and it is only half done. I pray to the winds to give me strength, even as I write this. I am so tired, and I wish

Did you know, every time I set sail from the Yielden Docks, I tell myself this will be the last time. Don’t laugh. It is hard to leave for so long. It is hard to leave you behind. There’s nothing for me at home -- except, perhaps, to be a glorified clerk to Illiam. Gone are the days where I could serve as Sebastian’s aide without trouble. 

Now he has court-appointed ones to do it for him. 

Each time we set sail, I wonder if I shouldn’t retire. But I am too young, and I will get too bored. Even if I find some quiet cabin where I can be alone to work on my inventions. I wouldn’t dare to ask you to cut yourself off from everyone else, just because I am stodgy like that. So the thought passes quickly from my mind, because there are too few rewards for so high a cost as to give this all up. 

But even so, I wonder each time. 

I did not write to you to complain. I am here to follow up in regards to the troubling letter I sent last. 

I tried to distract myself with the repairs to the ship instead of thinking about the drow twins, or the possibilities of what would happen to those I (unknowingly) let go with them. It only worked in as much as I did not have the energy to dwell on them. 

They have started to return -- Natalya and Ulutka have made their way back to the ship first, while they mentioned that the others were going to return a map (not the one of the fort, though at this point, I have little need for it). 

There was some half-hearted explanation, as the pair of them both seemed very distracted in their conversation with me. There were yellow flowers that had some connection to the undead, there had been some violence, and in the end, there had been no real answers. 

Natalya handed me a vial of clear yellow liquid -- bright enough to make citrine look like amber. She said it was from the woman’s desk, the color similar to the flowers that they found across the fort. “It might be worth pursuing,” she added 

Now, I will confess, the scientist part of me is fascinated by this. I have no notes at the time of writing this, but still I thought ‘What if I were to investigate this further?’ To keep a sample of it for myself to experiment with, and send the rest back to Noah and her team. What is the nature of this liquid? What could I do with it -- indeed, what would I be able to do with this woman’s notes, should I ever get them? 

It is a line of thought I am now ashamed to have considered. 

Ulutka mentioned hesitations that reflected my own when it comes to violence. I am glad to know that the crew does not question my actions -- “As representatives of this ship,” he had said, “we should know better than to leave corpses wherever we go.” 

He is a young man with a soft heart. His place aboard this ship is a strange one, but I am constantly thankful for his calm, level-headed approach to situations such as these. 

It is Natalya who worried me though. 

“I did try to diffuse the situation,” she said to me, and I knew immediately what that entailed. 

I did not know how to ask her what she meant by that -- what had she done, to whom had she made the attempt on. All I could think of was Pasha’s rage, boiling beneath a schooled expression. 

All I could think of was Tazyrr and Trielae, and what they are capable of when pushed. 

You understand now why I worry, don’t you? 

Conflict not just among outside forces -- perhaps my non-action stance has made them too passive when it comes to situations. Perhaps it is because I am trying to reconcile my memories of the war, of what it meant to serve on the front line, with what I am being asked to do now. I present them a disjointed front, telling them one thing and then asking of them another, that this conflict comes in from between their ranks.

Of course, the twins did not help the matter. They are a completely unstable element in the structure of my crew. They do not know how to handle these sorts of situations, and I thought they would do well enough together without my guidance, or that of Arculf or Grissa. 

Again, again, again -- Natalya. What must be going through her mind? What sort of process did she follow to ask this of me? 

She acknowledges that the woman they confronted had control of the undead, though I could tell from this conversation alone it was not through necromancy, but through science. Arcane magic is a thing of the past, and those who wish to follow old traditions must find new means. However Natalya asked to be involved in further research of this substance. “It seems like the sort of science that could improve the function of Albion’s military, prevent the loss of soldiers.” 

I cannot… Clarence, even now, my hand shakes with the anger and the frustration at that naive question. And I realized how foolish I was to think that I could keep a sample of this substance on my boat to investigate in my own way. I cannot tell you the anger I felt at her line of inquiry, the revulsion I felt towards myself for my own failings at keeping an eye on her. 

Why would she even suggest this? A girl so young, who lost her father to the war of politicking -- why would she even want to think of the eventuality of another war so close to the end of the first? 

I remember our fallen comrades, I remember standing there and seeing His Majesty Rupert struck down. Would I have wanted a way to save them? More than anything -- to save Sebastian the grief of trying to save his uncle, blood on his hands. More than anything -- to have them here with us again, that we could look back on this and remember those situations with a detached fondness. 

What this woman could do, I have no doubt, is not bring a person back to life. It is the science of Necromancy. It is the science of thralldom, it is nothing more than a puppet on a string and she would dare to ask if we could use it. 

That would make us no better than those who would force their subjects into service of a master who did not care for them -- of blind devotion to a higher power. 

What I do know of Nibiran culture, those who serve the sister goddesses do so willingly. They are not raised from the dead because she requires a warrior. They are a part of a ritual, and they do so because their goddess speaks to them in a way that I cannot understand. 

I retreated at that moment -- I would not say I ran from the conversation, as I had the presence of mind to dismiss them first, but it did feel a little as if I was running. I don’t know how to approach this. 

Again, she seems unconcerned with her ability to ‘diffuse’ situations (by creating new ones, it seems), and in this situation, Ulutka did not seem overly concerned about this. Indeed, his focus was on the overall tension of their group, of which there are undoubtedly many factors. 

I plan on penning a letter to Her Majesty and posting once it is safe to do so. It is not that I think those in Nibiru will read my mail, it is that I do not think they understand the haste with which this needs to be delivered. 

I have found a spare lockbox in a quick search of my cabin, and I plan on locking the vial away in it with the letter to Noah. 

For a moment, I considered pitching it overboard. Let the ocean take the damned thing. But I couldn’t risk some other hapless individual finding it once it washed up. I shall have to hide it, I think, because a part of me fears that if anyone who is interested in this knows of where I have stored it, they will come looking for it. 

I want to trust the crew, I do. I have no reason not to. But I have not survived through five years of war, despite throwing my caution to the wind and hiding from family, to simply ignore my instincts. 

Perhaps Grissa will be fit for the job. He has a favor with Ydir, and anything that has to do with undead (even in a scientific vein), I would prefer in the hands of a cleric. That he is a half-orc and larger than anyone on the crew certainly helps. I do plan on sending it as soon as we dock in Aelem. Yes, I think he will be best. 

I have yet to talk to the others. I have a long day ahead of me, I fear. 

~*~

Spirits of the air, I wish I had you here beside me. I need someone to talk some sense into me, before I start to think that something is beyond my control. I need your steady hand and your calm, level head. I do not know how I do this. It is going to be a very long rotation. 

I spoke to the twins. I passed the box to Grissa. I do not know... No, that is a lie. I know my next course of action. I must speak to Pasha. 

But first, the twins. Tazyrr and Trielae. 

They returned to the ship, practically arm in arm with Adi and Pasha. I do not know how I feel to know that these are the four that have bonded, but I know that they are both very dependent pairs of people. I suppose it is only natural for them to know how the other feels in this sort of situation. 

Surprisingly, the twins came when I told them I needed to speak to them. I showed them the letter--

Ah, shit, I never mentioned the letter, did I? 

See, this is how my train of thought has been lately. 

You remember the child I mentioned in my previous letter who was looking for her elder siblings? How Pasha, in his lingering anger, scared the child, how I found the twins on my ship clearly hiding, holding a stolen map of a fort? 

Not but three days after this (or two days ago, at the time of the writing of this letter), Arculf found some miscreant tacking a letter to the side of my ship using an ornate dagger. They were scared off, but the letter and dagger were left behind. 

In a scrawling hand, jagged letters forming a script that I can barely speak much less alone read, I could only stare at the letter which must have been a threat. I took it to the dock master, who translated it for me with something between a laugh and a prayer for my well being. 

Surprisingly enough, not a threat to myself, or to my crew. Well, not strictly speaking my crew. 

It was a request from a crew of local bandits, indicating that they were not too pleased with the actions of a pair of drow twins, who they know stole a map. It continues by demanding that I hand them over to their leader -- who graciously returned the female twin's dagger as a sign of good faith. (To me? To Trielae? I am uncertain.)  

I have no reason to decide either way, truth be told. Like I mentioned, I do not feel for them one way or another, but I did promise them that they would be a part of my crew so long as they acted in service of my request -- which, at the time of sending them to Fort Ptallo, involved ensuring none of the signed crew came to any harm. 

Now. 

I revealed the letter and the dagger to them, asked for a good reason why I should not hand them over, and Tazyrr had the gall to say that I would be acting predictably as 'the right hand man of the empire'. Perhaps he grossly overestimates my role in all of this. Perhaps he thinks I have Sebastian in my pocket, as opposed to my posting aboard the Titan being a favor repaid from Sebastian. Who knows. 

I also do not think I presented myself in the best possible light at that moment. I did not have the energy to get truly angry, because I knew the task that lay ahead of me. I confessed that I was surprised they even returned to the ship at all, and that I valued the fact that my crew was able to return on their own two feet (well, Pasha relied heavily on the support of Trielae's shoulder, but I suspect that was because he was drunk, not injured). 

So I tried again: "What happened in Agartha, and tell me why I should let you remain on my ship knowing your history?" 

My words sound vicious in retrospect, a tired man who desperately wants a reason to be rid of a potential liability. In truth, I wanted a valid reason to know that I could trust them. I have history with them, I know better than to give them free run of the ship, of my crew. 

But I wanted to put that behind us. I so desperately want to put the war behind me, but it seems at every turn I am reminded of my actions during that time -- of the consequences of those actions. 

The twins dance around the subject like professionals in a theater. It is tiring talking to them, without feeling like you are talking yourself in circles. And they desire the upper hand in every situation, knowing exactly how to game it so they know (or at least they think) they are getting the better end of the conversation -- that they are the smartest ones in the room. 

I asked again why they were on my ship, now that they knew I remembered who they were -- now that I knew they remembered who I was. Out of any ship, why mine? (The irony is that they truly picked mine at random.) 

Tazyrr says words that I feared: Asks if the type of people the empire hires now are those who would negotiate with people who treat other people like forms of currency. If he would not obey my command (as Captain? As the 'right hand of the empire'?) would I have that, and I quote "high-society girl force us near helplessly into submission again?" 

Again. 

Again.

"I tried to diffuse the situation," she had said, and I had reason to fear. 

"Would you have that girl force us into submission again?" he said, and I knew my fears were valid. 

It was a tremendous effort to keep my expression under control (and honestly, I do not think I did a very good job), but I could not hide the exhaustion. 

"If you decide to throw us to the wolves, will she eviscerate our autonomy and leave us like raw meat to hungry mouths a second time?" 

The twins made themselves clear on what would happen should it happen again -- I know the voracity of their threats holds real and dangerous weight. They would not hesitate. And, as Tazyrr put it, they would act with finality. 

So no, Trielae, this is not something I allow among my crew. The fact that it has happened three times, twice on allies, is unforgivable. I would have let it slide if it was merely towards the gnome pirate captain, or towards this woman they are calling a necromancer (she is a scientist first, I’m sure, and a magician second, if at all). I might have shown leniency if she showed remorse. 

But she has not, and so I cannot. 

I will arrange to speak to her. Possibly once we reach Aelem, so that I can ensure the others are off the ship. I do not wish to have to take drastic measures, but… 

She has deliberately placed charms and manipulations upon my crew, and by extent, the citizens of Albion and Antilla. I will give her a warning, as a sign of respect to her late father. But I do not want to have to have my worries compounded -- the mental and physical safety of my crew, both at Natalya’s whims and those of the twins, hinges on her ceasing this behavior. 

I have offered the twins a place on the ship, their payment to Aelem being their recounting of what happened the last five days. I might regret this -- no, I am certain I do regret this. They wanted to be dead. They will not be able to hide while on the Titan, so I am surprised that they remain on board. 

Tazyrr attempted to taunt me several times, but I have seen the way that a frightened hunter approaches those he thinks of as prey. “They’ve seen enough imperialism and don’t wish you well,” he said about my presence here in Nibiru, as if I have not made this rotation for nearly ten years. As if I do not know the history of Nibiru, or the weight that our flag carries. 

