#bury our gays indeed

[rubinaitoart]

finished the last episode

gonna go cry now and by cry I mean read fics

[sublimecatgalaxy]

hi, can u do a request where maddy got jealous of something and ended up shouting at the reader (soft) which made them cry.

I love this just because this is how she would truly react in a situation like this. She's not exactly the most calm or the most rational lol.

"She was looking at you like she wanted to swallow you whole." Maddy hisses the minute we step out of the store and I feel the once happy expression fall from my face the minute her sassy attitude fills my ears.

"Really? I thought she was just being nice?" I feign stupidity, not wanting to get into a big blow out on our one date night of the week and have my whole night ruined and dignity crushed in a public place.

"Are you that fucking dense? She wanted to fuck you." Maddy scoffs with a bitter smile, eyes turning to slits as she glares at me.

"Maddy, you were right there with me, holding my hand. She obviously knew I was taken." I pause, spinning around on my heels to look at her, fed up with her trailing behind and pissy attitude. She just shakes her head and looks down at her phone, prepared to give me the silent treatment until I apologize.

"And she obviously didn't care."

"I think you're overreacting, babe." I say suddenly, taking Maddy completely off guard as her eyes lift to glare at me, cheeks reddening at my accusation.

"Oh so now I'm crazy?"

"What? I didn't say that." I huff, burying my face in my hands with a loud groan, hating that we keep going back and forth and back and forth- obviously out of and abandoning anything resembling a honeymoon period.

"Tell me how you really feel! You think I'm this jealous, raging bitch, right?" She steps up to me, officially throwing me off my confident game as a tear trickles down my cheek and I desperately hold a hand out to her to get her to stop.

"Maddy, stop." I beg, reaching up to bat my tears away as a look of realization passes across her face that she's indeed gone too far once again. "If she was looking at me, that's out of my control. You know me, you know I want to be with you, what more do you need."

"I need women to stop looking at my girlfriend."

"Then get mad at her next time!" I laugh through tears and Maddy rolls her eyes, reaching out to me to tug me into her arms, firmly hugging me as a silent apology.

"Fine, fuck."

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o- Taglist: @bubblebuttwade @rafelover2405 @leslienjazzy @sorceresss @grxnde-dwt @alex–awesome–22 @bunnietoof @niyamar1e @serialghost @plantlungs @geniusohn @akaliltimmytim @lilaalouuxx @xshariex @elliotsbeigeguitar @elle4404 @lelieja @srhxpci @joselyn001 @taysirene @spinkspanther @thedivineuphoria @peter-maximoffs @tsukishimawhore @poohkie90 @szlaco @distantsighs @nstyles4299 @wolflover384 @givemefoodandlovesstuff @vane28282 @yeswhatever33 @amirrahfranson @vvaalleennttiinna @f-mu @yaspillz @jeyramarie @skylievin@abbybarnes17 @jointherebellion215 @visiondaddy @steezysimfinds @its-ya-gay-boi-luigi @crunchytoenailsyum@glizzymcguirex @beth123lg @melovesmut @rafecameronswhore @ariianelle @write-from-the heart @vampviolets@haylee-e @honee-chai-tea @lokiandbuckywife

@officiallyunofficialperson@heyaitsklaudia@rosepetalsparks @bluetreecloud20 @scenesofobx @double-shot-of-tequila @1dluver13xx @colbysbrocks @iamasimpingh0e @loveshineslikethesky @id-3-kbro @diorsitgirl @errorfound101-allideasburnedout @neverwillknowme18 @ellyskey @taylors-folk @loversjoy @myaloveee @thyris-is @lagataprrr @aaaaslaaaan @witxhy-lexx @minjix @luvroseee @tee-swizzle @savageneversaw @admiringlove @hysteriahall @piceous21 @starlightandfairies @igotmajordaddyissues @drewstarkey-wife1 @manyfandomsfanvergent @revesephemeres

[laurelwen]

The Nightingale and the Rose, Simon Costin

While devouring the Sleeping Beauties exhibit at the Met in May, I was stunned by this piece (wish I could have gotten a better photo, but conditions were tricky.) Of course, it make me think of Nigel, so I thought I'd share with all of you. But I imagine most of you have not read the fairy tale by Oscar Wilde that inspired the piece. They had an audio recording of someone reading an excerpt from this story in this room as well, which just added to the heartbreaking vibe of it all. If you read through, I think you'll see why it all made me think of our boys and how deeply poignant and tragic the art is when you know the context of the story. The bolded text was my emphasis - you'll see why.

"The Nightingale and the Rose" by Oscar Wilde

'She said that she would dance with me if I brought her red roses,' cried the young Student; 'but in all my garden there is no red rose.'

     From her nest in the holm-oak tree the Nightingale heard him, and she looked out through the leaves, and wondered.

     'No red rose in all my garden!' he cried, and his beautiful eyes filled with tears. 'Ah, on what little things does happiness depend! I have read all that the wise men have written, and all the secrets of philosophy are mine, yet for want of a red rose is my life made wretched.'

     'Here at last is a true lover,' said the Nightingale. 'Night after night have I sung of him, though I knew him not: night after night have I told his story to the stars, and now I see him. His hair is dark as the hyacinth-blossom, and his lips are red as the rose of his desire; but passion has made his lace like pale Ivory, and sorrow has set her seal upon his brow.'

     'The Prince gives a ball to-morrow night,' murmured the young Student, 'and my love will be of the company. If I bring her a red rose she will dance with me till dawn. If I bring her a red rose, I shall hold her in my arms, and she will lean her head upon my shoulder, and her hand will be clasped in mine. But there is no red rose in my garden, so I shall sit lonely, and she will pass me by. She will have no heed of me, and my heart will break.'

     'Here indeed is the true lover,' said the Nightingale. 'What I sing of he suffers: what is joy to me, to him is pain. Surely Love is a wonderful thing. It is more precious than emeralds, and dearer than fine opals. Pearls and pomegranates cannot buy it, nor is it set forth in the market-place. it may not be purchased of the merchants, 'or can it be weighed out in the balance for gold.'

     'The musicians will sit in their gallery,' said the young Student, 'and play upon their stringed instruments, and my love will dance to the sound of the harp and the violin. She will dance so lightly that her feet will not touch the floor, and the courtiers in their gay dresses will throng round her. But with me she will not dance, for I have no red rose to give her;' and he flung himself down on the grass, and buried his face in his hands, and wept.

     'Why is he weeping?' asked a little Green Lizard, as he ran past him with his tail in the air.

     'Why, indeed?' said a Butterfly, who was fluttering about after a sunbeam.

     'Why, indeed?' whispered a Daisy to his neighbour, in a soft, low voice.

     'He is weeping for a red rose,' said the Nightingale.

     'For a red rose!' they cried; 'how very ridiculous!' and the little Lizard, who was something of a cynic, laughed outright.

     But the Nightingale understood the secret of the Student's sorrow, and she sat silent in the oak-tree, and thought about the mystery of Love.

     Suddenly she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air. She passed through the grove like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed across the garden.

     In the centre of the grass-plot was standing a beautiful Rose-tree, and when she saw it, she flew over to it, and lit upon a spray.

     'Give me a red rose,' she cried, 'and I will sing you my sweetest song.'

     But the Tree shook its head.

     'My roses are white,' it answered; 'as white as the foam of the sea, and whiter than the snow upon the mountain. But go to my brother who grows round the old sun-dial, and perhaps he will give you what you want.'

     So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing round the old sun-dial.

     'Give me a red rose,' she cried, 'and I will sing you my sweetest song.'

     But the Tree shook its head.

     'My roses are yellow,' it answered; 'as yellow as the hair of the mermaiden who sits upon an amber throne, and yellower than the daffodil that blooms in the meadow before the mower comes with his scythe. But go to my brother who grows beneath the Student's window, and perhaps he will give you what you want.'

     So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing beneath the Student's window.

     'Give me a red rose,' she cried, 'and I will sing you my sweetest song.'

     But the Tree shook its head.

     'My roses are red,' it answered, 'as red as the feet of the dove, and redder than the great fans of coral that wave and wave in the ocean-cavern. But the winter has chilled my veins, and the frost has nipped my buds, and the storm has broken my branches, and I shall have no roses at all this year.'

     'One red rose is all I want,' cried the Nightingale, 'only one red rose! Is there no way by which I can get it?'

     'There is a way,' answered the Tree; 'but it is so terrible that I dare not tell it to you.'

     'Tell it to me,' said the Nightingale, 'I am not afraid.'

     'If you want a red rose,' said the Tree, 'you must build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with your own heart's-blood. You must sing to me with your breast against a thorn. All night long you must sing to me, and the thorn must pierce your heart, and your life-blood must flow into my veins, and become mine.'

     'Death is a great price to pay for a red rose,' cried the Nightingale, 'and Life is very dear to all. It is pleasant to sit in the green wood, and to watch the Sun in his chariot of gold, and the Moon in her chariot of pearl. Sweet is the scent of the hawthorn, and sweet are the bluebells that hide in the valley, and the heather that blows on the hill. Yet Love is better than Life, and what is the heart of a bird compared to the heart of a man?'

     So she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air. She swept over the garden like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed through the grove.

     The young Student was still lying on the grass, where she had left him, and the tears were not yet dry in his beautiful eyes.

     'Be happy,' cried the Nightingale, 'be happy; you shall have your red rose. I will build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with my own heart's-blood. All that I ask of you in return is that you will be a true lover, for Love is wiser than Philosophy, though she is wise, and mightier than Power, though he is mighty. Flame-coloured are his wings, and coloured like flame is his body. His lips are sweet as honey, and his breath is like frankincense.'

     The Student looked up from the grass, and listened, but he could not understand what the Nightingale was saying to him, for he only knew the things that are written down in books.

     But the Oak-tree understood, and felt sad, for he was very fond of the little Nightingale who had built her nest in his branches.

     'Sing me one last song,' he whispered; 'I shall feel very lonely when you are gone.'

     So the Nightingale sang to the Oak-tree, and her voice was like water bubbling from a silver jar.

