#desultory typing

[etirabys]

watched an episode of black sails containing a sex scene so desultory that as a pervert I was disgusted. where is the care. the sensuality. the actress took a perfectly good repressed priest type character who was YEARNIMG FOR HER, body slammed him against a wall, and started rotating on his dick. escalating from clothed to piv in literally like 15 seconds, with all the eroticism of a bottom quartile thoughtfulness teenage boy. this is anti sex propaganda. this is why the zoomers won't fuck

[technicianlearner]

Kirbtober 2023 Day 30: Wish/Dark

When Bandana was younger, he was Dedede's 'Santa's Little Helper' type of guy. Dedede would make Bandana go interview others to see what the children want, and Dedede (usually alongside Meta Knight or Mayor Len) would figure out how to give them to kids and pretend there's Santa delivering them. However, one time, when he was 10, he tried to ask Kirby about what he wishes - he usually just want food or some trinkets, but Kirby was particularly a bit, uh, 'strange', let's just say... ...and that was the day Bandana realized, that Kirby's definitely an orphan.

Prompts by @paintpanic and @peachsupremeart Fused list compiled by @desultory-novice (click here for the list!)

The dark part is just the fact that Kirby doesn't have parents. And the background's dark. Haha. Funny.

Anyways you have heard of fatherless Susie but now may I present you fatherless Kirby or more like parentless Kirby hahaha. I would have drawn Marx for this AU, but my brain just can't do much with Marx at the moment (I'm so sorry bro I won't design characters unless I need them for something major) so uh.

Don't worry, the two are and will still friends. Bandana did need some time to recover from the fact that his young role model and basically the guy who his king also trains is an orphan, though. He's very worried of the puffball's well-being.

By the way, the long blurry version below:

[anisaanisa]

Kagome’s time between worlds. Drabble collection for @inukag-week 2023 ☆ Chapter 6/7 – Courting: Kagome tries her best. Tags: Hojo the Aloof / Bad Date Blues Word Count: 600 (Hexadrabble) 《 Previous〡Next 》

No matter how she framed it, Kagome Higurashi would go down as the worst date in Tokyo.

Japan. The World. Possibly, the entirety of Earth’s history.

The relief of reaching the top of the shrine steps was short-lived as she trudged onward, and recants tagged along to torment her like the sandals pinching her toes. The house was dimmed to match her mood, and she entered, tucking her shoes and bag away. She followed the light leaking from the living room and peeked in to find her mother asleep in front of the TV.

She’d know instantly it hadn’t gone well. Even worse, she’d know that fell to Kagome, and the tiny restaurant that rubbed their shoulders highlighted every glaring reason why they – this – would never work.

Why no one would likely ever work.

Responsibility for the date that was desultory at best was hers, though the chances of her keeping a straight face when she imagined a man bursting through the wall to save the day and cart her away were as slim as the chances of it happening.

Nothing went wrong. It just wasn’t right.

Guilt lingered as she climbed the stairs. She’d be happy, taken care of. She wouldn’t have a single thing to complain about.

But that was the problem; she didn’t want it easy.

Hojo, on paper, was a catch. He’d be the type of man to appreciate her cooking, who wouldn’t spoil a meal with instant ramen, the type who wouldn’t steal fish from someone's pond. The kiss of death rang its bell over shared teppanyaki when she grasped, horrifyingly, that she’d rather the taste of haphazardly hunted pigeon to any organic, hand-fed anything, or the sour taste of questionable broth over expensive, remedial tea leaves.

Her room was lit, waiting for her like the pyjamas on her bed, and she sat on its edge to remove her makeup. Someone that wasn’t Hojo could appear tomorrow and sweep her off her feet, but she’d already been swept, and the people she held fast to knew too.

It was in the way her mother tried to hide sad smiles when she thought Kagome wasn’t looking. In the tired, wistful sighs her grandfather made when rifling through artefacts he could never hope to lift. In the way her brother stopped mentioning his hero, all because he’d grown up, and understood her tight-lipped smiles weren’t as cheery as she’d hoped.