They have a limit to their patience, yes, and I know the extent of it. Soon, even the kingdom’s gold will lose its worth in their minds if I continue to berth here much longer, but again, I plan on being off in the morning. Do not take me for a fool, Tazyrr. I have seen much -- not nearly as much as you, I am sure, not nearly as much. But I have learned. And I understand. 

The twins did not seem to hear my words when I offered them an ultimatum, stay and work for me, or get off here or in Aelem. They went on with an explanation in that confounding, rapid way of theirs. Confirmed what I had suspected. They at least seem fond of Pasha, and for that I am glad. Well, only of the fact that Pasha can open up to more people, though I regret that it would have to be either of them. Of those he has been consorting with, however, the choice is the twins (who do not hide how they feel about you) or Natalya (who has now manipulated him, or attempted so, twice). 

They have made their dislike and distrust of both Natalya and, surprisingly, Ulutka quite clear. They did not like the way Ulutka tried to reason with the group of bandits -- though I suppose if they had just let him do as was his wont, I would not have found a dagger pinning a threat to my ship. 

I cannot cave to them, and let them do as they are wont to do, because that often entails violence for the sake of it being the quickest route to an answer. 

When finally they finished their explanation (the important facts about the woman at the fort and the flowers lining up with what Natalya and Ulutka told me), I asked if they found what they wanted to look for. 

In answer, Tazyrr handed me a worn leather journal. “Not really. It’s all nonsensical to me, a lot of big words. We don’t want it.” 

Now, admittedly, it has been over twenty years since we first met these two. And I have not interacted with them much since they found their way onto my ship. But I do not see him as the type to grab something that does not seem interesting to him, and make the effort of carrying it back. 

He would have left it for one of the others to grab if they thought that I needed it. 

I have not spent much time reading the journal -- just glancing through it before setting it aside. I will be revising my letter to Noah shortly, probably before I go to talk to Pasha and Adi. 

I do not trust his disinterest in the item. 

What’s more, he… 

Well, I have nothing to prove it. But I have been working on that alarm enchantment. I thought, perhaps, I could modify the alarm. A change in my surroundings that I do not authorize, as opposed to an interloper I do not permit. 

It went off as they were leaving. A small jolt in my mind. 

I have locked the door after them, and scoured for what might have changed in my glyph. I had thought to use it originally to warn me if anyone was coming while I worked (it would have been fairly handy in Agartha, before I joined Sebastian -- would have saved me many close calls). 

I do not know what it is, but it is the size of a small pearl. It is enchanted. How, I do not know. It is not the same sort of energies that I use, so it will take me awhile to undo this. 

He takes me for a fool. 

So I shall continue to play one, until I know what exactly he is up to. 

It is a dangerous game that I will be forced to play, and the board is my ship, and the other pieces are my crew. 

What am I doing, Clarence? Is it the right thing? 

I wonder. 

And I doubt. 

And I worry. 

~*~

I have spoken to Pasha and Adi and… it is mostly as I feared. I tried to apologize on behalf of Natalya, but I’m afraid it felt too shallow for the truth of the matter. 

Even though Pasha is aware, to an extent, of what I am able to do, Adi does not. And Pasha would not completely understand where my concerns and confusion come from, because Buyan is a place of technology. It always has been, and it was never steeped in arcane tradition the way other places have been. 

Where other continents have recovered and managed this past century, Buyan has thrived for it. 

Adi said that the twins showed more loyalty and concern for the crew than their own mechanic, but she doesn’t know. How fleeting that loyalty is, and how it only runs deep for each other. These are things I cannot say. 

I don’t wish to color their opinion, not so soon after Adi and Pasha have found solace. Perhaps, spirits willing, they will be a good influence on the twins in some way. 

But I apologized, for what it was worth, because I knew I had to. I knew I took a responsibility for her actions both as her guardian (of a sorts) and as her captain. It did, at least, mollify Pasha. 

To the point where he presented to me a gem, wrapped in cloth. 

At first, I did not know why he was handing this to me. Except for when he unwrapped it, holding it in the palm of his hand, I could recognize it instantly. That yellow -- it was unmistakably the source of the liquid in the vial that Grissa now keeps. 

I had not thought… That someone would bring the actual catalyst back with them. Were there others? Did, perhaps, the twins get their hands on one of their own, and should I continue to fear? They have no reason to trust me, nor to pass over their finds, as I did not ask them when I let them go (not that I think they would have obeyed that request anyway). This is also why I am hesitant to accept the gift of the doctor’s notes without questioning them. 

Pasha does not know about the notebook that Tazyrr passed off to me. But again I was asked if someone on my crew could use this to reverse engineer its effects. His request, while of a different bend than Natalya’s, still reeked of the same fear. His is a request born out of vengeance, I am certain, and that is just as dangerous. More, perhaps. 

I cannot deny that investigating the liquid or the crystal further was a line of inquiry I wish I could indulge. I myself had the same thought without even knowing what it could truly do, and now that I know… 

There would be no way to test it safely, not without asking someone to be a test subject. That is not something I can allow in such a setting.

How I wanted to take that stone and destroy it in that moment. 

Science be damned, I thought. I would not allow this to exist, had I an iron fist that would resolve to do so. But I am lenient when it comes to Pasha, because I see a bit of myself in him -- that brilliant spark, the knowledge that he could be something great if only given the proper chance. 

I left the crystal on his desk. I told him no. I think, perhaps, both Pasha and Adi are dissatisfied with my answer, but I cannot figure out why. 

That I denied them? Or that I would not allow this pursuit of vengeance? 

Clarence, did I do the right thing? 

What’s more, Adi seemed convinced that the group of bandits who had the map stolen from them, and knifed an ultimatum to the side of my ship, would pursue us if we left. I did not know how to console her beyond stating the obvious: They would not follow us. 

This seemed to annoy her as well, I think. Again, perhaps because I gave a firm ‘no’ when it came to an unasked question of how to finish what they had apparently started. 

Pasha had to kill one of their number, and I regret that he had to have been put in that position. Adi insisted that we would “pay the price sooner rather than later.'' 

That we would create “an unnecessary enemy”.

I think these bandits thought they could scare a small number of my crew into handing over what they wanted. I think the threat they delivered was empty once they saw the flag we flew, but had to follow through for show. 

I have been through these waters many times. I have begun to understand the way of port-side bandits and small-time criminals. We will not be followed. It is something, perhaps, she will learn through experience. 

What I would give, though, to keep them from having to learn such truths. 

What I would give to keep them safe. 

All my love,  Ean

~*~

May it please Your Majesty, 

I am writing of an occurrence that I believe deserves the attention of Your Majesty. 

I have recently come into possession of some disturbing information, and I will do my best to convey it to His and Her Majesty as truthfully as possible. 

As part of The Arcadian Titan’s quest across Assalia, we had reason to make berth in Stroneth Port in Nibiru. Please refer to the letter sent earlier for the details on how this came to be. 

One of the situations that has arisen, as I mentioned previously, is the return of the drow twins Tazyrr and Trielae, whom we have made a brief and tumultuous acquaintance with some twenty-odd years ago in Agartha when they made an attempt on His Majesty’s life. I did not think they recognized me at the time, and they have since claimed ignorance of the banner that the Titan flies, so please take that information with a grain of salt. 

They left with members of my crew to investigate rumours of undead at the abandoned Fort Ptallo, two or so day’s journey to the west. All six have recently returned, and they have brought with them troubling news. 

In the box that this letter was sent in there is a vial of bright yellow liquid, which I have come to learn is distilled from a yellow musk flower. It is not common here in Nibiru, but it seems to have flourished in Fort Ptallo. 

Also included is a journal belonging to the late Myrranda Segus, a scientist investigating the properties of the yellow musk flower and its mind control abilities. 

I have learned all of this second-hand, but I trust those who conveyed the information to me. I thought it best to send both vial and journal to Your Majesty with all due haste, so that you may investigate it with those far more qualified than I, and with far better resources than what I have aboard the Titan. 

Take heed, however: I was given the journal by Tazyrr. He passed it over with an air of indifference, but I think, perhaps, there is something untoward about the journal. I have reason to believe that he would not willingly carry something that he thought useless all the way back to hand to me, when he has vocally admitted to his distrust of both crown and general authority. 

I could not see immediately what was off with the journal, more than what I feel on instinct and my own knowledge of scientific and alchemical formulae. Please, when investigating the contents of the vial and journal, take heed. I would not normally ask this of you, but I do not know who else is more qualified than you and your team. 

With luck (and Ydir’s blessing, courtesy of Grissa), we will reach Carneath on schedule, and any updates may be posted there as planned. I will write immediately to inform the court should anything change. 

I have the honour to remain, Madam, Your Majesty's most humble and obedient servant.

Yours in Service, ever and always,  Lord Ean de Gillis Captain of The Arcadian Titan

[ivydcmir-blog]

☁☼☁( ****. simay barlas. cis female. 21 ). welcome back to your summer paradise, IVY DEMIR we were wondering when you’d finally show up! the town’s really missed how MESMERIZING you are, even if you can be a bit AMORAL at times. we hear back home they call you the CHERRY PIT, makes sense considering you remind everyone of IMPORTED CIGARETTES, OLD LOVE SONGS COMING FROM A RECORD PLAYER, PERFUME AT THE BASE OF A THROAT, & FAST CARS AT MIDNIGHT.  ☁☼☁    

oh she’s extra late to the party ! im she .... my name’s xan im 22 and from the est timezone i go by she / her pronouns and ur watching disney channel <3 i am....so excited to bring ivy to life ... shes been my sleep paralysis demon for weeks its time for me to set her free baby ! lets go !

first things first ivy is inspired by characters like effy from skins, georgina & serena from gossip girl, and just a TINY bit of villanelle from killing eve ( not the....assassin part.... ) 

her daddy’s side of the family are oil tycoons and her mom’s side ? well ivy has no idea what they do or who they were

basically a little after ivy turned a year old her mother just . poofed...vanished into thin air and didn’t leave a trace behind. growing up ivy would hear a lot of rumors from the staff abt what kind of person her mom was or where she went but the one person who could tell her the truth ( her dad ) just refused to talk abt it. he got super angry anytime she used to try so ivy stopped asking !

she was born in tokyo actually ( on her parents anniversary trip, which was another mystery ) but was raised in manhattan ! she is absolutely in love with nyc and definitely considers it her home

so shes filthy rich and i mean like ... disgusting billionaire rich to the point that it’s just not right and you know, that definitely shaped her upbringing. even as a little girl ivy found it very clear the amount of power she has just by being born into the right family 

she was....kind of a strange child ! she was abnormally sharp for her age and intuitive and without that maternal figure in her life, ivy grew very attached to her father. he’d even take her along to business meetings because she was well behaved

as she grew up it started to become apparent ivy liked to play games. the more she observed the people around her ( the staff, her dad, his business partners, the kids at school, etc. ) the better she got at finding out what made people tick. sometimes her games were harmless ( like flirting with the boys she knew her friends were crushing on ) and sometimes they were more intense ( like setting up empty pill bottles around her and pretending she’d overdosed to freak out the maids ) ask ivy why she did any of it and she’d simply tell you she was bored

high school ivy was very much reckless like this. she found the upper east side teen drama so dreary she’d often act out just for a change of pace. i’d like to think she broke the record for most detentions at whatever private school she went to. she was definitely someone just about everyone knew just because of all the rumors she stirred up doing crazy things 

despite all the misdemeanors she got into yale ! her dad is basically on of the biggest donors to the university. there’s probably a building somewhere on campus with her last name on it, but ivy really couldnt care less. she didnt exactly want to go to college and she definitely didnt want to leave nyc, but shes got this weird complex with her dad and really cannot tell the man no ! so she majors in classics just bc she thought it’d be neat to have to learn latin 

of course ... she starts to get bored. she’s already barely attending classes and on academic probation so when it leaks to the dean she’s sleeping with a professor ? ivy was sure it’d be expulsion.....but then it wasn’t ! turned out her dad had made a special deal with yale and after a nice monetary exchange it was like ivy never did anything....

after her dad announced he was going to turkey for his brother’s funeral last august she decided to "take a gap year” from yale but really she’s got no plan to ever go back ! instead she disappeared much like her mother did for a whole year without a trace. she told absolutely no one where she was going or what she was doing.....and she’s come back to the hamptons for the summer with no warning ! 