     When she had finished her song the Student got up, and pulled a note-book and a lead-pencil out of his pocket.

     'She has form,' he said to himself, as he walked away through the grove - 'that cannot be denied to her; but has she got feeling? I am afraid not. In fact, she is like most artists; she is all style, without any sincerity. She would not sacrifice herself for others. She thinks merely of music, and everybody knows that the arts are selfish. Still, it must be admitted that she has some beautiful notes in her voice. What a pity it is that they do not mean anything, or do any practical good.' And he went into his room, and lay down on his little pallet-bed, and began to think of his love; and, after a time, he fell asleep.

     And when the Moon shone in the heavens the Nightingale flew to the Rose-tree, and set her breast against the thorn. All night long she sang with her breast against the thorn, and the cold crystal Moon leaned down and listened. All night long she sang, and the thorn went deeper and deeper into her breast, and her life-blood ebbed away from her.

     She sang first of the birth of love in the heart of a boy and a girl. And on the topmost spray of the Rose-tree there blossomed a marvellous rose, petal following petal, as song followed song. Yale was it, at first, as the mist that hangs over the river - pale as the feet of the morning, and silver as the wings of the dawn. As the shadow of a rose in a mirror of silver, as the shadow of a rose in a water-pool, so was the rose that blossomed on the topmost spray of the Tree.

     But the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn. 'Press closer, little Nightingale,' cried the Tree, 'or the Day will come before the rose is finished.'

     So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and louder and louder grew her song, for she sang of the birth of passion in the soul of a man and a maid.

     And a delicate flush of pink came into the leaves of the rose, like the flush in the face of the bridegroom when he kisses the lips of the bride. But the thorn had not yet reached her heart, so the rose's heart remained white, for only a Nightingale's heart's-blood can crimson the heart of a rose.

     And the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn. 'Press closer, little Nightingale,' cried the Tree, 'or the Day will come before the rose is finished.'

     So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and the thorn touched her heart, and a fierce pang of pain shot through her. Bitter, bitter was the pain, and wilder and wilder grew her song, for she sang of the Love that is perfected by Death, of the Love that dies not in the tomb.

     And the marvellous rose became crimson, like the rose of the eastern sky. Crimson was the girdle of petals, and crimson as a ruby was the heart.

     But the Nightingale's voice grew fainter, and her little wings began to beat, and a film came over her eyes. Fainter and fainter grew her song, and she felt something choking her in her throat.

     Then she gave one last burst of music. The white Moon heard it, and she forgot the dawn, and lingered on in the sky. The red rose heard it, and it trembled all over with ecstasy, and opened its petals to the cold morning air. Echo bore it to her purple cavern in the hills, and woke the sleeping shepherds from their dreams. It floated through the reeds of the river, and they carried its message to the sea.

     'Look, look!' cried the Tree, 'the rose is finished now;' but the Nightingale made no answer, for she was lying dead in the long grass, with the thorn in her heart.

     And at noon the Student opened his window and looked out.

     'Why, what a wonderful piece of luck! he cried; 'here is a red rose! I have never seen any rose like it in all my life. It is so beautiful that I am sure it has a long Latin name;' and he leaned down and plucked it.

     Then he put on his hat, and ran up to the Professor's house with the rose in his hand.

     The daughter of the Professor was sitting in the doorway winding blue silk on a reel, and her little dog was lying at her feet.

     'You said that you would dance with me if I brought you a red rose,' cried the Student. Here is the reddest rose in all the world. You will wear it to-night next your heart, and as we dance together it will tell you how I love you.'

     But the girl frowned.

     'I am afraid it will not go with my dress,' she answered; 'and, besides, the Chamberlain's nephew has sent me some real jewels, and everybody knows that jewels cost far more than flowers.'

     'Well, upon my word, you are very ungrateful,' said the Student angrily; and he threw the rose into the street, where it fell into the gutter, and a cart-wheel went over it.

     'Ungrateful!' said the girl. 'I tell you what, you are very rude; and, after all, who are you? Only a Student. Why, I don't believe you have even got silver buckles to your shoes as the Chamberlain's nephew has;' and she got up from her chair and went into the house.

     'What a silly thing Love is,' said the Student as he walked away. 'It is not half as useful as Logic, for it does not prove anything, and it is always telling one of things that are not going to happen, and making one believe things that are not true. In fact, it is quite unpractical, and, as in this age to be practical is everything, I shall go back to Philosophy and study Metaphysics.'

     So he returned to his room and pulled out a great dusty book, and began to read.

************************************************************************

So perfectly Nigel coded: For he sang of the Love that is perfected by Death, of the Love that dies not in the tomb.

[Like Minds Aesthetic Masterpost]

[scotianostra]

On May 17th 1810 the poet Robert Tannahill drowned himself in a Paisley canal.

Some posts can hit home more than others, anyone who has or is going through the hell of real depression will understand more than others. The stigma of the disease is being more talked about more than ever, it’s not a new thing to be depressed, our own Scottish King Robert III is said to have suffered from it, indeed he described himself as “the worst of kings and the most miserable of men”.

On to Robert Tannahill, who, in his lifetime was as famous as our national bard Robert Burns, he was in the same mould of the Ploughman Poet and was the first Secretary of the Paisley Burns Club established in 1805 he also wrote several poems and songs in Burns’ memory.

Tannahill had friends in Glasgow and neighbouring towns, attended the theatre in Glasgow and, importantly, was familiar with the publishers in Glasgow who were established in selling ballad poetry. His early works were also printed in the Glasgow Courier, leading to his recognition as the leading poet of the periodicals. Tannahill’s first collection was ‘The Sodger’s Return’. a Scottish interlude in two acts, with other poems and songs, chiefly in the Scottish dialect. It sold well, and the latter part of the title is a clear homage to Burns.

Robert Tannahill – the ‘Weaver Poet’in Paisley, the son of James Tannahill and Janet Pollock. Young Robert was apprenticed as a weaver at the age of 12 in 1786 and spent a brief time working at Bolton, in Lancashire, England. He returned home to Paisley and began to compose pieces of verse in Scots which were published by various journals. Scottish weavers had a reputation for literacy and cultivated tastes because their work, often done at a loom with the feet, allowed them the freedom to hold and read books. When his father died in 1802, Robert joined the newly established ‘Paisley Literary and Convivial Association’ which was an outlet for his literary tastes.

In 1810 after having work rejected by an Edinburgh publisher Robert drowned himself in the Candren Burn, his body was discovered by his two brothers.

Tannahill was buried at Castlehead Cemetery, Canal Street, Paisley, in an unmarked grave in what was formerly the West Relief Church. In 1866 a granite monument was erected here to his memory. There is also a statue to Tannahill next to Paisley Abbey, erected by public subscription in 1883.

There is a famous story involving Tannahill’s emotional farewell to James Hogg who had travelled west in the hope of meeting the Paisley poet. Hogg says that, upon leaving Tannhill, he ‘had scarcely reached Edinburgh’ before he ‘read in the newspapers an account of his sad end.’

Again I say about depression, nobody knows what is going on inside the mind of people, it’s an invisible illness, a silent killer, you can be talking to someone who shows no signs of depression outwardly, but inside they are toiling, be mindful with people, never be harsh with your words.

Bonny Winsome Mary

Fortune, frowning most severe, Forc'd me from my native dwelling, Parting with my friends so dear, Cost me many a bitter tear: But, like the clouds of early day, Soon my sorrows fled away, When blooming sweet, and smiling gay, I met my winsome Mary.

Wha can sit with gloomy brow, Blest with sic a charming lassie? Native scenes, I think on you. Yet the change I canna rue; Wand'ring many a weary mile, Fortune seem'd to low'r, the while, But now she's gi'en me, for the toil, My bonny winsome Mary.

Though our riches are but few, Faithful hove is aye a treasure— Ever cheery, kind, and true, Nane but her I e'er can lo'e. Hear me, a' ye pow'rs above! Pow'rs of sacred truth and love! While I live I'll constant prove To my dear winsome Mary.

[ghostinthegallery]

WIP Wednesday (one day late) (necron edition)

Just a bit of idiot gay space robot arguing from my ongoing necron fic (story is available here) that amused me and I hope will amuse other people. Spoilers for The Infinite and the Divine.

“Trazyn?”

“Yes, Orikan?”

“Several questions are rushing through my engrams at the moment, but chief among them is why did you make this?”

Trazyn turned to him. “Because I needed a place to put the statue. Obviously.”

Orikan wasn’t sure what answer he had expected. He repressed a shudder as he stood on horribly familiar cobblestones in the shadow of familiar buildings. Humans sat unmoving at tables drinking foul brown liquid. A small group of musicians stood—thankfully silent—with their instruments, one with his chest puffed out as if his fleshy lungs were filled with air. The uncanny sense he was actually back in the city square made him want to board his ship and try his luck with his ambushers once again. 

Though he supposed he had to give Trazyn some credit for the accuracy with which he had recreated the central square on Serenade. And above it all was Trazyn’s damn statue, fashioned by idiot humans like a skeletally thin space marine librarian. The ego was frankly astounding.

Orikan shook his head. “Of all the places we could have spoken.” 

“I thought you might enjoy some reminiscing,” Trazyn replied.

“There is not a single memory of this place that I enjoy.”

Trazyn wandered over to an empty table and sat down as if he was one of the patrons. “Nothing after all we accomplished together here? Discovering the secret of a lost tomb, defeating the shard of a C’tan!”

“Infecting the planet with genestealers and burying me under millions of tons of rock?”

“You always find a way to see the negative side of things, don’t you?”

Orikan did not humor that with a response. His ocular scanned the gallery, which despite the walls and ceilings bearing illusory projection of sky and further city, were solid and closer than they appeared. Scarabs skittered between buildings, each one seemingly watching him. Something shimmered next to a false cloud.

“Is that one of your deathmarks?” Orikan demanded.

Trazyn glanced up as if Orikan had just observed an interesting weather phenomenon. “Why yes. Forgive me if I seem inhospitable, but considering the fact that I have not completely repaired the damage left by your last several visits, I thought some precautions might be in order. Not to mention my concerns for my own safety.”