PERSONALITY & TIDBITS

so ivy is....all over the place ! most of the way she behaves is because she finds it a bit too easy to grow bored. still very much into playing games with people bc she gets a kick out of it ! it takes a lot for ivy to take anything seriously so she’s not exactly the best person to come to if you need advice or comfort. if you’re looking for excitement? trouble? an out of body experience ? then she is 100% your girl 

for someone so chaotic she is weirdly nostalgic and sentimental about things. she’s obsessed with greek heroes and foreign poets and superstitions and it’s not uncommon to find her getting existential with you with a cigarette dangling from her fingertips and a foggy look in her eyes. she’ll say something that seems entirely deep and profound one minute, and the next she’s blowing smoke in your face asking if you want to do a line in the bathroom with a wicked smile on her painted lips

a huge flirt ! she will and she does hit on absolutely everyone. definitely not the traditionally romantic type but she does go through phases where she tends to hyper fixate on others for specific periods of time. until she gets bored. it’s a vicious cycle

full of unhealthy habits that include drinking, smoking, doing drugs, fucking around, but the worst is how little she sleeps. she’s been prone to nightmares ever since she was a kid but she’s never acknowledged it as a problem despite it obviously being one

once she flew to paris with nothing but a cheap pink wig. wore it the whole time she was there and called herself yvette. 

picked up her father’s obsession with luxury cars. not only does she collect them, she races them, too. most infamous stint was showing up to a race in an evening gown and winning. 

speaks about five languages fluently. often likes to fuck with snobby rich people at high society events by pretending she can’t speak or understand english, only to turn around and speak to someone else in perfect english

it’s rumored she once snuck onto the yacht of a ceo to a fortune 500 company, only for him to find her in nothing but a bath towel eating chocolates while flipping through his playboy magazines, and that he was so taken with her instead of pressing charges he decided to name the boat after ivy.  

rumors are rumors, but you really never know with ivy....

thats it !!! if you’re reading this you made it !! please come plot with me i know im late but i have a lot of heart memes saved up and i cant use those by myself </3 we can message through im’s but im 100% easier to get in contact with over discord @  EL i love u 💖✨🌙#8172

[doomonfilm]

Ranking : Top Films of 2018

Here we are... that moment that every critic simultaneously loves and dreads : the Year-End Top 10 List.  At worst, we are forced to scrape the creative dredges and cobble together something that resembles a best of list that will bring glory and honor to the year.  At best (like this year), we are forced to leave personal favorites in the dust and judge the larger quantity of offerings on a much tougher scale in order to truly represent the top quality work of the year.

As I’ve said in many pieces this year, 2018 was a joy in terms of being a film-lover.  This list was not an easy undertaking, and it more so resembles a snapshot of how I’ve felt over a judging period than it does a concrete group of selections in a fixed order.  Take this list as more of a jumping off point for discovery than you do the gospel of DOOMonFILM. 

Note : I am not sure when I will get a chance to see Vice or The Favourite, which I am sure will skew my results once I do see them... I will address those films in their respective reviews, however.  Forgive me in advance.

Honorable Mentions

Damsel Even if the Zellner Brothers weren’t representing Austin beautifully with this gem of a film, it’d still be on my radar simply for the fact that it is a unique twist on a genre that most figured had seen every presentation imaginable.  Add to that a strong female lead character, and you’ve got a winner on your hands.

The Endless A science-fiction modern day classic, and apparently part of a possibly bigger line of stories (with some of the best integration of aspects from another film I’ve ever seen).  This film is chilling in its approach to the concept of cults, as well as its use of the concept of ‘the danger that lurks just off-screen’.

Isle of Dogs Had this year not been full of stellar animated films, this one probably would have made the main list.  More groundbreaking animated films, combined with personal feelings about the films of Wes Anderson, however, regulated this one to Honorable Mention status.

Mid90s I was all set for Eighth Grade to be my bit of nostalgia, or my reflection on what it’s like to be a kid again, and for what it’s worth, it was a great film.  The thing is, Mid90s directly spoke to me in a way that Eighth Grade unfortunately could not, simply because Mid90s was like looking in a time-traveling mirror. 

Thoroughbreds I really wanted this to be on my top 10, but ultimately, it was too ‘quiet’ of a film to make it in a year full of big noise.  Thoroughbreds will certainly be a future favorite for public screenings and friend viewings, but a couple of films this year hit the same notes on a higher frequency.

Black Panther The cultural impact of this film is one that cannot be ignored.  It took February, a month that is generally a box office bust, and it put up unparalleled numbers that not only lasted throughout the year, but were topped from within rather than by another Hollywood studio.  The respect given to the characters and their African heritage did not go unnoticed, either, as several think-pieces and a number of curriculum were spawned from those researching elements of the production design.  The narrative is strong, and it righted the Marvel villain boat prior to the big MCU bombshell that was lying in wait. 

The Favourite I really wanted this to make the top 10 of the year... I thought long and hard about what film I should remove or replace.  What I came to realize, however, is that despite The Favourite being a world-class comedy and production, it simply falls short in the realm of the spectacular : it does not contain visual innovations, it is not a reflection of the times, and it didn’t completely break my brain.  That being said, on any given day, I’d happily name this one of the top 10 films of 2018... it’s essentially like having 11 cakes on the table and having to pick the 10 best.

Avengers : Infinity War This movie was the true film event of the year.  Marvel has been building up to this singular event for nearly two decades, and in my opinion, the payoff more than succeeded.  Thanos tiptoed the line between anti-hero and villain with purpose perfectly, and the rapport between characters worked both in terms of advancing narratives and being mined for humor.  I am definitely looking forward to Avengers : Endgame this April, and I know the masses are right there with me.

10. BlacKkKlansman

Not that I ever doubted Spike Lee had it, but after a few abstract offerings and documentaries, one wonders if their style can translate into an ever-expanding world of film language.  Luckily for Lee, it seems the world has grown into his cinematic vision, with an older true story serving as the perfect backbone for many of Lee’s trademark tricks to be implemented for maximum effect.  The ending will put you in tears if you have anything closely resembling a soul.

9. Blindspotting

This film really deserved a bigger run than it got, as it hit race relations of today on the nose without coming off as preachy or heavy-handed.  Daveed Diggs proved that his charisma translated on both stage and screen, and his integration of hip-hop into both realms will hopefully have positive long-lasting effects.  The chemistry between all members of this cast is kinetic, the story is told with perfect pacing, and the movie rides visual highs that match the narrative ones.  I would love to see this movie receive some high-degree nominations.

8. Annihilation

I came into 2018 with high expectations for this film, as I’d spent the previous 16 months or so completing the Southern Reach trilogy in its book form.  Then I started hearing things about the production and the release that gave me a bad feeling : a Netflix distribution deal that seemed to all but kill a true theatrical run, trepidation from the studio in regards to the director’s vision, and other whispers that attempt to sink a film.  Then I saw this movie, and was taken away to a completely different world.  We may not be getting a faithful, trilogy-length adaptation of the series anymore based on what happens in Annihilation, but if these are the moments I’m left with, I’d consider myself happy in the long run. 

7. First Reformed

It took me longer than I intended to get around to this one, but knowing that Paul Schrader wrote and directed it made it a must-see.  The film was drawing comparisons to Taxi Driver (not a surprise, based on the aforementioned Schrader involvement), and surprisingly, it more than lived up to that hype.  The tension is equal, but updated to reflect the times in a way that could impact any of us.

6. Suspiria   

This movie will make it extremely hard for me to blanket-debate against remakes simply because it does all of the right things in regards to updating a classic.  The film does not rely on existence as a new millenium version of an old film... rather, it boldly takes concepts only touched upon in the original and fully embraces them, presenting a true psychological horror gem in a year full of them.  The film also looks amazing on top of everything, which was a high bar to meet considering the original movie is basically driven by its visual style.  A 2018 must-see, film buff or not.

5. Spiderman : Into the Spider-Verse

Easily the most fun I’ve had in a theater all year.  I was blown away by the animation, and can’t wait to see further installments of the Spider-verse specifically to see how that enhances over the years.  There was such a high volume of homage and Easter Egg placement in this film that it warrants repeat viewings, and it was one of a handful of films that I wanted to instantly own as I was walking out of the theater.

4. Mandy

Like Spider-Man : Into the Spider-verse, I wanted to own this movie the second I walked out of the theater as well.  The trailers intrigued me, a recommendation of Beyond the Black Rainbow fully sold me, and the final product did not disappoint.  This film certainly is not for everyone, and funny enough, the two biggest aspects that would place it on that ‘not for everyone’ list sit in opposition of one another : the film is a bit indulgent on the style at the sake of what would be considered normal pacing, and it has some extremely violent moments.  That being said, Mandy is easily one of, if not THE, most beautiful films of the year.

3. Roma

This seems like the closest thing to a Fellini film that us modern day film lovers will ever get.  The story itself is intriguing, as it juxtaposes class issues, political issues and the barrier of trying to raise a family in a crazy world all in an intriguing tapestry.  The cinematography is calculated, observational, and the choice to film the movie in black and white adds an instant timeless quality to it.  Director Alfonso Cuaron even manages to get in a little cinematic and visual humor, albeit mostly subtly, but it definitely pays off if you’re in tune to what he’s doing.  Easily one of the best pictures of the year, worldwide, and a party that I was certainly late to.

2. You Were Never Really Here

If Mandy is a bit too over the top for your tastes, then You Were Never Really Here may be the jarring experience you need in 2018.  This film is almost as visually stunning, but the narrative is far more calculating, deceptive and intriguing, both on the surface and as you dig deeper.  The hectic camera setups, editing and score put you in such a disjointed state of mind that Joaquin Phoenix becomes the only thing you can hang on to, and your involvement in his journey is completely immersive.  In a year of performances that focus on the anti-hero, this film found a way to scrape to the top of the pile.

1. Hereditary

Something strange is happening here... who would have thought that a horror film would be my favorite film of the year?  Hereditary is no run of the mill horror film, however... it treats its audience as intelligent, and there is so much texture in the film that it’s impossible to see it all without multiple viewings.  The close of the first third of the film is horribly unsettling, but it propels the narrative forward so abruptly and intensely that you’re locked in from there out.  A genius film, and an instant classic.

(Editor’s notes)

- Original post date : 12/27/18 - Revision date : 1/8/19 (Roma added to position 3, Black Panther moved to Honorable Mentions) - Revision date : 1/10/19 (The Favourite added to Honorable Mentions) - Revision date : 1/22/19 (Suspiria added to position 6,Avengers : Infinity War moved to Honorable Mentions)

[wordsablaze]

Golden Promise

(alaw pt.6) There’s only one person that can call Alec emotional, a privilege earned after one of the most golden days in his life... A scene written for Alec Lightwood appreciation weeks 2017. Enjoy!

A/N: Sorry it’s a tad late, I couldn't get onto my account! Sorry for any errors!

Most would say that Alexander Gideon Lightwood is a very reserved person.

Some may admit that he is, in fact, capable of displaying positive strong feeling, particularly when on the battlefield; few may say that he regularly shows his concern for the hurt and definitely cares about others' wellbeing; even fewer would say that he's actually a very soft, sensitive person who genuinely does have affection for others; and only a handful of people – the ones who've watched him grow and develop – would tell you that he's inherently someone who genuinely wants others to be happy and well.

But there's only one soul in existence that can say Alexander Gideon Lightwood is emotional.

Magnus Bane.

And it all started with a cat in a bed on yet another autumn morning…...

Alec awakes to the sound of an angry purr, then a much deeper, sleepier, somehow almost magical hiss of pain.

"Mags?" he sleepily mumbles, trying to blink his slumber away.

"It was just Chairman and his claws," Magnus replies, evidently more asleep than Alec if the slight slur in his voice is anything to go by.

Alec giggles before catching himself and shaking his head, yawning instead. He can hear Magnus sleepily chuckle before an arm loops around his shoulders and he's pulled into a warm embrace of drowsy love.

"What time is it?" Magnus asks, murmuring the words into Alec's skin via a kiss on his bare shoulder. Alec can't tell if he should set fire to or frame the vest top for providing him with such a possibility.

"If Chairman's bothered to enter our room, it's probably nearing nine."

To most people, this would be a somewhat shock; usually, nine in the morning wouldn't be considered late or anything to worry about. The thing is, most people aren't the High Warlock of Brooklyn and the Head of the New York Institute. Unlike most others, the two of them are often out of their home by four or five in the morning, called out by attacks or clients or their everyday responsibilities.

"Nine?" Magnus echoes, yawning lazily.

Alec grins at the rather confused worry in the warlock's voice, then kisses his forehead. "It's okay, we have a free day."

"We do?" Magnus asks.

Alec rolls his eyes. "You're so clueless in the morning."

"No, I'm not!" Magnus argues.

"Oh? Then how come you can't remember anything?" Alec taunts.

Magnus blushes, his beautiful skin practically radiating beams of sun and warmth. "I prefer when you say it."

Alec forgets how to function as an adult, his eyes widening but crinkling at the corners when he grins happily.

Even though the two of them are both pretty much awake by this point, neither of them want to move, both totally content with sleepy, early autumn morning cuddling. And so they stay wrapped around each other and the duvet, resting somewhere between dozing off and lazily kissing one another's faces.

It takes another dramatic entrance from their beloved feline to get them moving.

This time, said feline attacks Alec's finger and he yelps, frowning at the scratch that's not quite deep enough to bleed but still stings worse than a papercut.

"Shoo, violent cat!" Magnus can't help laughing as he gestures to Chairman Meow so both non-felines receive a hiss and a swat as some sort of persuasion to get out of bed already.

"I think we're going to have to admit defeat, Magnus…" Alec grins.

Magnus grumbles but then clicks his fingers, transporting both of them to the kitchen in under three seconds. Alec almost falls off the bar stool when he realises he's somehow changed clothes, then glares at his legs.

"Skinny jeans? Really?" He groans.

"You look dazzling, sweet pea."

"Magnus!" Alec whines, but when he looks at said warlock so he can glare, his words fizzle out.

Like almost every other time he's used magic to transport them out of bed, Magnus has done his make up on the way and, just like always, Alec simply can't comprehend how such a beautiful person can become even more breath-taking. Instead of making a witty comeback, he ends up staring at the glitter scattered all over his warlock's skin and the mesmerising colours of his eyelids.

He mentally decides that Magnus can mix and wear colours much more stylishly than Izzy, but he also decides never to tell her that if he wants to keep his eyes. Of course, there is a chance she might just give him a knowing look and gush about true love or something, but it's more likely that she'll internally scream about cupid's arrow and boats, then poison his porridge the next day. It's a chance Alec doesn't yet have the courage to take, even with a rune to help him...

"Do I have something on my face?" Magnus asks bewilderdly, drawing Alec back to the moment.

"Yeah, beauty…" Alec says without thinking; he curses immediately afterwards.

Magnus just laughs. His bright chuckle of utter amusement echoes in their decorated kitchen until Alec is forced to admit defeat, unable to stop the small playing at his lips and the fond shine in his blue eyes.

His heart singing with pride as he hears his warlock laugh, Alec suddenly finds himself perfectly happy with skinny jeans.

He's somehow okay to carry on with his daily - but slightly more relaxed - routine in Magnus' choice of clothes, despite usually huffing and storming away to change into something less high street stylish.

For one reason or another, Alec can't quite recall any other events before the singular one that enabled Magnus to call him truly emotional. Every moment seems to blur together, the only thing sticking with him being Magnus. He doesn't mind because he knows he'll always remember every detail about the only thing he needs to recall from that particular day.

It must have been in the brief, liminal time where it should logically be afternoon but feels much more like the evening when the two of them had left the house because, by the time they reach the ocean, it's almost too dark to see.

Somehow, there's something uncanny about feeling the sand under your feet and hearing the ocean softly roar in front of you when it's too dark to see.

Of course, there's no darkness that a warlock can't light up.

Alec doesn't know what's happening at first, but then he realises the floating lights are a mixture of fireflies and miniature lanterns summoned by Magnus.

His immediate reaction is to look towards Magnus and see if the lights are illuminating the glitter on his skin like they usually do, but, to his surprise, the glittery warlock isn't there. Or rather, isn't at eye level anymore.

"Alexander…" Magnus whispers, and Alec can't decide if Magnus has suddenly shrunk or if he'd fallen just as he'd summoned the lights.

Turns out, it's neither.

Just like they'd not-so-seriously discussed and joked about a million times before, Magnus is kneeling on the sand, a small velvet box in one hand. Inside that velvet box is an iridescent blue and silver chain with a small but intricate golden ring attached.

"Alexander Gideon Lightwood, you are my first of so many things," Magnus starts, "and this is the first time I've done this so forgive me if it's not perfect."

"It will be," Alec interrupts quietly, trying not to just envelop his warlock in the tightest hug he can manage.

Magnus smiles. "I never thought I would tolerate a Lightwood through so much, and I certainly didn't think I would fall in love with one. You've unlocked more in me than I thought I had, and you've shown me things I'd never thought to look for."

"Being centuries old has given me experience, but there's nothing that could have prepared me for you. You are my moon and my son, my day and my night, and you are my strength. Out of every shadowhunter, I'm honoured to be associated with you. Words cannot explain how thankful I am for your existence, and there is simply no other way to say it than: aku cinta kamu."

At this, Alec gasps.

Not because he's confused or he's in pain, but because he can feel himself crying. He, Alexander Lightwood, is crying. He's crying already and there's no way to deny it. He can see Magnus smile but he just bites his lip and nods, trying to blink back his tears.

"I know it's a lot to ask of you, but the time I've spent by your side has given me more happiness than anything in all of existence, and there's nothing I'd like more than to create a million memories with you. There's something about you I can't begin to decipher, something that I'm happy to keep a mystery because you are my favourite home. You are my querencia, in every sense. Alexander, my darling, would you help me keep my promise to always be there with you and do me the pleasure of accepting my proposal?"

"Magnus…"

"In short: will you marry me?" Magnus asks softly, in a voice full of love and hope and magic.

Alec can't even stop the sob that had been building up from finally escaping. He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand and gulps, trying to swallow the strange lump in his throat.

"Alexander?" Magnus asks gently, and Alec's tears mix with his laughter as he nods.

"You don't even have to ask," Alec chokes out, "Yes. Yes. My answer is yes. Of course, Magnus, I love you so, so much-"

Before Magnus can sigh with relief, Alec has attacked him with an embrace of affection and the two of them are wrapping their arms around each other, falling on the cool sand as they listen to each other's heartbeats and the rippling ocean waves.

The two of them stay wrapped in their love until Alec stops crying, at which point they both lie on their backs, watching the lanterns and fireflies gently fly above them. Of course, they're pressed against each other and their hands are securely interlocked, so close that, to anyone else, they must look like the world's most peculiar pair of conjoined twins.

"You tell anyone I cried and you're dead," Alec mumbles.

Magnus just chuckles and sits up, pulling Alec with him because of their interlaced fingers, and carefully tying the necklace around his shadowhunter's neck with an overjoyed smile. "I do, for the record."

Any progress Alec had made towards not being tearful immediately fades away.

He half-laughs, half-sobs, and beams wider than possible before he manages to whispers back: "I do too, for the record."

And, as the two of them stand in the light of the moon, the lanterns, the fireflies, the golden glow in their eyes, and their love, Alec's heart simply melts.

"Magnus..." he whispers, "You even made it gold."

"Gold is for weddings, is it not?" Magnus asks, his eyes sparkling with his natural golden flecks.

Alec's eyes widen as he realises the significance of what Magnus has done. He's managed to fulfil their promise of love, work around their demanding schedule, technically still follow the Clave's laws, and make Alec the happiest he's ever been in his entire life.

"I love you," Alec says simply.

"That's good because, otherwise, our marriage would be pretty problematic," Magnus deadpans.

Alec can't even be annoyed; he's too overwhelmed.

Strangely, he's okay with being flooded by a lack of clarity and he doesn't mind being unable to think straight. Where he usually craves logic and awareness, he finds himself adoring the feeling of being lost in love – a feeling that's not uncommon whenever he's with Magnus.

He can finally label himself as something he'd usually consider a weakness, and be proud of it. Of course, Magnus and everyone around him have been saying it since the beginning of time, but it's taken him a while to accept it.

It's okay because now he's married to his warlock.

And with the support of Magnus' golden promise, he can finally admit and embrace it...

He's emotional.

like/reblog but don’t repost, thanks!

[rilenerocks]

I’m not exactly a nautical type. I’ve been in a variety of boats. I’ve paddled a canoe and rowed a row boat. Someone taught me how to come about on a sailboat many years ago. I’ve driven a motor boat, one of the few positive benefits of having my in-laws who owned one. I’ve traversed lakes and rivers on paddle boats, pontoon boats and riverboats. I’ve been on a hydrofoil and a whale watching boat. I’ve been on a cruise ship a couple of times and the smaller tenders that transport you from ship to shore and back. I’ve even been on a faux submarine that felt like being in a washing machine, plus one retired battleship. These were all good and interesting experiences but truthfully, I’d rather be in the water than on it.

I try thinking back to what led me to think about trying to keep an even keel. Maybe growing up close to the lakefront in Chicago had an impact on my marine-themed psychological reference for stability. I can’t count how many times I traveled on both south and north Lake Shore Drive. I remember always having my eyes glued to the water which was endlessly interesting to me. Full of life and  mystery. That’s the place where I learned to swim. Maybe I’m somewhere in that black and white photo, trying to copy those people who actually knew what they were doing. My family wasn’t big on swimming. Usually on steamy summer days, when we were broiling in our un-air-conditioned third floor apartment, we headed to the beach and set up camp in the grassy park area. After a while, I always fled to the water. 

My high school had a marine theme because of its proximity to the lake. South Shore High. The athletic teams were called The Tars. The yearbook was The Tide and the newspaper was The Shore Line. Deep blue and teal green were the colors I associate with that school, thinking particularly of my senior yearbook. When I attended my 50th high school reunion, I had some temporary teal streaks put in my hair, just for fun.

I’m not exactly sure whether the origin of my goal of keeping an even keel is important. Thinking about it is typical of my internal process as I always seem to be pondering something. Sometimes when I wake in the morning with a subject already on my mind, I wonder if I’ve really been asleep. I’m not sure my brain is ever empty despite my intermittent meditative efforts. I have to laugh. From the beginning of our relationship, I was always asking Michael what he was thinking about. Frequently, he’d say “nothing.” “What?” I would shriek. “That’s impossible. You have to be thinking about something.” He’d smile and say, “Some day toward the end of your life, you’re going to realize that all the mysterious thoughts you believe I’m concealing really were never there. You’ve just spent your life with a basically shallow guy.” Of course I never believed him and of course that wasn’t true. But it was a point well taken. Everyone isn’t afflicted with thinking all the time.

I’m pretty sure all this perpetual  cogitating began when I was a little kid. I was always tuned in to the emotional currents going on around me. I found them alarming and uncomfortable. I wanted to be a step ahead of everything. My family seemed to constantly be responding to crises which for me, as a little child, was just plain scary. As I got older, I developed strategies for getting ahead of the curve. I believe control is the operative word here. I wanted as much control as I could get. None of this aimless bobbing like a cork in the water, buffeted by random waves and currents for me. I figured if I thought hard enough I could keep an even keel, no matter what I ran into along my course. Obviously, that wasn’t entirely possible. Anyone with feelings can’t get away unscathed by those waves that ram into most people at some point or other in their lives. But trying to hold steady has been a good life strategy for me. I gravitate to my center and move forward from there. I’m not fond of operating from positions of weakness. So if I stay focused, I can manage. Most of the time.