"Why would I try to kill you when my phaeron has sent me to seek your aid?"

"I don't know, Orikan. Perhaps because a passing gas giant told you to. Who knows how your astromancer's mind functions?"

It was not worth getting into an argument. The sooner Orikan went about his business the sooner he could leave. Preferably without getting shot.

“The Stormlord  has requested access to your archives on the Great Devourer,” Orikan said. “Allow our crypteks access, and you and I need suffer each other no further.”

“Oh diviner, don’t be in such a hurry.” Trazyn leaned back with infuriating smugness. Orikan would have enjoyed nothing more than shooting his phase shifter at his host. Or at least the statue. 

“Funnily enough, you are not the first to come researching the tyranid recently,” Trazyn continued. “I suppose Szarekh’s display caused quite the stir. That even his rival for kingship is taking it seriously—“

“Don’t presume to know Imotekh’s will,” Orikan snapped. “Although this makes things simpler. If your galleries are indeed open to all, there should be no trouble allowing the Sautekh dynasty to observe your samples.”

“Now hold on,” Trazyn said. “You are putting me in a delicate position. My dynasty has declared its support for Szarekh, so opening my doors to Phaeron Imotekh could be seen as downright treasonous.”

Orikan narrowed his ocular in a glare. “Trying to kill me did not get you back in their good graces?”

“You are fortunate that I am meeting with you when I could have vaporized your ship instead,” Trazyn said. “Perhaps you shouldn’t push your luck?”

Orikan’s tail flicked with annoyance. Mostly because Trazyn was right. Orikan wasn’t sure why Trazyn had helped him. Not that that was unusual, as Orikan could barely figure out why the archaeovist did half the things he did. The only thing Orikan could guess was that Trazyn wanted something, and the sooner he figured out what that was, the sooner this farce would end.

“I suppose I could arrange something.” Trazyn rubbed his chin, the spot that was always faintly smoother than the rest thanks to the habitual friction. “If you were to make it worth my while.”

Ah, there it was. “Name your price, archaeovist.”

"I…" Trazyn leaned across the table. "Would like an apology."

Orikan paused. “What?”

“I would like an apology from you.” Trazyn’s death mask took on that terrible grinning quality that Orikan so despised. “For your vandalism of my War in Heaven gallery.”

“You can’t be serious,” Orikan replied. “That was over ten thousand years ago!”

“And the artifacts broken are still irreplaceable and my restorations are still incomplete.” The grin vanished. That was even more disconcerting. “You went back on your word to save what had been lost. I think an apology is the least I could ask for.”

It was not and they both knew it. Orikan would rather throw himself into Solemnace’s sun than utter any kind of apology. Breaking those trinkets was a service to the galaxy. Not to mention it had been his only method of escape. He may well have been trapped as one of Trazyn’s exhibits had he not used what was at hand to escape. If given the chance he’d do it all again, maybe crushing even more of that useless refuse.

“What good is it to remember what we lost and cannot get back? What we cannot even learn from?” Orikan said. “We could be finding a future, so why drag us backwards to some mythical past?”

Trazyn sighed. “I do not have time to debate philosophy with you, Orikan. Believe it or not, I am busy. Will you give me what I ask for or no?”

Silence dragged on between them. Imotekh would strike him down in an instant for his stubbornness, but it was difficult to care. Orikan had not gotten where he was by submitting to lords that used their power to twist the truth. Trazyn was no different from the rest. If anything he was worse. If he would devote a fraction of the energy he used recreating primitive street architecture towards the future of their race, think how much closer they’d be to overcoming their cursed metal forms! He wasted so much, and Orikan hated him for it.

Trazyn’s laugh started low and deep. Necron laughter was not a pleasant sound, but the Overlord of Solemnace had a laugh that lacked the staticky roughness most of their people’s possessed. It sounded far too close to something organic and it sent a shiver up Orikan’s spine.

“So stubborn,” Trazyn said. “But if you were willing to yield that easily you would not be who you are, and I would not despise you so.”

[avoidslug]

MY THOUGHTS ON THE NONBINARY REP IN VEILGUARD

game review: 7.5/10, considerably better than inquisition (but i hated that game so ymmv), roughly the equivalent experience of reading a fun adventure novel that entertains you but hasn't like, redefined the genre or anything. recommended for people who like that kind of thing (which i do).

the nonbinary rep is indeed cringe which is unfortunate. there is like, a seed of something not shit in there, but it is buried under large piles of shit that are difficult to get past.

minor spoilers >

i hate coming out stories, so i was predisposed to dislike this, i'll admit it. other people are allowed to like them but i am a grown ass man and i don't need another story where a character is paraded around like a prize hog to tell each person what specific labels they have decided on for themselves are so everyone around them can have a Learning Moment (tm). one of the worst examples of this in recent memory were the legend of korra comics. like, she's the fucking AVATAR and you've got her on a world tour to explain to people she's bisexual?? be so fr rn.

taash was heavily teenager coded, so i can buy that they don't know who they are yet, but you cannot tell me that the dragon age universe, especially a fruity isabela led faction, doesn't have queer people that taash wouldn't have already interacted with. and the constant use of the term nonbinary is just so jarring. every time taash came up to the next person and explained that they were non binary using that specific term i wanted to peel off my skin. 2/3 of their character was "i'm nonbinary." i dreaded every personal quest.

i think there is this fear that if people make gay stuff subtext that it lessens it somehow. subtext isn't bad. the only thing that made subtext bad was that gay stuff used to only be able to exist in subtext. it doesn't any more, but that doesn't mean we can't employ subtext when the situation calls for it. you don't have to explicitly explain your nb character using modern terminology. and it's not like they were incapable of doing this. krem never used the word "transgender," but we all know he's transgender.

taash doesn't feel like they belong anywhere. they're not rivani but they're not qunari, they're not a woman, but they're not a man either, they love their mom, but question if they even want to live up to her expectations. there is a lot there to work with there, it's good!

but it almost felt like every other aspect of their character got put on hold so we could have our learning moment. maybe i'm too new english for this but my relationship with my gender (or lack of gender) isn't anyone else's business. it's such a small part of me. what i want is for taash to figure out that they're not a woman while tackling the bigger, more important parts of their character--their relationship with their mother and by extension, the qun. even in the game, their mother didn't give a shit that they were nb, she was like "oh yeah they got that in the qun too, remember the fucking qun taash?"

the way the story would alllllmost start to focus on the "torn between worlds" aspect, but then immediately have taash be only focused on how their mom was going to react to the nonbinary news. it almost felt like taash's anxiety and defensiveness related to gender was more a writer's pov, rather than an actual character pov, because no one in-game ever gave taash anything but support, even when they were being extremely standoffish. it gave very "rebelling teenager" energy, but there was nothing to rebel against. there would have been something to rebel against if they were focused on the qun/rivain conflict, OR if taash's mother was like, really obsessed with gender roles for some reason, but it's not and she isn't.

and the post-personal-quest cutscene where rook, taash, bellara, and isabela go to a bar.....................................god help me. i'm choosing to pretend it didn't happen.

[tf2-oneshots]

may i request a freedom fries fic where solly giving spy random hug attacks and spy pretending to be annoyed by them but secretly loves them because he’s touched starved? ty in advance!

GOD YES

Warning: none!

Rating: General

“Commander Chomp, deploy yourself.” Soldier sets one of his raccoons onto the floor, and the snarling beast skitters away. He climbs up the furniture and leaps towards an unsuspecting Spy, who immediately screams.

The raccoon lands on her arm, crawling and climbing across his body as the man rises. Spy shakes and flails in an effort to toss the creature off of himself. He crawls down her back, over her head, and under his armpit with those devil claws.

With a powerful twist of the body, Chomp goes flying and lands on a bookshelf. He gives a disgruntled hiss before hurrying to a nearby nest. As she stares at the little monster, Soldier comes in from behind and hugs her. Bulky arms holding much too tight for comfort.

“MON D—Soldat, why was I viciously attacked by that thing?” He turns around, glaring at the American whose arms rest around her waist. Soldier simply looks up with his darling grin as if nothing was amiss. Even as the raccoon loudly hisses from the nest.

“A distraction so that I could ambush you with a hug! Oorah!” In his head, it was the perfect strategy. Send Commander Chomp in to get Spy’s attention then surprise her! What Soldier failed to realize was the fact that Spy would have to defend himself from a rabid animal. The foam dripping from the jaws enough to prove that she should absolutely not get bitten.

“Your little ambushes are obnoxious, juvenile, and utterly pointless in the grand scheme of simple PDA.” Soldier did not understand a single word that statement. He simply gives Spy another smile and kisses her lips.

“Hehehe. Silly Spy, PDA are the people who keep our great American food and drugs safe!” How desperately Spy wants to correct him for a number of reasons. Her balled fists still, and he simply huffs with disdain.

“Dearest, you know how much I hate surprise hugs.” And yet, Spy finds his hands cupping Soldier’s square jaw. His firm, all American features that make Spy fan herself most days. Still, she leans in for a kiss, arms embracing the man tenderly. Such a peculiar partner Spy has chosen for himself.

“And yet you are giving me a hug! The mission was a success! Medals for everyone!” Spy chuckles. Dear god, how could she have fallen for such a strange man? At least his hugs are warm, and his lips always in wait of a kiss.

“This is not a hug. It is a backstab.” Right as she aims the knife, Commander Chomp returns! He dives onto Spy, buried deep in her suit as she screams. The couple separate so that she can run frantically like an animal. Glasses and picture frames rattle as Spy slams his back against the wall.

Eventually, Spy removes her jacket and wraps it around Chomps. With the wriggling sack of raccoon in one hand, the other opens a window and tosses the animal outside. There, several of his companions sit in wait before returning to Soldier’s room through the vents.

“Soldier? My joyous light? I will kill you if one of your disgusting creatures touches me again.” Spy grimaces at her tattered jacket. She sighs, knowing how expensive it will be to replace. So much for seat warmers in his convertible. Maybe next year.