Last week, I gave myself a special event. Pete Yorn was doing a livestream acoustic guitar performance of my favorite album of his, Musicforthemorningafter. In addition, there was new and unique merchandise to go along with the show. Part of the proceeds were going to Covid19 relief, particularly in the way of food. I was so excited. I decided that after Michael died, I was going to go to as many concerts, plays and places as I could afford. The intervention of the virus has put a big hitch in my plans. Sometimes I wish I could be less conscious of the considerable risks it poses to my health and then, obviously, to my family and anyone else whose path I might cross. But I can’t. I’m constantly reasoning with myself, trying to stay rational instead of being impulsive. I don’t believe that most of the people who are breaking all the science rules are being deliberately malicious and uncaring about public health. Mostly I think they’re either not able to conceive that one bad move can be enough to change their lives or someone else’s. Having constant awareness of vulnerability is hard and exhausting. I think my life made me good at this heightened awareness. I often remind myself that everyone is just a phone call away from life-altering tough news. Frankly, it’s not my favorite thing to be self-aware. In my coronavirus dream journal, I’ve noticed an interesting pattern. Mostly, I’m in unfamiliar places, but I’m almost always with Michael and our kids. Usually it’s between 15-20 years ago, so our little nuclear family is intact. But there’s always something threatening near us and I’m trying to protect one person or another. Invariably, I’m required to navigate a dangerous area, usually a narrow walkway, bridge or balance beam-like path. Water is on both sides of me and it’s usually active, with waves lapping over my feet. So far, I’ve always gotten to the other side. I’m thinking this subconscious process is a metaphor for this time.

The world around me can be simultaneously simple and complex. I’m my best self when I’m in my garden, listening to music, watching the behavior of the insects, birds and little mammals out there in my habitat that I’m still trying to improve every day. Part of the reason for that is to do my share of being a healthy influence on nature as it groans under the weight of climate change. I also am trying to help my future self as the work around here will only get harder. Maybe I’ll have a healthy decade in my 70’s or maybe not. If I design my outside for as little maintenance as possible, my chances of staying uninjured improve. That project is keeping me occupied in the dance of staying balanced. There’ve been 50 bird species that have shown up here this year. I’m working on my list of butterflies now. I finally got a few photos of the speedy goldfinches and an amazing first, a video of monarchs mating. The simple part of life.

This piece of my life is satisfying. I wander around for hours, headphones on, listening to music, old and new. But there’s a darker side. I’m worrying about lots of people I know and ones that I don’t. I have friends dealing with cancer, their own or their loved one’s. That’s a road I can walk with them, albeit carefully, as I’ve learned well the limits of my abilities. Friends’ parents are dying in this lonely time when the virus separates people when they should be together. Many people I know are depressed and lonely. The incessant alone time gives many who weren’t satisfied with their lives too much time to reflect on their negatives. That’s another road I can walk partway before stepping back. I’ve experienced a lot of loss, both parents, a sibling, a best friend, a former lover and of course, my life partner. Sometimes I think that I’ve already experienced the worst thing that could happen to me. But then I remind myself that for me, the loss of a child could overwhelm all my internal resources. So my private inner dialogue continues.

Then there are all the people on the streets. I’m seeing more of the homeless and the hungry. I buy sandwiches and hand them over but it’s so terrible to know how insignificant is that act which only provides the most temporary respite. I’ve handed out water bottles on hot days. But I feel helpless and overwhelmed and angry. This is a rich country and the economic gaps between the top and the bottom are just wrong. I rail away on social media about everything. Then I feel guilty that all I share is anger and rage. So I go to Instagram, a most peculiar place indeed. I follow scientists and nature photographers so I can share some beauty instead of simply vitriol. I also check on a variety of news outlets and conservation groups. I confess that I do the fan girl thing, following Roger Federer, musicians and the television character who reminds me of Michael, at least the  Michael he’d have been as a Scottish Highlander in the 18th century. But Instagram’s a weird place with all these influencers who seem mostly vapid to me, and then the lonely souls out there who send me private messages and ask to follow me them though my account is private. My profile photo is flattering but do these mostly middle-aged men think that anything substantive could develop in this peculiar forum? Maybe that actually happens for some people. I delete all those requests. I do wonder about them. But I’m sticking with my Outlander hero who reminds me of my guy, absent the kilt.

So, up and back I go, or rather I shift from side to side, trying to hold steady in the midst of this strange time. I hope I can keep that keel firmly centered, while knowing full well, I can be knocked off my course in a split second. You know, that’s really how it always is but thinking that way round the clock is too hard – taking a break from dwelling on the uncertainty is necessary for survival.

The Delicacy of an Even Keel I’m not exactly a nautical type. I’ve been in a variety of boats. I’ve paddled a canoe and rowed a row boat.

[katsitting]

Harrymort, translucent?

I have no clue if this is what you were looking for, but here you are. I hope you enjoy. This came out a bit longer than originally intended. 

Warnings: Please excuse my typos. 

—————–

Harry could see him in his mind’s eye as if he were somesort of specter. Voldemort’s gaze never faltering, never failing, and neverblinking despite the brightness of the field they both stood in. It was astrange sight—too see a creature Harry associated with darkness out in such abright, and admittedly, peaceful scene Harry had crafted in his own mind.

There was a time where Harry would have screamed and shoutedfor the man to leave; to stop destroying the vivid verdant field with the darknessof his robes; to cease staining the soft blues of the sky with the blood red ofhis eyes. The monster was a dark speck in the overall glow of the looming sun,accentuating rather than hiding the whiteness of his face—the gauntness of hisskin that no dark potion could ever salvage. Voldemort did not belong here, butthere he was. And Harry accepted his presence for what it was: a contrastbetween light and dark, good and…something else entirely.

The time for him to scream and shout had ceased severaldream sequences ago, and so there, Harry stood—watching the way Voldemort’srobes billowed in the passing breeze.

The man looked at all nothing like he did when he was aboy—overtaken completely by the shadows in his arguable present heart. Harryonce believed there was a void there instead of the muscle that pumped muchneeded platelets, red blood cells, white blood cells through each individualnetwork underneath their flesh.

But Harry had learned that to some extent Voldemort bledjust like them. He was a monster, yes, but he was still in fact a man. Voldemort may have destroyed alltraces of his humanity in his goal to power, but it was that very humanity inhim that had led him down the path. It was not a foreign concept—even ifMuggles and Wizards alike wanted to treat it as such. And it was that very factthat left a bitter taste in the back of Harry’s throat.

“Not going to throw a tantrum like a spoilt child this time?”Harry heard the man speak, catching the way each individual syllable was utteredwithout pause or inflection. There was no malice in the tone despite the insultingnature of Voldemort’s words—in fact, there was hardly ever any emotion at allin the Voldemort of his mind.

It was funny, really. To see the man Harry had spent yearsof his life fearing in his mind. Harry supposes that the war may have ended,but there was still something left of it inside him to this day.

Harry had tried to starve that part of himself with work ashead of the Auror department. He had tried to ignore it by spending more timethan necessary with Ron and Hermione; visit new pastures in this new time ofpeace with Ginny. But nothing could really disappear the stain that clung tohis soul—the part of himself that lived so intimately close to the soul pieceof the monster before him.

It almost made Harry want to laugh at just how pathetic hislife really was. Harry had thought he’d find peace after the man’s death, buthere he was, standing in a peaceful meadow only Harry’s mind would create, withthe very man that brought chaos into Harry’s existence. It was almost as ifHarry’s mind somehow missed the partof Harry that never was. A piece of himself Harry never really knew was thereuntil he was severing it from his own soul.

Harry was almost sure the real Voldemort would have foundthis to be poetic justice. The perfect revenge against the one person that haddefeated Voldemort over and over throughout his lifetime—presenting obstacleafter obstacle, setback after setback in each of his carefully laid plans. Theone that had practically killed Voldemort despite Harry’s reservations in evenwanting to do in the in first place.

Harry was no killer—he knew that. But he still felt like hewas when laying in his bed after another night without Ginny to warm it withhim. He could not scratch away the memory of the man crumbling to the ground athis feet—of the light fading from once expressive red eyes that hungered for more and more of this world.

“What would be the point? We both know you’re not reallyreal.” Harry sounded tired even to his own ears, despite only being just amonth over twenty-five. It was still a shock, in some way, that the war hadreally been over for as long as it was.

But then again, if one was seeing Voldemort’s face in theirhead every night, they’d think the war was still not over despite the pityingglances from friends and family saying otherwise. Despite the relative peaceand joy that came with the final death of the most feared Dark Lord in decades.

“Do you really think this is a mere manifestation of yourguilt for failing to save me, Harry Potter? How naïve you are.” The man soundedamused, the sound of it shocking Harry completely. It was like dropping pebblesinto placid waters—the ripples of it notifying all that there was a disruptionin the natural order of things and that they needed to run.

Ripples meant boats and fishing lines, it meant boys andgirls taking dives into the cool waters where the fish lived. It meant an endto peace, and in some respect, it was almost as if Voldemort’s show of emotionwas a precursor to some new arc in their growing interactions in Harry’sdreams.

“Are you not? I killed you. I watched you fall dead when weboth cast our spells.” Harry watched the way Voldemort’s shoulders began totremble, not in anger as anyone would readily assume, but with laughter as hestepped closer to where Harry stood. Each step disrupting the silence that settledaround them in the field.

The distance appeared at first glance so very large—seeming togo on easily for miles in the landscape Harry had created, but in reality,Harry was sure it was only a short distance. It should have motivated Harry tomove, but he could not find it in himself to widen the distance. There was nothingfor Harry to fear here, it was all in his mind. Voldemort could not hurt himhere—could not hurt anyone at all in this fictional place Harry had created inhis mind. Voldemort only existed because Harry had made it happen—it was hisway to cope with the trauma of fighting a war at such a young age.

Of having to murder someone for the first time.

Voldemort’s death left a mark in Harry, and that was whywhen Voldemort finally stopped in front of Harry with only a few short inchesbetween them, the light of the sun passing through the inkiness of Voldemort’s robesand skin as they both stood there, Harry did not move. Harry simply gazed into theredness of Voldemort’s eyes.

They glittered underneath the light like gems, the mostunique shades of garnet and ruby red percolating in them.

“Oh, Harry. Younever learn, do you?” The man whispered the words, the hiss of them snakingitself into Harry’s chest like vipers hiding in the underbrush and cobraspreparing to spring at a looming threat. Harry wondered idly if this was how Naginiwould have killed him had she wrapped herself around him—crushing his chestuntil it hurt to breathe.

Harry prepared himself for what Voldemort would do next,having already dreamt this enough times to know what would come. It hardlyscared Harry anymore to experience it—to hear his worst fears thrown back athim before the specter vanished and left Harry alone in his dreams to cope withthe weight of his guilt.

But Voldemort did not do what he usually did—he did not saythe words that would crush Harry’s heart or dissipate into the light as heoften did after taunting Harry.

Instead, Voldemort laughed and stepped into the little spacethere was already between them. He consumed all of Harry’s vision, the pallorof his skin painful to Harry’s own weary eyes as he tried to understand—to calmhis beating heart from the rush of blood and adrenaline coursing through hisveins.

It felt familiar and yet not. This was different, and Harryhad no clue what to make of it all now.

“I gave a piece of myself to you, Harry. It was only fairthat I take something in return. When you took a piece of me inside you, you boundus so tight that neither you nor I knew where we began or where we ended.” Harryfelt his face drain of color, almost as pale as Voldemort when the man’s lipsghosted against Harry’s ear.

“Is this not what you wished? I am alive despite the oddsmounted against me. I am here, and I grow strongerwith each passing day.” Harry stepped back, but Voldemort seized him by theshoulders—trapping him in Voldemort’s arms despite the transparency of hisskin.

Between the shock of Voldemort touching him and the weightof the man’s words, Harry felt like he might be sick. He was unsure if it was ascream or bile that wanted to crawl out of his throat at that precise second.

What has he done?

“To think, the Boy-Who-Lived is the one to resurrect me. To miss me the most in a world that continuesto move forward without a glance to the past. How…sweet.”

All Harry could see was the burning red of Voldemort’s eyes,the panic crawling over his flesh stealing all the air from his lungs.Voldemort was—but he couldn’t!?

And then Harry was awake, his breaths coming so quickly thathe was unsure if he was even breathing at all. It took Harry more than a momentto really realize he had finally awoken from the dream—to settle the sicknessin his stomach that had him tipping too close to the precipice.

His heart was beating too quickly, his skin so clammy withhis sweat that the sheets beneath him were drenched in it. Harry spread hisarms to the left side of it, feeling the smoothness of the sheets to find somesort of grounding and to make sure that Ginny was gone. It made Harry feelguilty that he was happy to know she was gone, but Harry doubted he couldexplain the nature of his dreams to her again. He had tried numerous timebefore, but there was a lump that prevented the words from coming out histhroat each time.

When the seconds stretched to minutes, his heart finallyslowing and his breaths deepening into something that resembled peace, Harryfinally thought back to what he had just seen in his mind’s eye. Harry wantedto believe it was only a dream; it really could not be more than what it was. Therewas simply no way that Voldemort could really be stuck between the cracks ofHarry’s soul when Harry had already died once the in the past.

It was impossible for the man to return. Harry knew it waspermanent when the killing curse had struck Voldemort in the middle of theirduel. Harry had seen it; the sight ofdeath finally seizing the man in its hands enough to rattle Harry into apermanent state of guilt.

Arguably, even post-traumatic stress disorder.

It was enough for Harry to fault himself for the man’s death.Enough to relive the battles in his mind over and over again until all Harry could do was sit alone in his office. Itwas almost pathetic how in some way Harry wished the man actually lived—to freehim of this guilt. Harry felt like something was taken along with him whenVoldemort had died, and Harry knew that there was no one he could really speakto concerning these feelings.

His friends would not understand. Ginny would neverunderstand. None of them would—not when this world had moved without Harry—glossingover the losses and the pain. None thinking of how Harry had been molded to dieand kill despite his desires not to stain his own hands in blood.

Harry did not know what to do with this feeling trappedinside him—hating himself for how he kept seeing the face of his enemy of hismind, reopening a wound that Harry tried to sloppily suture together.

He was panicking again, noting the way his fingers shookwhen he finally convinced himself to grab his glasses from the nightstand. It tookhim longer than it normally would, the fidgeting making his movements sloppyand uncoordinated, but when he finally did, he slipped them over his nose. The weightwas comforting, giving Harry the chance to inhale deeply to calm himself.

Harry pieced himself together—each layer of his identitystretching to cover every single crack in his soul.

The moment Harry opened his eyes, he wished he had not.

Voldemort stood before him, a glowing specter standing bythe only exit in Harry’s bedroom. The monster looked more solid than Harry hadever remembered seeing him—making out each network of arteries and veinsbeneath the translucent skin.

Harry scrambled back, his eyes wide with disbelief and fear ashe tried to make sense of the sight of what he had considered the manifestationof his guilt—and the longing Harry felt for the piece of Voldemort taken fromhim.

“Soon, Harry Potter.”

It took everything in Harry to silence the scream thatwanted to leave him.

[conversationsingondwana]

Interview with Renata de Bonis | Entrevista com Renata de Bonis

(Renata de Bonis, Todas as Terras, vídeo, 2017)

Interview with brazilian artist Renata de Bonis about her lattest video work, Todas as Terras (2017). Recorded at the Geological Park of Varvite in Itu, Brazil, this work is an invitation for contemplation of a presumably static geological monument capable of exhibiting information of an other temporal and spatial arrangement, revealing the ancient connection between Africa and South America.

Juliana G.:  At the beginning of your career, you were dedicated to painting and were part of the group 2000 and 8, along with Paulo Pasta, Ana Elisa Egreja, Rodrigo Bivar, Rodolpho Parigi, Regina Parra, among others. We could say that a turning point was the artist residency you took part in Iceland, in which you´ve created Monolito. From there, your creations have “left the frame" and gained other dimensions. In this sense, you have detached yourself from painting to focus on the materiality of objects. How did this transition happen and what motivated it?

Renata: At that time, I felt an identification with the solitude intrinsic to the act of painting, which went along with my personality. Often, I would travel to paint that moment of the solitary encounter with a yet unknown landscape. This perception of the unseen after a geographic shift really interested me. And so, I began to participate in artistic residences in inhospitable places. The first one was in a desert in California, where I had one of my first experiences of encountering with a raw and vast nature. The rocks I spotted there have had witnessed a very different period, way before mankind: they spoke of a time when that locality was covered by water. On the other hand, painting became an uncomfortable territory when I entered the art system and my work began to be commercialized. The timing of the market was very different from the timing of my production: it was hard for me to think that I would have to be in the studio painting images I saw on the internet, just because there was a demand for it. While living with such discomfort, I continued searching for artist residencies in inhospitable places, when I found one in a village in the north of Iceland. I was selected to do a painting project, but when I arrived there, I just couldn’t find a way to represent that strange landscape on canvas. The village of 500 inhabitants was surrounded by gigantic mountains, what ended up giving me a vertigo sensation. The perception of depth and perspective was very different from the one I was used to while living in a big city. After some failed attempts to frame the landscape and represent that immensity, I began to collect everything I saw that was unusual for me: shells with weird shapes, volcanic rocks, black sand. By collecting such elements, I realized that they had an aesthetic and a conceptual appeal. I started to wonder for how long those rocks existed, for how long the process of black sand formation took place and so on... At that moment, I began experiment with these elements by opposing them to objects from another time. In some sculptures, natural elements such as rocks and shells are counterposed with building materials, such as concrete and plaster, which surround and engulf us in big cities. My intention was to discuss and reflect on the brevity and fragility of human life standing before materials that witnessed so much more than we did. My attention turned to the materials themselves and their representation became secondary. What I find interesting about this transition is that the perception of the landscape did not disappear from my work: it migrated from painting - which is a very static representation on a surface, to an enlarged view of the landscape. I stopped painting the places to investigate them.

Juliana G.: It was a change from representation to presentation.

Renata: Yes. This experience has also brought my attention to the passing of time. The dimensions of the place made me feel insignificant and existential questions regarding the transience of human life ended up becoming one of the main themes of my work. Monolith (2013) is really a transitional work. At that point, I was still painting, but I used the representation in an almost-performatic sense: I began to collect volcanic rocks daily on my way from the house to the studio to paint them next. It was an action that I repeated, each time with a different rock, during the 90 days of the residency. For me, when I see them displayed, they transmit a kind of musical, rhythmic, sensation and incorporate the passing of time. I gave the name Monolith to the work because, despite being 90 different rocks, I was painting "the” rock indeed.

(Renata de Bonis, Monolith, 2013)

Juliana G.: This feeling of astonishment as a result of displacement, that you were already exploring in your paintings, provokes explicit new configurations of space and time. How does your later work, which also incorporates sound, deal with the tensions in space reconfigurations and temporal transformations?

Renata: Iceland was the place where I began to experiment with sound and to think about silence. What do we consider silence? What is its relationship with noise? In Iceland, there were times when I thought I was not listening at all and did some testing with an improvised tape recorder. I wanted to experience the world without the intermediation of images. Faced with such raw and spectacular nature, along with the absence of people and mechanical sounds, I tried to capture the noises and also the lack of them. Later, listening to them in the studio, I realized that images were created from the audio. Those images were only mine, impossible to be seen by anyone else. At that moment, the sound became an important layer of perception and, when it was isolated, it became even more interesting. In addition to this, Caspar David Friedrich has always been a great reference for me. The experiences of confrontation with the Icelandic landscape and the reflections upon the immeasurable greatness of nature in contrast to the smallness of the human being referred me to many of his paintings. During the artistic residency, I made many public presentations in which I quoted his artworks that went against the anguish and melancholy of living in a world going through intense change, in the middle of the Industrial Revolution. Two years after the residency, I received a scholarship to investigate the places Friedrich painted in Germany by capturing sounds.

Juliana G.: When you talk about “the immeasurable nature and smallness of the human being” it reminds me of Schopenhauer's "individuation principle": the individual is the one who naively relies on the resistance of his little boat in the midst of a storm on the high seas. Therefore, what is the correlation between geological time — immemorial — and the historical time of the human metropolis in yours 2017´s work Todas as Terras?

Renata: The continuous action of the human species on Earth and its contents ends up preserving only the nefarious symptoms of this paradoxical relation. It seems to me that our daily efforts to become memory, to leave legacies and so on, are just part of our smallness and egocentrism. It is no coincidence that we live in the moment when the word “anthropoceno” was created. The mankind wants to become immemorial, just like geology is. But the contradiction lies in the fact that what will transform man into history is his own collapse. Geological time is indifferent to human morality: it´s not meant to be positive, correct or good: it simply is. And, in this continuous flow of just being, lies something that seems immortal and immutable. We should realize that there is no comparable human effort. On the contrary, it seems that, in modern society, being human is an inevitable contradiction that lies in our relationship with nature. There is no human action on which the planet benefits; it would be better if we did not act and dedicate ourselves to silence, seclusion and immobility, but it is difficult to be misanthrope as a human. The rocks of the Geological Park of Varvito (Itu, Brazil) are witnesses of the formation of the Earth as we know it, emphasizing the continental drifts, the dissonant climatic ages and the forms of life trapped between them. There is, when we look at this monument, a pictorial, sculptural and volumetric coherence. I wonder what will be the human legacy after the collapse of everything. Layers, clusters and cysts of concrete, iron, glass, plastic and so on. What will we leave to history beyond these witnesses of an incongruous and detached life from the very world we inhabit and its respective geological and astronomical time?

Juliana G.: In this artwork, the video shows, on one sequence, a still image of empty bleachers of the park; on the counter-sequence, it shows the immobile quarry, along with zoom-in shots that give us details of the rock. I had the impression, therefore, that the video leaves the ”place” of the observer empty. Do we observe it or are we being observed? What was your criteria for establishing these two counter sequences?

Renata: The approach here is in a two-way sense. The grandstand and its occupants watch the static layers of Varvito and the immanent history that pulsates in its different thicknesses and colors. At the same time, the exposed flesh of the Earth, present on the rocks that not long ago were part of an extractive quarry, stares intently at the public of the bleachers. In this inversion, where the grandstand becomes a stage and the audience becomes actors and agents, the contemplative act occupies the empty seats of the grandstand. To contemplate both walls (here I am evoking the fourth wall of the theater) is like raising a facet mirror between us and the space we occupy, in order to perceive the magnitude of our misbehavior and, at the same time, the breadth of other possible paths to imagine, theorize and perceive. The banality of the very few actions recorded on the video reiterates the smallness of man before the sublime; not only by means of the scale, obviously, but also by the immanent temporal distinction present of the suggested clash. The couple flanking along the stone wall seems to announce a kind of nostalgia. What are the thoughts of this piece of land? Is there any awareness and memory about the other wall, which resides on the other side of the ocean?

Juliana G.: You have done extensive research to produce this video. And I have a curiosity: how did the scientists establish this connection between the two locations, the one in Brazil and the other in South Africa, based on the varve?

Renata: The varve rock formation exists at specific points. Perhaps, Itu is the largest area with this kind of formation in South America. In Paraná there is also another basin, but the area is smaller. In South Africa, specifically in the Isandlwana area of ​​Zululand, these formations were also found. With dating and mineral constitution studies, scientists have been able to correlate these sites. They even say that the profile of these ranges of rocks, currently located in such distant locations, would really fit together, as in a puzzle game. My goal is to film the second part of the project in Isandlwana and exhibit the two videos facing each other. I understand that looking at this wall in Itu is also looking at that other half, we are not really seeing; it is to look at a place that is not there. I chose this view of the Geological Park of Varvito precisely because of this dramatic cut of varve which, despite being a mark of the quarry that existed there, induces imaging a fitting.

Juliana G.: In Todas as Terras, you establish a first-person narration from your own experience. You take the "hard" scientific data and reformulate it sensitively and subjectively. In several of your works there is this relationship between micro and macro narratives.

Renata: I decided on the first-person narration precisely to present my strife as a reference to human’s. In Todas as Terras, I work specifically with a very imposing situation that dates back to 280 million years. In other works, I try to bring to light situations that are a bit mundane and simple. My present work with cyanotype means, for me, to make a kind of fossil of the sun, since this technique registers a singular moment of light. Living in a metropolis, we end up paying no attention to strong and symbolic events such as the sunrise or the sunset, as well as the solar incidence, the moon, the solstices, etc.