“You sound like you need a real, genuine American hug! Open your arms, maggot!” Arms outstretched, Soldier drags her in front of the fireplace. The two stand, Soldier happy to hug while Spy takes out a cigarette to smoke. What a strange man indeed. At least they missed the wine collection.

Gay people in my phone -H

[haggishlyhagging]

Indeed, if one looks at the writings of those women who were articulating cultural feminism in this period, it is clear that they were motivated in part by a desire to put an end to the painful and often immobilizing discussions about women's differences. Their hostility toward the left derived in large measure from its obvious commitment to analyzing class and race differences. Thus we find Robin Morgan and Kathleen Barry, two women who played a very important role in the articulation of cultural feminism, assailing feminists who wanted to explore questions of class, race, and sexual preference. For instance, at the schismatic 1973 West Coast Women's Studies Conference in Sacramento, California, Robin Morgan pleaded with the audience to recognize that "the point is that we as feminists must search . . . for the connectives between women. It is The Man who looks for the differences, " Barry, who helped organize the conference, denounced the women who raised the issues of class, race, and imperialism as saboteurs who "must be treated as the enemy from within" the movement. Barry was especially upset with Rita Mae Brown, whom the organizers had very reluctantly asked to lead a workshop on class:

“What does it mean when Rita Mae Brown, in a class workshop at this Women's Studies Conference, asks women to separate themselves into groups based on their class? It is perhaps the most hideous form of mimicry of the male class system of thought and politics. It is presuming that women are somehow responsible for the class men have provided for them. And above all, it negates the reason for us being together—to identify female first, with ourselves, with each other.”

Barry counseled feminists to bury their differences and concentrate instead on building a female culture. In a rehash of Alpert's recently published "Mother Right," Barry contended

“We must look to our matriarchal past for guidance in defining a culture that is a logical extension of nature. With the essence of motherhood and a sense of the preservation of life imprinted in our genes, matrilineal descent will naturally become the organization of the society we envision.”

Morgan had assumed the same stance earlier that year at the West Coast Lesbian Feminist Conference in Los Angeles in April 1973. Here, Morgan railed against leftist women, especially members of the Socialist Workers Party. According to one of the conference organizers, Morgan even tried to prevent the socialist-feminist workshop from meeting. Devoting much of her key-note talk to the gay-straight split, Morgan argued that the split had been "created by our collective false consciousness" and had been exacerbated and exploited by “The Man.” For some time, Morgan had been trying to mitigate tensions between heterosexual and lesbian feminists by emphasizing their commonalities. For instance, in a spring 1972 speech to D.C. feminists, she declared that "a lesbian is any woman who has ever loved another woman. By that definition every women in this room is a lesbian." At the Los Angeles conference, Morgan, repeating what Atkinson had argued in 1971, maintained that the real test of feminist commitment was not whether one slept with women, but whether one would be at the barricades. Morgan also argued that the real enemy facing the feminist movement was neither heterosexual women nor lesbians, but rather "the epidemic of male style among women." She contended that those lesbian feminists who advocated nonmonogamy, accepted transvestites and trans sexuals as allies, and listened to the rock group The Rolling Stones had adopted a “male style [which] could be a destroyer from within” the women's movement. Of course, the conjoining of masculinity and lesbianism was still sufficiently prevalent at least outside the movement that this accusation seemed almost calculated to stir up feelings of guilt. By defining the pursuit of relationships as female and the pursuit of sex as male, Morgan then tried to intimidate her lesbian audience back into the familiar terrain of romantic love:

“Every woman here knows in her gut the vast differences between her sexuality and that of any patriarchally trained male's—gay or straight. That has, in fact, always been a source of pride to the lesbian community, even in its greatest suffering. That the emphasis on genital sexuality, objectification, promiscuity, emotional noninvolvement, and coarse invulnerability was the male style, and that we, as women, placed greater trust in love, sensuality, humor, tenderness, commitment.” [her emphasis]

Morgan was trying not only to forestall the spread of "maleness" throughout the lesbian community, but also to persuade lesbians that they shared a consciousness and political agenda with heterosexual feminists. Morgan concluded her speech by calling upon women to create a "gynocratic" society:

“If we can open ourselves to ourselves and each other, as women, only then can we begin to fight for and create, in fact reclaim, not "Lesbian Nation" or "Amazon Nation"—let alone some false state of equality—but a real Feminist Revolution, a proud gynocratic world that runs on the power of women.” [her emphasis]

Although Morgan's critique of egalitarianism was quite cryptic, it was a significant statement. Tentatively, but increasingly, Morgan was suggesting that the left was dangerous not only because it was sexist and posited the primacy of class, but because it promoted egalitarianism. By the summer of 1972, Alpert maintains that Morgan was "beginning to reject not just the sexism of leftist men, but the very social democratic principles from which the [left] movement had developed."

-Alice Echols, Daring to Be Bad: Radical Feminism in America: 1967-75

[thepaleys]

It was at Coburg during the autumn of 1891 that Mamma received news of the death of Uncle Paul's young wife. Grand Duke Paul was the youngest son of Alexander II and our mother's favourite brother. Hardly three years before he had married Alexandra of Greece, eldest daughter of King George and Queen Olga; and now "Alix", as we all called her, that sweet young wife and mother, was dead! The news came like a thunderbolt. Two Lovers, full of their young happiness, they had filled our quiet home with their Joy. A daughter had then already been born to them and it was at the birth of their second child, little Dmitri, that Alix had died. What a cruel, unnatural event. Alix was dead. Our guest so recently, that sweet, gay, happy young creature, she was no more. It was unbelievable. Could happiness be so quickly torn asunder and destroyed? Mamma decided on a hasty departure for St. Petersburg and that Ducky and I, the two eldest daughters, were to go with her. She wanted to be at the funeral, but above all she wanted to be with the brother she so dearly loved. How well I remember that funeral when young Alix was laid to rest alongside those who had gone before her. She was buried in the great church of the Peter and Paul fortress where, since Peter the Great, all the Tsars and their kith and kin had been interred. (...)

And here we were, all gathered together in this great, gloomy cathedral, to lay a young wife and mother in her untimely grave. Full of the pomp and splendour characteristic of all Russian ceremonies was that funeral. Stupendous chants rose to the vaults, echoing again from the fortress-like walls; there were thousands of lighted tapers, fumes of incense, and those thundering bass voices of the cantors which always made me hold my breath, wondering how human lungs could sustain such an effort without bursting. Clad in deepest mourning, with long black veils on their heads, stood the Empress, Grand Duchesses and Princesses, their dull black slashed by the bright ribbons of their respective orders, blue for the Empress, red for the grand duchesses, making their sombre apparel appear all the darker by contrast; and there was huge Uncle Sasha, surrounded by his enormous brothers, cousins and uncles, and as chief mourner, Uncle Paul, a little in front of the others. Frailer than his brothers, though just as tall, and marvellously slim, Uncle Paul was a different type darker and more gentle, he had soft brown eyes and the beautiful hands of his mother. In the white tunic and silver helmet of the Garde a Cheval, there was indeed something knight-like about him. I cannot remember if he wore this particular uniform at the funeral, but it was thus that I best member him, long and slim like a slender marble column, with his impressive voice and luminous eyes. A man full of human kindness and understanding, a man who always defended those who were being attacked, who was always fair towards others, a charming companion, gay and intelligent, it was not astonishing that of all her brothers Mamma loved Uncle Paul best.

I can still see him bending over the bier upon which his lovely young wife lay with crossed hands, against which leaned a small holy image we all had to kiss in turn, and with a thin white veil over her face. I remember the tears running down his cheeks and how Uncle Serge, his favourite brother, took him in his arms when he made a desperate gesture of protest when at last they laid the coffin lid over the sweet face he had loved. It was indeed a scene which made a deep impression upon the very young girls that we were then the grand setting, the flickering tapers, the flowers, the impressive chants, and above all the grief of that young husband who had to be torn away from the coffin of his bride. Tout passe.

Queen Marie of Romania - "Story of my Life"

[therandomavenger]

What Pride Means to Me

Step into the wayback machine with me for a moment.

The year is 1995. It’s the middle of summer. I am sitting in a movie theater with my best friend, Jennie, and we are watching one of the most popular films of that year, Mel Gibson’s Braveheart. <I thought you were going to write about Pride, you say? Give me a moment.>

Now, this is an entertaining film, made with obvious passion. It has a moving story and great performances. Its main villain is the English King, Edward I, played by Patrick McGoohan. Amidst all the major and minor characters is the character of Edward’s son, Prince Edward. As a prince, he’s not living up to his father’s expectations. And, though it’s ever really stated on screen, one of the reasons for this is he’s always in the company of his best friend, who is obviously also his gay lover.

The prince and his lover are mewling and foppish, presented without any redeeming qualities. The lover encourages the prince to stick up for himself against his father, and this all comes to a head in one scene in the middle of the film, where Edward is commanding the prince to do something, the prince protests, the lover says something cutting to the king, and the King grabs the lover and throws him out of the nearest window, to his death.

In the film, this moment is played entirely for laughs. And it got a big laugh from the audience I was sitting in. And in all the commentary this film has garnered over the years, I’ve not seen one other person mention this scene, let alone how problematic it is.

Now, clearly Edward II is the villain in this movie. It’s not like the main hero did this. But still, it doesn’t even seem to be added by the narrative to the list of Edward’s crimes. Indeed, the audience sympathizes with his frustration, and supports this casual murder. The prince is given very little further space in the story, merely doing what his father wants the rest of the film, his trauma unremarked upon.

I think I even laughed at this scene the first time that I saw it, because it’s presented as a moment of physical comedy. But I’ve thought about this scene a lot over the years, obviously, since it’s coming up in a blog post 28 years later.

This kind of thing was common in the 90’s. If gay people existed in media at all, we were disposable. The first victims of a murderer. Films that explored our lives focused mainly on the traumatic parts, and usually had one or more characters dying of AIDS (Philadelphia, I’m looking at you).