Juliana G.: In relation to the photographic process of cyanotype, in which the sun's rays fix as blue traces on a surface impregnated with a specific chemical, there is something interesting that I believe is in relation to several of your works. The cyanotyped surface has the power to regenerate itself: it can recover its original blue tint if it stays a while in the dark. Here time is regenerated: it is a circular, non-linear time.

Renata: This cyclical feature is quite curious. When you sensitize a material by the technique of cyanotype, that solar mark is permanent. The contact with the light fades this mark, but if we put the material in the dark, as you say, it comes back.

Juliana G.: So, we could argue that it is “a permanent” that is simultaneously mutable?

Renata: Yes. But this kind of “mutable” doesn’t implicate transformations, because it always returns to be what it was. The permanent is dominant, as if by this technique a specific moment is frozen. A simple permanent suspension of time.

(Renata de Bonis, Cyanotype in 7 tempos, cyanotype on paper, 100 X 59,5 cm, 2017)

Entrevista com a artista brasileira Renata de Bonis sobre seu último trabalho em vídeo, Todas as Terras (2017). Gravado no Parque Geológico do Varvito em Itu, Brasil, este trabalho é um convite para a contemplação de um monumento geológico presumivelmente estático capaz de exibir informações de outro arranjo temporal e espacial, revelando a antiga conexão entre a África e a América do Sul.

Juliana G.: No início, você se dedicava à pintura e fazia parte do grupo 2000 e 8, formado por Paulo Pasta, Ana Elisa Egreja, Rodrigo Bivar, Rodolpho Parigi, Regina Parra, entre outros. A partir da residência na Islândia, onde realizou Monolito, seu trabalho foi "saindo do quadro". Você se desprendeu, portanto, da pintura para focar na materialidade dos objetos. Como se deu essa passagem e o que a motivou?

Renata: Naquela época, sentia uma identificação pelo fazer solitário da pintura que casava com a minha personalidade. Frequentemente, viajava para pintar o momento do encontro solitário com uma paisagem ainda desconhecida. Essa percepção com o nunca visto a partir de um deslocamento geográfico era o que me interessava. Comecei, então, a fazer residências artísticas em lugares inóspitos. A primeira vez foi num deserto na Califórnia, onde tive uma das minhas primeiras experiências de embate com uma natureza tão bruta e imensa. As rochas que eu via testemunhavam um tempo muito diferente do humano: falavam de uma época na qual aquela localidade estava coberta por água. A pintura, no entanto, se tornou um território desconfortável quando entrei para o sistema da arte e o trabalho começou a ser comercializado. O tempo da demanda era muito distante do tempo do trabalho. Foi conflitante para mim pensar que teria que estar no atelier pintando imagens que eu via na internet, apenas porque havia uma demanda. No meio deste desconforto, ao continuar a busca por residências em lugares inóspitos, encontrei uma localizada em um vilarejo no norte da Islândia. Fui selecionada para realizar um projeto de pintura, porém, ao chegar, não consegui encontrar uma maneira de representar na tela essa paisagem tão estranha. O vilarejo de 500 habitantes era cercado por montanhas gigantescas, que provocavam em mim uma sensação de vertigem. A percepção de profundidade e perspectiva era muito diferente do que eu estava acostumada ao viver numa metrópole. Após algumas tentativas falidas de enquadrar a paisagem e representar aquela imensidão, comecei a coletar tudo que via como diferente: conchas com formatos esquisitos, rochas vulcânicas, areia negra. Ao coletar tais elementos, percebi que eles próprios tinham um interesse tanto estético quanto conceitual. Passei a questionar há quantos anos aquelas rochas existiam, em quanto tempo se deu o processo da formação da areia negra etc. Nesse momento, comecei algumas experimentações com esses elementos em contraposição a objetos de outro tempo. Em algumas esculturas, elementos naturais como rochas e conchas se contrapunham a materiais da construção civil, como concreto e gesso, que nos engolem nas grandes cidades. Minha intenção era discutir e refletir sobre a breve e frágil vida humana perante materiais que testemunharam tão mais que nós. O olhar se voltou para os próprios materiais e a representação deles ficou em segundo lugar. O que acho interessante dessa transição foi que o olhar sobre a paisagem não desapareceu do meu trabalho; ele praticamente migrou da pintura, uma representação no plano, muito estática, para uma visão ampliada da paisagem. Deixei de pintar os lugares para investigá-los.

Juliana G.: Uma mudança da representação à apresentação.

Renata: Exato. Essa experiência também me trouxe uma atenção à passagem do tempo. As dimensões do lugar me faziam sentir insignificante, e questões existenciais referentes à transitoriedade da vida humana terminaram virando um dos principais temas do meu trabalho. Monolito é realmente um trabalho de transição. Ali ainda uso a pintura, mas uso a representação de uma forma quase performática, já que comecei a coletar diariamente, no caminho da casa ao atelier, rochas vulcânicas para pintá-las em seguida. Foi então uma ação que se repetia, cada vez com uma rocha diferente, durante os 90 dias que duraram a residência. Para mim, ao vê-las instaladas, elas passam uma sensação quase musical, rítmica e incorporam uma passagem de tempo. Dei o nome “Monolito” pois, apesar de serem 90 rochas diferentes, no fundo estou pintando “a rocha”.

Juliana G.: Essa situação de assombro a partir do deslocamento que você buscava já na pintura deixa explícita novas configurações de espaço e tempo. Como seu trabalho posterior, que incorpora também o sonoro, lida com as tensões nas reconfigurações de espaço e transformações temporais?

Renata: A Islândia foi o primeiro lugar que comecei a experimentar com o som e a pensar no silêncio. O que consideramos silêncio? Qual a relação com o ruído? Na Islândia, me deparei com momentos nos quais achei que não escutava nada e fiz alguns testes com um gravador improvisado. Existia uma vontade de experimentar o mundo sem a intermediação de imagens. Perante uma natureza tão bruta e espetacular, com ausência de pessoas e sons mecânicos, tentei capturar os ruídos e a falta deles. Ao escutá-los posteriormente no ateliê, percebi que imagens se formavam a partir do áudio, imagens só minhas, impossíveis de serem visualizadas por mais ninguém. Naquele momento, o som se tornou uma importante camada de percepção e, quando o isolava, ele se tornava ainda mais interessante. Além disso, Caspar David Friedrich sempre foi uma grande referência para mim. As experiências de confronto com a paisagem islandesa e as reflexões sobre a natureza imensurável e a pequenez do ser humano me remeteram a muitas de suas pinturas. Na residência, fiz muitas apresentações públicas em que citava sua produção, que ia de encontro à angústia e à melancolia de viver em um mundo em intensa mudança, em meio à Revolução Industrial. Dois anos depois, recebi uma bolsa para investigar os lugares que Friedrich pintou na Alemanha por meio da captação de som.

(Recording in the north cost in Rügen Island for Sounds after Caspar David Friedrich project, Sept 2015)

Juliana G.: O que você diz sobre “...a natureza imensurável e a pequenez do ser humano...” me faz lembrar do “princípio de individuação" de Schopenhauer: o indivíduo é aquele que confia ingenuamente na resistência de seu pequeno barco no meio de uma tempestade em alto mar.  Como se dá, portanto, a correlação entre tempo geológico, imemorial e o tempo das metrópoles humanas, histórico, em Todas as Terras?

Renata: A ação contínua da espécie humana sobre a terra e seus conteúdos acaba por preservar apenas os sintomas nefastos dessa relação paradoxal. Parece-me que os esforços nossos de cada dia, de se tornar memória, de deixar legados, e assim por diante, acaba por evidenciar somente nossa pequenez e egocentrismo. Não é coincidência vivermos no momento em que a palavra “antropoceno” foi cunhada; há uma tentativa do homem de se tornar história imemorável, tal como a geologia. A contradição reside, porém, no fato que o que tornará o homem em história é o seu próprio colapso. O tempo geológico é indiferente à moral humana: não pretende ser positivo, correto ou ‘do bem’; ele simplesmente é. E nesse fluxo contínuo de apenas ser, reside algo que nos parece imortal e imutável. Não há nenhum esforço humano comparável. Pelo contrário, parece que, na sociedade moderna, ser humano é uma contradição inevitável que reside na nossa relação com a natureza. Não há ação humana da qual o planeta se beneficie; o melhor seria se não atuássemos e nos entregássemos ao silêncio, à reclusão e à imobilidade, mas é difícil ser misantropo sendo humano. A rochas do Parque Geológico do Varvito (Itu, São Paulo, Brasil) são testemunhas da formação da Terra tal como a conhecemos, salientando as derivas continentais, as eras climáticas dissonantes e as formas de vida presas entre elas. Há, quando miramos esse monumento, uma coerência pictórica, escultórica e volumétrica. Pergunto-me qual será o legado deixado por nós após o colapso de tudo. Camadas, aglomerados e cistos de concreto, ferro, vidro, plástico e assim por diante. O que deixaremos para a história para além dessas testemunhas de uma vida incongruente e descolada do próprio mundo que habitamos e de seu respectivo tempo geológico e astronômico?

Juliana G.: Neste trabalho, o enquadramento do vídeo mostra um quadro fixo de uma arquibancada vazia do parque, por um lado; por outro, a pedreira imóvel, com planos que se aproximam e nos dão detalhes da rocha. Tive a impressão, portanto, que o vídeo deixava vazio o lugar do observador. Observamos ou somos observados? Quais foram os critérios para o estabelecimento desses dois planos?

Renata: O olhar aqui é uma via de mão dupla. A arquibancada e seus ocupantes assistem as camadas estáticas do Varvito e a história imanente que pulsa de suas distintas espessuras e cores; e, simultaneamente, a carne exposta da Terra, presente nas rochas que não muito tempo atrás faziam parte de uma pedreira extrativista, olha fixamente para o público da arquibancada. Nessa inversão, em que a arquibancada se torna palco e o público se torna ator e agente, o ato contemplativo ocupa os assentos vazios da arquibancada. Contemplar ambas as paredes (evoco aqui a quarta parede do teatro) é tal como erguer um espelho bifacetado entre nós e o espaço que ocupamos, para assim perceber a magnitude dos nossos descaminhos e, concomitantemente a amplitude de outras trajetórias possíveis de imaginar, teorizar e perceber. A banalidade das poucas ações registradas no vídeo reitera a pequenez do homem perante o sublime; não só pela diferença óbvia da escala, mas também pela distinção temporal presente do embate sugerido. O casal que flana ao longo do paredão de pedra parece anunciar um tipo de nostalgia. Quais ser��o os pensamentos desse pedaço de terra sobre o mundo? Há alguma consciência e memória sobre a outra parede, que reside do outro lado do oceano?

Juliana G.: Você realizou uma ampla pesquisa para realizar esse vídeo. Tenho uma curiosidade: como os cientistas estabeleceram essa conexão entre as duas localidades, uma no Brasil e outra na África do Sul, a partir do varvito?

Renata: A formação rochosa do varvito existe em pontos específicos. Talvez Itu-SP seja a maior área com essa formação na América do Sul. No Paraná também existe outra bacia, mas com menor área. Na África do Sul, especificamente na área de Isandlwana, Zululand, também foram encontradas essas formações. Com estudos de datação e constituição mineral, os cientistas conseguiram fazer uma correlação entre esses lugares. Dizem, até mesmo, que o perfil dessas faixas de rochas, situadas atualmente em localidades tão distantes, se encaixariam realmente, como num jogo de quebra-cabeças. Meu projeto consiste em filmar a segunda parte do vídeo em Isandlwana para poder colocar essas duas vistas enfrentadas. Entendo que olhar para essa parede em Itu-SP é também olhar para essa metade que não estamos vendo; é olhar para um lugar que não está lá. Escolhi essa vista do Parque Geológico do Varvito justamente por esse corte dramático do varvito que, apesar de ter sido marca da pedreira que ali existiu, induz a um pensamento de encaixe.

Juliana G.: Em Todas as Terras, você estabelece um relato em primeira pessoa, desde sua própria experiência. Você toma dados “duros” científicos e os reformula sensível e subjetivamente. Em diversos trabalhos seus há essa relação entre entre micro e macro relato.