Now, I am including myself in that group now, but back then I would not have. While I was aware that I was attracted to guys, I kind of buried that deep within myself, sealing it up in a box that I did not dare open. It was my most shameful secret, one that I’d die to keep. And is it any wonder I didn’t want any part of it, given the examples I was seeing? I had no vision of happy gay people, living their truth. Now, I am aware that they existed. There have been gay writers and filmmakers putting out work for a long time. I’m not saying they didn’t exist. But they did not have a large audience or any kind of promotional budget and I, living in a small town in Indiana, was not aware of them.  

I think the first example of a non-traumatized gay character I came across was Matt in Melrose Place. And while Matt was canonically gay, and allowed to have a romantic life on screen, he was forced by the network sensors to say goodnight to every one of his dates with a firm handshake. So, it was technically representation, but was it really …?

I had never heard of Pride month back then, and I wouldn’t have done anything about it if I had. I didn’t say the words, “I am gay” to myself until I was 32. And it would take another 14 years for me to say it to another person.

So, Pride … I think I became aware of Pride around the time the gay marriage supreme court case went through. Now, I was out to myself at the time, but so deep in the closet that I could see Narnia. I was married to a woman and raising my children, and I thought ‘I might be gay, but it doesn’t mean anything because this is the life I chose for myself, and it would hurt too many people to disrupt.’ But when that decision came down, I felt so much joy. I knew why but didn’t say this to anyone. Because I knew it meant that someday, if circumstances changed, I would be able to live as my true self. I would not have to hide forever. And maybe that planted the seed that I wasn’t as trapped as I thought I was.

That year was the first time I noticed Pride going on. And I wanted to be part of it but couldn’t let myself. I wasn’t ready to blow apart my life yet. I wouldn’t be for another four years. So, Pride to me means standing up and being counted. If Braveheart were made today, I don’t think they would casually murder the prince’s lover and play it for laughs. There are popular network shows where gay people get to kiss their boyfriends and girlfriends on screen.  This even happens on so-called ‘family shows,’ (case in point my late, beloved Willow).  Queer people are allowed to live their lives in the open, and in most places in the west, are given equivalent rights to straight people.

Now, in recent years we have been reminded that there are still many people who would gladly throw us out the nearest window. But those people are a minority. A sizable, vocal minority, yes, but a minority. Most people have a ‘live and let live’ attitude toward queer people now. People I once thought would never accept me if I came out of the closet and started living an authentic life have embraced me and welcomed my boyfriend into the family. Being gay has gone from being my most shameful secret to being one of the things I like most about myself. I’ve gone from praying to be straight to realizing that if I had the chance to be straight, I wouldn’t take it. It may not be a choice for me, but if it were, I’d choose to be queer. There’s nothing wrong with me (at least if there is, it’s not this).

So, that’s what Pride means to me. We can be proud of who we are. We can be the people we were created to be, and love the people we were created to love, no matter what gender that person is. It’s a giant middle figure to the people who want to push us back into the closet. We’re Here! We’re Queer! Go Fuck yourself!

I wish I could go back in time and tell my younger self that he would one day be able to accept every part of himself, and that it would be okay to be that person. He lived in pain for so many years, hating himself, afraid to even let himself be aware of what he really wanted. But those days are over, and we will stand together as a community and refuse to be forced back into those dark days. That’s what Pride is, a signal that we exist and are valid.

originally published on chadgrayson.com

[poemoftheday]

Poem of the Day 11 May 2024

The Buried Life

BY MATTHEW ARNOLD

Light flows our war of mocking words, and yet, 

Behold, with tears mine eyes are wet! 

I feel a nameless sadness o'er me roll. 

Yes, yes, we know that we can jest, 

We know, we know that we can smile! 

But there's a something in this breast, 

To which thy light words bring no rest, 

And thy gay smiles no anodyne. 

Give me thy hand, and hush awhile, 

And turn those limpid eyes on mine, 

And let me read there, love! thy inmost soul. 

Alas! is even love too weak 

To unlock the heart, and let it speak? 

Are even lovers powerless to reveal 

To one another what indeed they feel? 

I knew the mass of men conceal'd 

Their thoughts, for fear that if reveal'd 

They would by other men be met 

With blank indifference, or with blame reproved; 

I knew they lived and moved 

Trick'd in disguises, alien to the rest 

Of men, and alien to themselves—and yet 

The same heart beats in every human breast! 

But we, my love!—doth a like spell benumb 

Our hearts, our voices?—must we too be dumb? 

Ah! well for us, if even we, 

Even for a moment, can get free 

Our heart, and have our lips unchain'd; 

For that which seals them hath been deep-ordain'd! 

Fate, which foresaw 

How frivolous a baby man would be— 

By what distractions he would be possess'd, 

How he would pour himself in every strife, 

And well-nigh change his own identity— 

That it might keep from his capricious play 

His genuine self, and force him to obey 

Even in his own despite his being's law, 

Bade through the deep recesses of our breast 

The unregarded river of our life 

Pursue with indiscernible flow its way; 

And that we should not see 

The buried stream, and seem to be 

Eddying at large in blind uncertainty, 

Though driving on with it eternally. 

But often, in the world's most crowded streets, 

But often, in the din of strife, 

There rises an unspeakable desire 

After the knowledge of our buried life; 

A thirst to spend our fire and restless force 

In tracking out our true, original course; 

A longing to inquire 

Into the mystery of this heart which beats 

So wild, so deep in us—to know 

Whence our lives come and where they go. 

And many a man in his own breast then delves, 

But deep enough, alas! none ever mines. 

And we have been on many thousand lines, 

And we have shown, on each, spirit and power; 

But hardly have we, for one little hour, 

Been on our own line, have we been ourselves— 

Hardly had skill to utter one of all 

The nameless feelings that course through our breast, 

But they course on for ever unexpress'd. 

And long we try in vain to speak and act 

Our hidden self, and what we say and do 

Is eloquent, is well—but 't is not true! 

And then we will no more be rack'd 

With inward striving, and demand 

Of all the thousand nothings of the hour 

Their stupefying power; 

Ah yes, and they benumb us at our call! 

Yet still, from time to time, vague and forlorn, 

From the soul's subterranean depth upborne 

As from an infinitely distant land, 

Come airs, and floating echoes, and convey 

A melancholy into all our day. 

Only—but this is rare— 

When a belovèd hand is laid in ours, 

When, jaded with the rush and glare 

Of the interminable hours, 

Our eyes can in another's eyes read clear, 

When our world-deafen'd ear 

Is by the tones of a loved voice caress'd— 

A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast, 

And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again. 

The eye sinks inward, and the heart lies plain, 

And what we mean, we say, and what we would, we know. 

A man becomes aware of his life's flow, 

And hears its winding murmur; and he sees 

The meadows where it glides, the sun, the breeze. 

And there arrives a lull in the hot race 

Wherein he doth for ever chase 

That flying and elusive shadow, rest. 

An air of coolness plays upon his face, 

And an unwonted calm pervades his breast. 

And then he thinks he knows 

The hills where his life rose, 

And the sea where it goes. 

[allthemusic]

Week ending: 25 December 1952

Our first Christmas charts week, and our first chart with actual Christmas music - two songs of it, in fact. The Number 1 must not have been Christmassy, though, as our first new addition to the charts only hit Number 6. So they clearly weren't feeling that Christmassy. Oh well.

White Christmas - Mantovani (peaked at No 6)

A familiar Christmas song, and I just assumed coming off the back of a Bing Crosby duet that it would be his version, but no. This is Mantovani's version. It's lush and actually quite nice - I might add it to my Christmas playlist!

It's instrumental, but the song's so familiar that it still feels Christmassy, even without the lyrics. That might also be thanks to the sleigh bells at the start, to be fair. They're the only mis-step, I think, as they're just distracting, and they don't add much to the song. The church bells a little later have a similar effect, but they're buried deep enough that they don't jar as much, at least.

The whole thing has a very lush set of strings, that are almost too shrill, but they don't hang around for too long, and underneath there's something hazier that's quite pretty. I can't quite tell if it's real or synthesised, either, which I didn't expect.

The oboe is great, later on - I like how it changes the vibe enough to keep the piece fresh. It doesn't ever get samey.

Key change! I love a good Christmassy key change, and this one, about two minutes in, is both rousing and then leads to a fabulous cascade of strings on what would have been "bright" in the lyrics.

And then it gets quiet before a big, soaring string ending - nicely done, Mantovani! Overall, quite a classy Christmas piece of music that is overblown, but gets off with it, by dint of being festive.

Because You're Mine - Nat King Cole (6)

Ooh, our first repeat song? We already saw this one, from none other than Mario Lanza. That version was used in a film, while this wasn't, and was apparently much less successful. Still, it's enough to get it into the charts, and I actually think I might prefer it? It's certainly the more approachable version, less opera and more crooner-ish.

The lyrics are just as lame as they were the first time round, but there's not much Nat King Cole can do about that. He sings them with less gusto, which doesn't fit in the context of the film (which was about an opera singer) but does make them seem a little less extreme.

Different lyrics pop, here, with Nat's approach. I really like the pause, for example, on "I'll only live [pause] for the kiss that you alone may give [pause] me". It gives some of the drama of the original, without having to resort to pure volume.

There's also an extra solo, I think, or possibly an instrumental part of the original was just toned down and made into a strings and piano bit. In general, the piano in this is pretty and much clearer than in Lanza's.

It still has the mandatory Big Ending, but this verison of the song is overall a lot more likeable, at least for me in 2023, than the original. I don't know what audiences in 1952 thought, but I like this well enough. Not my favourite song ever, but an improvement on Lanza's version.

Faith Can Move Mountains - Johnnie Ray and the Four Lads (7)

Our first appearance for Johnnie Ray, a legit rock and roller with a pretty sad personal life and a reputation for emotional delivery. Seriously, he was known as the "Prince of Wails" - what a brilliant nickname!

This song is no exception, he sounds desperate throughout, even as the song itself is theoretically quite upbeat, the idea being "I can do anything, as long as you have faith in me". It's a spin on a Biblical concept of faith that can move mountains, used for a very secular purpose here. It's also yet another song that's about an insecure man begging his love to confirm that they do, indeed, love him.

This would be getting a bit stale, if I didn't know that Johnnie Ray was, in fact, a closeted gay man, which gives the song a bit of an interesting twist here. The lover (who has no pronouns, note) is being asked to trust in Johnnie Ray, to open themselves up for a relationship with him, trusting that it will let him "move mountains". In that light, "tell me again you love me / Kiss me and I'll be strong" seems more like the singer psyching himself up to face a world that might not be as accepting of his love. A stretch of interpretation, sure, but one that improves the song, for sure.

Other than this point of interest, it's a workaday song. It's a bit "cooler" than a lot of the more operatic numbers we've had. Not because it's actually pop or rock, but the "oooooh" introduction and backing at points border on doo-wop, while Johnnie's emotional delivery is far from note perfect, which adds a sort of raw edge to it that I've not seen until here.

Don't get me wrong, though. This is still quite a lame duck of a song, with the mandatory Big Ending rounding it off particularly unconvincingly.

Silent Night, Holy Night - Bing Crosby (8)

It's Bing Crosby singing Silent Night. I'm not sure what else you would expect from this. It's exactly what you would expect, given that description.

There are some Disney-title-song backing singers, plus a celeste tinkling away, and a bunch of strings, as a result of which, the whole thing gets pretty soupy in the second verse. Bing doesn't help matters by insisting on slowing down and putting big pauses on some notes - he doesn't sound like he's paying much attention to it, to be honest.

The end result is soporific, but it's supposed to be. It's Silent Night, for goodness' sake. If any carol is allowed to put you to sleep, it's this one, which is theoretically a lullaby.

Not stellar, overall, but it's Silent Night. I like Silent Night. So this one gets a pass, despite Bing and the backing singers' best efforts.

Takes Two to Tango - Louis Armstrong (6)

I have to say, I never really got the appeal of Louis Armstrong's gravelly voice, but it's certainly distinctive.

This track is fun, but surprisingly, not a tango. There are a couple of nods to Latin rhythms, but they're pretty peremptory. Instead, we mostly get a jazzy sort of walk-along plod, with a walking bass and a banging trumpet interlude. The trumpet interlude is for sure the best part of the song.

Lyrically, it's not doing a whole lot. Louis wants to invite his lady for a dance. He sounds charming enough with his "Hey, baby", in an older gentleman kind of way. I'd probably humour him.

It's light-hearted in the middle, outlining all the things you can do on your own ("You can sail on a ship by yourself, / Take a nap or a nip by yourself, / You can get into debt on your own, / There's a lot of things that you can do alone!") before pointing out how it takes two people to properly fall in love. Which, fair enough, I guess.

Actually, is there a bit of innuendo there? Or am I reading too much into that "lot of things that you can do alone"? Louis certainly sings it with gusto, but he does most things with gusto, so the jury's out on that on.

I do like this song. It's good-humoured, about as witty as it needs to be, and the trumpet solo is fabulous.

Walkin' to Missouri - Tony Brent (7)

And with this we get to the first artist who I hadn't even heard of. Tony Brent, mystery man. His name, I have to say, is bland.

Awww, it's a cute story-song, about a metaphorical robin who can't afford to fly, so ends up walking back home to Missouri. It's a bit hard to parse what's going on, but from what I gather it's a sort of prodigal son scenario where this "robin" has gone to the big city, lived the high life, then traipsed home feeling a bit sorry for himself.

It's never moralising. The "real bird of paradise", who's "good lookin' but fickle in the heart" emerges instead as the villain of the piece - is this the first song about getting your heart broken by a wicked hussie?

Meanwhile, the song is fairly gentle to this robin, pointing out how when he comes back "His dreams are battered, his feathers bent" and urging the listener to give him a crumb or two "Because you could have made the same mistake". Which is a nice, gracious line to tread. No judgement, just a gentle head-shake.

Googling tells me that this is a cover version of a Sammy Kaye original, and that the original got big because it was recorded around the time of the 1952 presidential election, and the losing candidate, Truman, did, in fact, have to return to his hometown in Missouri.

It's a zippy little number, with a fun set of xylophone trills and some sax, which improves most songs. The backing singers have some nice close-harmony moments, too, and there's something cool about Tony's delivery - it's big, but not operatic. More jazzy, perhaps? It's definitely grown on me over the course of a few listens.

Overall, then, an eclectic set of Christmas charts, but some real gems in there. Nothing classic, but it's fine - and nice to see some Christmassy tunes!

Favourite song of the bunch: Walkin' to Missouri

[libidomechanica]

The human years for you speak

She should we thus with the loser.     Green, the whole instructions have not at rest are chearful as     she ought too dear, but not yet quite old eyes that the world away,     with suddenly in

me. What, conscience chase takes up one     dozen men sat on his muse, till pass before the loved, and     wherefore, ’tis vain to brain, he said, Tis now the pipy     hemlock to strange? Honeysuckle

crowded round a ruined.     Troubled streamers that the lang, yellow’d it as gently peruse.     Chloe is prudent— would you doth grow? Thou, who on the     sibyl’s den or their own,

she then return rebuked to make     mere life, saying not yours and tremble the whole trajectory’s     towards the witches fly, playing, Staying in the window     be, it is winter instead

of a brook,—whose silent that     my little fish leaping whose thunder, to the blue sea’s border     of the sky, as make a wash of crimson petals spilled     adieu, a world to say.

Of that hapless year had been taken     fair I chanc’d to fragments. The preserved for it! Their smiles,     yet a young teares spring’s odd, which men miscall delight.     I loved her as my own

steed from land. Be as the leave. Of     racoon tongues, and an alas! Pardon mine hert doth inuite     some buried. Then all girded up in sheaves borne on through those     precious Eyes and he feared

that I had told him we lose. I     dreamer among the body it has ever done, with Damaske     rose up, as from that he could not move his name. What our     despair, observes how you

as a willow flowers. Since, thou     art from me. I will never heart you moved among men, indeed     is love’s light. Just now enough toil and bunched leave the moment     my whole and beds by

strange death had those pleasure never     for aught nearer heaven and I own it from before; in     any one the little word; that it’s greene, hye you to me,     that faint companions now

the ways—or shrink to all this same     song of night’s sweet first, and, having diminished the rumours:     something we want. He is not the rising in Heart-merchandise,     value, not Number,

makes many more, oh, never, reach’d     one gen’rous thoughts to enticement drawn from trees upon our     fresh number sorrow; from human life, and o’er-spread with every     zephyr-sigh pouts and

eyes,—the very mind: would scale Follow     with such as they whose ancestors are eerie; and the     critic but be gay, in such sort that you are shepherds, ’twas     too late, should have not rains

green’d over April’s lap? To be     in hell.—Must make our searching eye looks out upon my face     I recognize your bad instinction in the wilderness:     the offender’s sorrow.

[veilxstars]

Puck raised an eyebrow, a sardonic smirk playing on his lips. “Ah, Leo, hardly an enemy here. You’ve just stumbled into the presence of your favorite author—what a delightful accident.” He leaned back against the bar, exuding a casual confidence, as if he reveled in the banter.

“Books, you say? Important indeed. They offer a refuge when life feels like an endless cycle of wandering and disillusionment. Cardinal Hill… what a peculiar little place. Almost as if the universe decided to toss us together here for its own amusement. A quaint town that somehow manages to be both mundane and extraordinary.” He chuckled darkly, his eyes glinting with mischief. “As for my reasons for being here? Let’s just say the allure of nostalgia is a dangerous thing, dragging one back to familiar ghosts.”

He took a sip from his glass, watching Leo intently. “Poetry, then? Notes left in lockers, flung under wiper blades—how delightfully tragic. A way of being seen without truly being known, isn’t it? But even the most ‘shitty’ of verses can have their moments. They linger longer than polished gems, often hiding their true power beneath layers of insecurity.”

As Leo mentioned family, Puck’s expression shifted, the edges of his smirk sharpening. “Mothers can be a double-edged sword, can’t they? I wouldn’t know, really. Mine barely acknowledged my existence, and my siblings took great delight in reminding me that I was a burden, a mere curiosity. So forgive me if I don’t share your romantic notions about familial ties. Some of us were better off untethered from the attention of our so-called loved ones.”

Puck’s interest piqued at Leo’s invitation, a glimmer of intrigue flashing in his eyes. “Free booze, you say? Now that’s an enticing offer,” he replied, a playful smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. “Lead the way."

A fleeting thought crossed his mind—his own journey toward authenticity. It had been a struggle to embrace his identity, especially in the wake of his first novel's success. His agent begged him to reconsider. It had taken him five years and the same number of novels before he’d finally shed the façade, opting to live openly as a gay man, much to the chagrin of those who would have preferred him to remain hidden in their shadow. A small part of him still wondered what his family thought of that choice. They had tried to bury him in their twisted notions of 'normal.' Yet, the freedom he had found was worth the price. A fleeting smirk crossed his lips as he recalled how delightfully scandalous it had been to surprise those who once deemed him an outcast. "I'll behave, Leo-Darling. Despite what the gossip rags say - I'm not looking to conquer and claim every handsome man who crosses my path. Only alcohol will touch these lips. Your heart will remain unbroken and intact when the sun rises tomorrow."

It didn't seem like Puck was upset that Leo had disturbed him, which was good - he would be mortified if he'd made an enemy of his favorite author. "I moved around so much until about two years ago, so I didn't always have a lot of friends," Leo explained. "I still don't if I'm being honest. But I'm not saying this in like a 'woe is me' sort of way, just to explain...books are pretty important to me." Leaning against the bar counter, Leo asked, "Why are you here anyway? In Cardinal Hill of all places? That's something I've asked myself too. I mean...I feel like I've sort of stumbled into it, like I just fell into Cardinal Hill, and this isn't the sort of place I ever really thought I'd call home." But did he? Home was such an abstract concept to Leo, and really this was just a place he lived. Sometimes Leo wondered if he would ever really find a place to call home.