Renata: Decidi pela narração em primeira pessoa justamente para apresentar meu embate como referência ao embate humano. Em Todas as Terras, lido especificamente com uma situação muito imponente, que data de 280 milhões de anos. Em outros trabalhos meus, tento colocar em evidência situações que são um pouco mundanas, simples e cotidianas. O trabalho que realizo atualmente com a cianotipia significa, para mim, fabricar uma espécie de fóssil do sol, já que essa técnica registra um momento singular da luz. Ao viver numa metrópole, terminamos sem dar atenção a eventos fortes e simbólicos como o nascer ou pôr do sol, assim como a incidência solar, a lua, os solstícios etc.

Juliana G.: Em relação à técnica fotográfica da cianotipia, na qual os raios solares firmam a cor azul sobre uma superfície impregnada com uma solução química, há algo interessante que acho que se relaciona com vários dos seus trabalhos. A cianotipia tem o poder de se regenerar; ela pode recuperar sua tonalidade azul original se a superfície permanecer um tempo no escuro. Aqui o tempo se regenera; é um tempo circular, não linear.

Renata: Essa característica cíclica é bem curiosa. Quando você sensibiliza um material pela técnica da cianotipia, aquela marca solar é permanente. O contato com a luz vai desbotando essa marca, mas é só colocar o material no escuro, como você diz, ela volta.

Juliana G.: Poderíamos dizer, então, que se trata de um permanente que é, simultaneamente, mutável?

Renata: Sim, mas esse mutável não é transformador, pois ele sempre volta a ser o que ele era. O permanente é dominante, como se por meio dessa técnica um momento específico ficasse congelado. Uma singela suspensão permanente do tempo.

Renata De Bonis (1984, São Paulo, Brazil)

Recent solo exhibitions include: Aurora, at Giorgio Galotti, Turin (2017) ,to fill the interlude without breaking it, at BFA Boatos Gallery, Sao Paulo (2015), Norte, part of the Exhibition Program of Centro Cultural São Paulo, Sao Paulo (2014), Suíte, Coletor, São Paulo (2014).

Recent group exhibitions include:  3a Bienal de Montevideo, Montevideo, (2016), Der Kula Ring, Eigenheim Galerie, Weimar (2016), Arte Atual Festival, Instituto Tomie Ohtake (2016), Esforço-Desempenho, Galeria Athena Contemporânea, Rio de Janeiro (2016) , 1(um), BFA Boatos, São Paulo (2015), Narrativas Poeticas, Museu da Lingua Portuguesa, São Paulo (2015), and Os Primeiros Dez Anos, Instituto Tomie Ohtake , São Paulo (2011).

Since 2009 De Bonis has been selected to several artist residencies in Iceland, USA, Brazil, Germany, Italy and England. In 2015 she recieved a grant to investigate the landscapes painted by Caspar David Friedrich, at the Künstlerhaus Lukas artist residency in Germany. She is also featured in the book Pintura Brasileira Séc XXI (Brazilian Painting 21st Century) by Cobogó publishing house.

Renata De Bonis (1984, São Paulo, Brazil)

As exposições individuais recentes incluem: Aurora, em Giorgio Galotti, Turim (2017), preencher o interlúdio sem quebrá-lo, na Galeria BFA Boatos, São Paulo (2015), Norte, parte de Programa de Exposição do Centro Cultural São Paulo, São Paulo (2014), Suíte, Coletor, São Paulo (2014).

As exposições coletivas recentes incluem: 3a Bienal de Montevidéu, Montevidéu, (2016), Der Kula Ring, Eigenheim Galerie, Weimar (2016), Festival Arte Atual, Instituto Tomie Ohtake (2016), Esforço-Desempenho, Galeria Athena Contemporânea, Rio de Janeiro (2016), 1 (um), BFA Boatos, São Paulo (2015), Narrativas Poeticas, Museu da Lingua Portuguesa, São Paulo (2015) e Os Primeiros Dez Anos, Instituto Tomie Ohtake, São Paulo (2011).

Desde 2009, De Bonis foi selecionada para várias residências de artistas na Islândia, EUA, Brasil, Alemanha, Itália. Em 2015, recebeu uma bolsa para investigar as paisagens pintadas por Caspar David Friedrich, na residência do artista Künstlerhaus Lukas na Alemanha. Ela também é destaque no livro Pintura Brasileira Séc XXI (Pintura Brasileira do século 21) pela editora Cobogó.

http://renatadebonis.com/

[rilenerocks]

I’m not exactly a nautical type. I’ve been in a variety of boats. I’ve paddled a canoe and rowed a row boat. Someone taught me how to come about on a sailboat many years ago. I’ve driven a motor boat, one of the few positive benefits of having my in-laws who owned one. I’ve traversed lakes and rivers on paddle boats, pontoon boats and riverboats. I’ve been on a hydrofoil and a whale watching boat. I’ve been on a cruise ship a couple of times and the smaller tenders that transport you from ship to shore and back. I’ve even been on a faux submarine that felt like being in a washing machine, plus one retired battleship. These were all good and interesting experiences but truthfully, I’d rather be in the water than on it.

I try thinking back to what led me to think about trying to keep an even keel. Maybe growing up close to the lakefront in Chicago had an impact on my marine-themed psychological reference for stability. I can’t count how many times I traveled on both south and north Lake Shore Drive. I remember always having my eyes glued to the water which was endlessly interesting to me. Full of life and  mystery. That’s the place where I learned to swim. Maybe I’m somewhere in that black and white photo, trying to copy those people who actually knew what they were doing. My family wasn’t big on swimming. Usually on steamy summer days, when we were broiling in our un-air-conditioned third floor apartment, we headed to the beach and set up camp in the grassy park area. After a while, I always fled to the water. 

My high school had a marine theme because of its proximity to the lake. South Shore High. The athletic teams were called The Tars. The yearbook was The Tide and the newspaper was The Shore Line. Deep blue and teal green were the colors I associate with that school, thinking particularly of my senior yearbook. When I attended my 50th high school reunion, I had some temporary teal streaks put in my hair, just for fun.

I’m not exactly sure whether the origin of my goal of keeping an even keel is important. Thinking about it is typical of my internal process as I always seem to be pondering something. Sometimes when I wake in the morning with a subject already on my mind, I wonder if I’ve really been asleep. I’m not sure my brain is ever empty despite my intermittent meditative efforts. I have to laugh. From the beginning of our relationship, I was always asking Michael what he was thinking about. Frequently, he’d say “nothing.” “What?” I would shriek. “That’s impossible. You have to be thinking about something.” He’d smile and say, “Some day toward the end of your life, you’re going to realize that all the mysterious thoughts you believe I’m concealing really were never there. You’ve just spent your life with a basically shallow guy.” Of course I never believed him and of course that wasn’t true. But it was a point well taken. Everyone isn’t afflicted with thinking all the time.I’m pretty sure all this perpetual  cogitating began when I was a little kid. I was always tuned in to the emotional currents going on around me. I found them alarming and uncomfortable. I wanted to be a step ahead of everything. My family seemed to constantly be responding to crises which for me, as a little child, was just plain scary. As I got older, I developed strategies for getting ahead of the curve. I believe control is the operative word here. I wanted as much control as I could get. None of this aimless bobbing like a cork in the water, buffeted by random waves and currents for me. I figured if I thought hard enough I could keep an even keel, no matter what I ran into along my course. Obviously, that wasn’t entirely possible. Anyone with feelings can’t get away unscathed by those waves that ram into most people at some point or other in their lives. But trying to hold steady has been a good life strategy for me. I gravitate to my center and move forward from there. I’m not fond of operating from positions of weakness. So if I stay focused, I can manage. Most of the time. Last week, I gave myself a special event. Pete Yorn was doing a livestream acoustic guitar performance of my favorite album of his, Musicforthemorningafter. In addition, there was new and unique merchandise to go along with the show. Part of the proceeds were going to Covid19 relief, particularly in the way of food. I was so excited. I decided that after Michael died, I was going to go to as many concerts, plays and places as I could afford. The intervention of the virus has put a big hitch in my plans. Sometimes I wish I could be less conscious of the considerable risks it poses to my health and then, obviously, to my family and anyone else whose path I might cross. But I can’t. I’m constantly reasoning with myself, trying to stay rational instead of being impulsive. I don’t believe that most of the people who are breaking all the science rules are being deliberately malicious and uncaring about public health. Mostly I think they’re either not able to conceive that one bad move can be enough to change their lives or someone else’s. Having constant awareness of vulnerability is hard and exhausting. I think my life made me good at this heightened awareness. I often remind myself that everyone is just a phone call away from life-altering tough news. Frankly, it’s not my favorite thing to be self-aware. In my coronavirus dream journal, I’ve noticed an interesting pattern. Mostly, I’m in unfamiliar places, but I’m almost always with Michael and our kids. Usually it’s between 15-20 years ago, so our little nuclear family is intact. But there’s always something threatening near us and I’m trying to protect one person or another. Invariably, I’m required to navigate a dangerous area, usually a narrow walkway, bridge or balance beam-like path. Water is on both sides of me and it’s usually active, with waves lapping over my feet. So far, I’ve always gotten to the other side. I’m thinking this subconscious process is a metaphor for this time. The world around me can be simultaneously simple and complex. I’m my best self when I’m in my garden, listening to music, watching the behavior of the insects, birds and little mammals out there in my habitat that I’m still trying to improve every day. Part of the reason for that is to do my share of being a healthy influence on nature as it groans under the weight of climate change. I also am trying to help my future self as the work around here will only get harder. Maybe I’ll have a healthy decade in my 70’s or maybe not. If I design my outside for as little maintenance as possible, my chances of staying uninjured improve. That project is keeping me occupied in the dance of staying balanced. There’ve been 50 bird species that have shown up here this year. I’m working on my list of butterflies now. I finally got a few photos of the speedy goldfinches and an amazing first, a video of monarchs mating. The simple part of life.

This piece of my life is satisfying. I wander around for hours, headphones on, listening to music, old and new. But there’s a darker side. I’m worrying about lots of people I know and ones that I don’t. I have friends dealing with cancer, their own or their loved one’s. That’s a road I can walk with them, albeit carefully, as I’ve learned well the limits of my abilities. Friends’ parents are dying in this lonely time when the virus separates people when they should be together. Many people I know are depressed and lonely. The incessant alone time gives many who weren’t satisfied with their lives too much time to reflect on their negatives. That’s another road I can walk partway before stepping back. I’ve experienced a lot of loss, both parents, a sibling, a best friend, a former lover and of course, my life partner. Sometimes I think that I’ve already experienced the worst thing that could happen to me. But then I remind myself that for me, the loss of a child could overwhelm all my internal resources. So my private inner dialogue continues. Then there are all the people on the streets. I’m seeing more of the homeless and the hungry. I buy sandwiches and hand them over but it’s so terrible to know how insignificant is that act which only provides the most temporary respite. I’ve handed out water bottles on hot days. But I feel helpless and overwhelmed and angry. This is a rich country and the economic gaps between the top and the bottom are just wrong. I rail away on social media about everything. Then I feel guilty that all I share is anger and rage. So I go to Instagram, a most peculiar place indeed. I follow scientists and nature photographers so I can share some beauty instead of simply vitriol. I also check on a variety of news outlets and conservation groups. I confess that I do the fan girl thing, following Roger Federer, musicians and the television character who reminds me of Michael, at least the  Michael he’d have been as a Scottish Highlander in the 18th century. But Instagram’s a weird place with all these influencers who seem mostly vapid to me, and then the lonely souls out there who send me private messages and ask to follow me them though my account is private. My profile photo is flattering but do these mostly middle-aged men think that anything substantive could develop in this peculiar forum? Maybe that actually happens for some people. I delete all those requests. I do wonder about them. But I’m sticking with my Outlander hero who reminds me of my guy, absent the kilt. So, up and back I go, or rather I shift from side to side, trying to hold steady in the midst of this strange time. I hope I can keep that keel firmly centered, while knowing full well, I can be knocked off my course in a split second. You know, that’s really how it always is but thinking that way round the clock is too hard – taking a break from dwelling on the uncertainty is necessary for survival.

The Delicacy of an Even Keel I’m not exactly a nautical type. I’ve been in a variety of boats. I’ve paddled a canoe and rowed a row boat.