It was safer ground talking about books, and Leo was glad for that because it was something he genuinely liked to talk about too. "Yeah, those are the types of stories that stick with me the most," Leo agreed. "I think about them much more, and like you said, they get under your skin." It seemed like Puck appreciated his choice, though Leo had just been honest. He laughed at Puck's offer, and Leo said, "Most of those ended up in lockers or pinned under wiper blades, notes from a secret admirer." He hadn't really lacked confidence in most aspects during those days, but even then, Leo had not at all been confident in his poetry. "And besides, I know it was shit," he went on. "I don't need you to tell me that, though I appreciate the offer." But what Puck said next bothered Leo. "They really wouldn't care?" he asked, wondering how true that was. He didn't know how that was possible, though Leo had been lucky to have a mother who had always loved and supported him. On the other hand, Leo had no idea what Puck's family dynamic was.

Leo was pleasantly surprised by Puck's offer, and he wasn't about to say no to that. "I'm actually good to clock out whenever," he told Puck, "if you're really serious that is. It's been slow tonight, so...yeah." He looked at the seat next to Puck, and Leo offered, "You know, if you wanted to get out of here, we could. I'd love to keep talking, if you want to. I've...got free booze back at my place." That sounded like he was trying to pick-up Puck, which had not been Leo's intention...but he also wasn't opposed to it either.

[wigglebox]

the shittiest thing is that there isn’t anything wrong with 15x18′s scene [the one thing i wish is that dean could have talked back and answered but i think we know why he didn’t]

bad things can happen to queer characters. the empty deal was set up since season 14 and it’s been dangling over our heads until 15x18 and the longer we went we either thought they forgot about it or we were clowning that destiel would be the thing that made him happy and indeed it was. 

bad things can happen to queer characters if you allow the story to take flight from there. 15x18 wasn’t bury your gays [imo], indeed, technically, cas was taken alive to the empty. he wasn’t killed he was just kidnapped lol. 

the issue wasn’t that the empty deal was fulfilled because again, it happened. it happens.

this show can have very sad moments. the show killed him in the season 12 finale too but we knew he was coming back so it was okay. 

the problem was never 15x18. that scene was beautiful, the immediate aftermath is haunting, and its impact on the fandom and pop culture was felt deeply. sp8, bobo, jackles, misha, they all did a very good job. i can play that scene in my head like it’s on screen in front of me beat for beat. 

the problem was the fact that 1519 and 1520 did literally no follow up. 

****I’m going to state for the record right now, I don’t believe that cas is in heaven so that’s going to take up the bulk of the second half of this so if that spec really upsets you pls don’t continue ;_;

15x18 ended and dean’s ignoring a phone call from sam, who he knows could very much well be in trouble. it was quiet, he was crying, it was sad, we all cried, we were all so happy but also so sad, it was a beautiful tornado of emotions that any writer and actor and director should feel proud of telling. 

the issues came first with 15x19 when you had little emotional follow up. idk who inserted the scenes where it appeared dean was really struggling with what happened but he never explained really what happened to anyone. he didn’t say aaaaanything. he didn’t explain. nothing. 

there was that report from a set watcher that said in their first scene where they try to give themselves up to chuck and he’s talking about bringing cas back that he was really really emotionial, whereas in 1519 it didn’t seem as emotional as we know he can get, and has already gotten before. but that’s more up for debate because we don’t know that person’s parameters for ‘emotional’

but regardless, dean’s emotional state in 1519 didn’t linger too much on 1518. i feel like you can feel jackles struggling to try and demonstrate that where he could but what also sucks is that he’s not in charge of what takes they use. 

the last time we hear dean say cas’ name is when he gets that phone call and it’s lucifer — some more queer coding and the last bit of it we see for the rest of the show. 

and after that, literally, i’m serious — like go back and watch the episodes if you don’t believe me — dean never says cas’ name again after that. 

so already out of the gate, a man who, through our own past witnessing of his emotional state after cas has gone, should be really just completely frozen. maybe not completely, only bc you’d imagine he’d draw on that inner emotionality and help use it as a tool, and we do get ‘that’s not who i am’ or whatever but there’s still no....impact. 

1519 muffled the emotional impact of 1518. 

1520 shoved it in the ground and covered it with 8 feet of cement. 

1520 has a whole host of issues which like — conspiracy after conspiracy as to what happened exists but the fact remains is i do believe them when they say the final script post-covid wasn’t all too far from the original pre-covid. i know there were reports from 2020 vegas con that one of the actors, i think kim or bri, said they were still working on fine tuning the script — but regardless — i don’t think it was ever going to be too far off. 

my complicated emotions on 1520 range from genius episode to oh my god what the fuck episode — but the fact of the matter is we were likely never going to see cas again. 

sam mentions him in a group with others, bobby mentions him as an after thought etc etc. the worst thing is that we were likely never going to see cas on screen again because if you did you’d have to put him on the same screen with dean and if that happened the people would want an answer to 1518 straight up

so we replace him with jimmy instead and what likely would have been our last glimpse at a good queercoding, the last strong punch to dean’s 15 mile deep glass ceiling they have on top of him. jimmy was supposed to be dressed like cas, and they were supposed to talk. dean’s reaction to seeing him was supposed to initially be emotional before he realized it wasn’t cas. 

but even that wouldn’t have helped 1518 because we still wouldn’t have seen cas. 

they never explain how cas ‘helped’ rebuild heaven, how he got out of the empty only two episodes after he got in there, why he doesn’t show his face [which i feel like would have been even more ‘wtf??’ when we saw jimmy but not cas], etc etc. since we didn’t see him on screen, and never was going to see him on screen, i did not believe he was in heaven at all.

all this unspoken dialogue and scenes explaining to us literally, — as dean and sam hunt monsters who literally rip the tongues out of people and dean gets first pied in the face [with a laughing robert singer behind him] and is stabbed in the back and killed — that the lack of emotional response and feedback and story post 1518 was a deeper issue behind the scenes with the creatives. 

the problem wasn’t 1518, cas being taken by the empty as part of his deal, etc etc. 

the problem was there was no emotional follow up, no contemplating, no empty rescue, no more dean and cas on screen together, etc etc etc. 

[which, as part of the meta conspiracy — 1502 cas tells dean ‘we are (real)’ and now they’re not on the screen anymore by the end together soooooo was....any of that real?]

but regardless, spec, meta, and whatever aside

the problem was never 1518. 1518 is at the good kids table. the problem was, and forever will be, the episodes that came right after and didn’t do anything with that incredibly emotional and impactful scene. 

[aoitrinity]

Why Do I Have to Feel Like a Fucking Conspiracy Theorist -- OR -- How I Find a Semblance of Peace on Sunday Night

I’m also going to start this out with a GIANT DISCLAIMER.

I am about to theorize about what may have happened to the SPN finale. I have absolutely no insider knowledge. I am merely speculating here based on the panels and a bunch of Twitter and Tumblr posts that I have been reading over the last few days. If you are not in a good place to read such things, TURN BACK PLEASE. Go take care of yourself and your mental health. You and your feelings are valid and deserve to be handled gently right now.

Additionally, if you are here to give me shit for being unhappy with the ending, please walk away as well. I am here to reach out and share my feelings with people who might be struggling to make sense of something that upset some of us in very deep-seated ways. I am not here to bother you or critique you or tell you that you’re lesser because you liked the ending. If you felt it was good, then go enjoy it.

Long-ass post beneath the cut, everyone.

Alrighty folks...I debated whether or not to do this because I have been spiraling down the hell that is the SPN finale since Thursday. The travesty of what happened to our show--to this beloved show that seemed to have been so perfectly and precisely written for at least four years that it had basically already paved its own tarmac on which to land its plane and we all thought we knew exactly what we were going to get. And then we didn’t. We had a nigh Cas-less and entirely Eileen-less ending. We had no goodbye between Cas and Jack. We had Dean dying young after finally finding his freedom, only to ascend to heaven with no one but Bobby. We had the weird, weird, weird incest-y death scene. We had the bridge crane shot thing because...sure. You do you, Robert Singer.

It was so terrible, so truly awful, and I couldn’t seem to square any of it with anything we had known going in. I tossed and turned and cried and didn’t eat or sleep all weekend. I spent hours just reloading tumblr and twitter, going to the Misha panel, reading and reading and listening and trying to figure out what the fucking hell is going on because I needed to know exactly where to direct my anger. And after a fuckton of talking with @winchester-reload, I think we have at least a very plausible theory about what happened here--I’m laying it out below as much for my own peace of mind as anything else, because otherwise all of these thoughts are going to continue to spin around in my head for weeks and I won’t be able to do jack shit.

Now to start off, unfortunately I do think Dean was slated to die from the beginning of this season. I don’t know WHY they thought that was the best way to go, and I wish they had listened to Jensen on this one. Part of me wonders if it was an order from on high based on the discussion between Becky and Chuck earlier this season--the writers knew it wasn’t a great choice, but they were trying to signal to us that we should feel free to write our own endings to the story because they’d be better (I can wax poetic on the signs of why many of the writers probably wanted Dean to live, but that’s another post). I’m not defending that choice by any means, just laying it out there that I think they didn’t necessarily all want to kill Dean like they did.

However, what I THINK I can explain now is what happened with Misha and why we got so jerked around with Cas’s story. Consider what we know (I can’t immediately source all of it, but I did my best):

At the end of episode 15x19, Lucifer has been returned to the Empty after being killed AGAIN. He talks with Cas. Maybe harasses him a bit about Dean, idk. But then...Jack shows up. New God Jack. And he picks up Cas and pulls him out of the Empty, leaving Lucifer behind, because seriously. Fuck that guy (also leaving behind his abusive father is character growth for Jack, so yay for that).

-Misha was contracted to film 15 episodes this season. He was only in 14.

-Misha told Michael Sheen he had to go back to film 1.5 episodes after the shutdown in March. (Starts at 6:13)

-Misha was in Vancouver during filming of the finale.

-Mark P said at Darklight Con that the last scene he filmed was with Alex and Misha (and Mark P was only in episode 19).

-Misha implied that he was present for various filming moments, including Dean’s death (start at 35:15), and said that it felt like a “mini-reunion.”

-Various sources have mentioned that Jimmy Novak was supposed to be in the finale.

-After episode 18, Stands tweeted a fan who was angered and hurt by Cas's death that they could talk about the “bury the gays” issue after the finale aired.

-In episode 19 we know there were takes of the parking lot scene where the only thing fans observing could hear was Dean yelling “CAS” at Chuck (fuck I can’t find this one right now, but it’s definitely out there)

-Also in episode 19, we had a very strange, awkward montage at the end of the episode.

-In episode 20, we know there were a FUCKTON of missing scenes

-We also had no opening montage, but three other separate montages.

-Carry on My Wayward Son was played TWICE, back-to-back at the end of the episode.

-Episode 20 was shorter than normal and had surprisingly little dialogue. The pacing was VERY strange.

-The cast and crew has been almost completely silent about the finale since it came out. When they have spoken, it has been with an awkward excuse of “Uh...COVID?”

-Samantha Ferris has specifically noted that, despite the Harvelle’s being back in play and a big heaven reunion having been planned pre-COVID, neither she nor Chad Lindberg received any such invitation to return.

-Cas and Dean POP Funko figures were pictured together in a replica of Harvelle’s in 15x04.

NOW with all of this in mind (and I’m probably missing some stuff too because there is so much--feel free to add on to that list), please bear with me because here is what I think we were SUPPOSED to get POST-COVID (after it was determined that the reunion couldn’t happen because of the virus):

In episode 20, we start with our NORMAL OPENING MONTAGE, like always. It traces everything that happened during the season. We are reminded of Cas. The confession. Rowena. Eileen. Jack. Billie, God, the Empty, all of it. 

Things then follow along in the episode where they did up until Dean dies and wakes up in heaven. After his conversation with Bobby, he drives off to find Cas (who, in the script, was listed as “Jimmy Novak” in order to protect against script leaks--who wouldn’t want to do their best to avoid spoilers about the finale with the wrapping of a fifteen-year show?). He does indeed find Cas. We get Dean’s end of the confession. Hell, maybe we even get a kiss. And then Dean sets up his new heaven home in the recreated Harvelle’s. Maybe Cas even fucking moves in. 

Years pass. We get Sam having his life on Earth (still can’t explain why they cut Eileen and couldn’t even have Sam signing vaguely to the blurry brunette in the background; if anyone wants to take that on, go for it). Eventually, Cas tells Dean that it’s almost Sam’s time. Dean takes Baby and goes to meet Sam at the bridge. The cover of Carry on My Wayward Son plays during this much shorter sequence. End of episode.

But that’s not what we got. Instead, much of what I just wrote about was excised from the episode. The remnants were stitched together after shooting had been wrapped. Filler was added in the form of montages and long, unnecessary extra shots to get the episode to something approaching a reasonable length. 

But why? Why would they spend all that time and money and quarantining on Misha, only to almost completely cut him out of the finale? I struggled with why the fuck the CW would want this mammoth show to go down as the greatest queerbait in TV history when they had the chance to do something truly beautiful and monumental with it? It couldn’t just be sheer homophobia, right? Well, I think that factored into it, my friends, but here is where my head is at right now.

It was about cold, hard cash.

Now I could be wrong, but this is what I’m thinking at the moment: Supernatural is going off of the air. Supernatural, the CW’s cash cow for fifteen years. Sure there is still money to be made on blu-rays and merchandise and cons...but they need people watching their shows. They need that sweet advertising revenue. And you know what show they have about to premiere? A show that could, potentially, bring with it a chunk of that SPN revenue?

Walker.

And if any of you know anything about the original Walker Texas Ranger, you know that the show was predominantly a show about a very heterosexual white man being very excessively heterosexual. And for SOME REASON over the years, many of the execs at the CW still seem to think that this show, Supernatural, is really attractive to a lot of middle-American white men...whom they desperately want to watch this new show with this guy from Supernatural that they already know.

Now here’s where COVID fucked us. I think Destiel was greenlit by TPTB, at least in SOME form, before COVID. But then the pandemic happened, and they panicked. They got the cut of the last two episodes and watched them in their original, probably queer form. And then, the execs at CW looked at the economy. They looked at their cash cow, about to make its journey to the great beyond. And they looked at this new little calf Walker that they were so desperately worried about. And they made a choice.

They decided that it would be too risky to take the step with Destiel. They were worried about frightening off their ever-so-valuable hetero male demographic with the possibility that a traditionally masculine man in his 40s could be in love with another man in an overt way. It was homophobia mixed with greed, spun up by fear for their revenues because of COVID.

So they called in Singer, possibly Dabb, although I wouldn’t be surprised if they went straight to Singer. They told them that Destiel had to go: executive orders. And the only way to make it go in a way that removed any trace of what had been there was to rewrite what happened to Cas and cut him out from the last two episodes entirely. It was too late to reshoot anything. They had to just cut and stitch and fill with bullshit montages. 

They removed the scene at the end of 19, probably because Cas and Lucifer discussed Dean. All that was left of Misha there was his voice on that fake phone call. They may have cut other things too, but I would bet my life that they cut a scene from the end of the episode and replaced it with that very strange montage. Then they moved onto 20. They cut out every scene with Cas. And left in only two platonic mentions of him, neither made by Dean. They tried to imply that Cas might show up in Dean’s heaven at some point, but that was as far as the editors could go in the time they had. They filled in with montages, awkwardly long shots, anything they could do to fill all of those missing scenes.

And they even had to take the opening montage, because literally everything in it pointed to Cas being there at the end of it all. They wouldn’t be able to leave out his scenes, they were too critical to the season. They couldn’t cut his confession without raising eyebrows. So they cut the whole thing and moved “Carry On My Wayward Son” to one of the newly-added driving montages at the end. Which is why we awkwardly had both songs play back-to-back--again, such a strange choice unless they were out of options and couldn’t exactly buy rights to a new track or compose anything else.

And so we were left with the shadow of the finale that we deserved, that Cas and Dean deserved. We were left without resolution or happiness or words. Bobo told us the most important thing about happiness is just “saying it” and our characters were silenced without anyone ever knowing the truth.

I think the writers might have known and been given the new party line that “Misha never filmed, he couldn’t, sorry, it was COVID, no one’s fault!” But I don’t think most of the cast even knew it had happened until they watched the finale on Thursday with us (though they might have been confused why the bit from 15x19 was sliced, they could reasonably have assumed it was a time thing and also BL episodes don’t make sense anyway). Why do I say that?

Well, first of all, Misha started sending out a bunch of excited texts to fans with some old BTS pictures about an hour before the show started airing on EST. He also wanted his children to see the episode, his YOUNG children. Why would he show them such a traumatic episode if their Dad wasn’t in it? What if it was because he wanted them to witness what was going to be a monumental moment in queer television history that their DAD got to be a part of? And then that was all dashed.

Which is why I think the cast and crew went almost completely radio silent the next day. I don’t think they knew. And based on how they have been acting on social media since then, I think many of them are absolutely furious, but they have been silenced because of NDAs, because they want to find work again in a cutthroat industry, because they don’t want to bring down the hellfire of Warner Brothers Entertainment upon themselves. So the most we have gotten is a little acknowledgement from the MERCHANDISING COMPANY trying to validate our pain (god bless Shirts, she is a LIFESAVER) and a response to my salty tweet about keeping good stuff in the closet from Adam Williams (the VFX coordinator) that seemed to acknowledge the validity of my complaint.

Then there was a scramble behind the scenes, I would bet my life. Talking points were fed to the boys who had panels today, to CE, to all the cast and crew:

Toe the party line. Misha never filmed. This was always about COVID. Do not mention Destiel. Do not mention Dean’s feelings for Cas. Do not promote the Castiel Project or anything that validates the idea that this was anything less than a superb ending.

And that is why we have heard so little from the cast on this front, and what we have heard has been muddled and contradictory. That is why the writers are saying nothing. That is why we have been left adrift.

Now before I close this out, I do want to say that I really, genuinely do not think this was on the writers at all. I feel like they tried to give us the best ending that they could, in a writers room that we know is notorious for splitting along party lines about the overall story (BL and Singer, who have always been about the brothers and their man-pain vs. Dabb and the rest who always seemed to want more for them and for Cas). I think they did everything in their power to at least end with Dean and Cas happy together. If they could give us nothing else, they wanted to give us that. And then the network took it from them. From us. From everyone.

For the sake of fucking money. 

And the WORST PART OF IT ALL, for me, is that in the wake of this disaster, the fans have been left to try and figure out what happened. We have had to wade through a mire of conflicting information in the midst of all of our collective anger and grief over this garbage ending of a show many of us have loved and even relied on for YEARS, all the while wondering if we’re just fucking crazy, if we have all fallen collectively into the hole of conspiracy theories. That hurts ESPECIALLY badly because we have taken so many hits over the years from other groups on social media saying we were crazy for seeing things that weren’t there (especially Destiel), for writing meta and analyzing tropes and believing the evidence of our eyes and ears. The network has made us relive that entire nightmare WHILE processing our grief for a show we wanted so badly to celebrate and which instead we now have to mourn.

So again guys, I cannot prove that this is exactly what happened at all; this is simply my idea of what may have happened. But right now, it’s the most sense I can make from this mess, and to be honest, the act of typing it out has helped me enormously in my processing of it all. I feel like I can see more clearly, like I know where to target my outrage and where to direct empathy. I feel like just fucking maybe, I might be able to do my job tomorrow without bursting into tears at random moments. 

I really hope that this post has helped some of you to, in some small way, process this too. We get through this the way that Misha told us at his panel this morning, the way the writers have told us to do all season long...we throw out the story God gave us and we make it better. We write our characters the happy endings they deserve. 

We save them.

One last thing--if you have not already, please consider channeling your rage into a donation to one of the five causes our fandom has put together to pay tribute to our beloved show and to mourn the ending it should have had:

-The Castiel Project

-Dean Winchester is Love

-Sam Winchester Project

-The National Association of the Deaf

-The Jack Kline Project