With more time between them than they’d had together, Kagome had never been able to shake it. She was in love with Inuyasha, had been since she was fifteen, and always would be.

She threw the blackened cotton ball in the trash. Sometimes, she wondered if that was really her. If she could strike anything with a single arrow by believing herself capable of it so fiercely. If she was the girl the jewel feared most in this world – in any world.

Inuyasha refused to believe she’d been born for any cycle, and he’d been right; she was here, living and breathing in a world devoid of never-ending battle.

She smiled at the cards she’d made for her friends for graduation, stacked on the nightstand so she wouldn’t forget them, and laughed quietly to herself when she thought yes, that had been her, and she could do anything she put her mind to, even if that was fighting tooth and nail to graduate and make her family proud.

She glanced towards the window; she could trust the moonlight to keep her safe.

Kagome reached out, and for the first time in years, she turned the light off.

Fin

Read it on AO3 ▶

[magicalrocketships]

what is the f1 heyer AU u most wish to see in the world?

look I got part way through trying to type out a full synopsis for one of these but I'm sleepy, so instead, an initial little selection of possibilities:

Devil's Cub: Max is only interested in racing and talking about racing and runs off with a girl in a desultory and dismissive way and finds out Daniel is pretending to be said girl to save a relative from being ruined by Max, and Daniel may or may not shoot him a bit (in a regency romance kind of a way, with very little injury or risk but everyone gets to be a bit hurt afterwards), and they find that actually they can manage each other and save each other from some family drama

Devil's Cub (take 2): Daniel is the under stimulated, partying too much, racing, too many bad choices with women high society boy, and Victoria is the girl he DALLIES with, but Max finds out and dresses up as Victoria to give Daniel a piece of his mind once they run away together, but then Max is stuck on a boat to France with a Daniel who has made a selection of bad choices and is very reckless and desperately seeking adrenaline, and Max may possibly shoot Daniel a bit and then they fall in love while family try to track them down and stop them from ruin

Venetia: Daniel retires to the country after it is generally believed a relationship he was in went bad due to his bad choices (rather than protecting someone else) and he meets the boy next door (Max) who doesn't give a shit about any of the rumours about Daniel and only thinks that Daniel is the best and most interesting and brilliant person he's ever met, and Daniel thinks the same back about Max. Also featuring Max's other suitors, local village society boys who would definitely be better off with each other and not with Max (cough).

[suzyq31]

21. most memorable comment/review? ❤️❤️

I've honestly been so lucky with some regular lovely reviewers. It's hard to pick, but one that really made me tear up (in a good way), was this one (sorry it's long, also putting under the cut as it has spoilers for Maybe Tomorrow)

A wonderful conclusion to an outstanding fic.

It is with some trepidation that I have to pay you the compliment that it's obvious you are somewhat outside of what I've come to expect of most fanfiction writers. It is not meant to be insulting, but most of them are just so very young. Contrast that with the absolutely masterful way you have pulled on heartstrings and breathed life into the pages here, and every word shows you to be someone who has genuinely lived.

Your characters are some of the most realistic and intriguing depictions in the HP fandom I have ever seen. The careful picking and choosing of your phrasing and which details are given suggest so much beneath the surface, without falling into the trap of overexplaining everything. Ron as the genuine friend that is allowed to have sadness over his own what ifs without letting it jeopradize his friendship. Andromeda - despite her brief appearance - being characterised through the eyes of others and having the reader's introduction to her be so *right* as the wizened and grandmotherly type that is nonetheless sharp and present.

Finally, the true standout performance, are the children. I am a father to a six year old girl, and I can confidently say that in reading millions of words of fanfiction last year, you are by far the most accurate when it comes to depicting the behaviors and thoughts of children around that age. The raw love, the way their bodies and minds work in good and bad moments, the chaos and attention.

Finally, your descriptions of atmosphere (simply beautiful prose, outstanding command of pacing and balacing exposition and dialoge, not to mention the quality of said dialogue) and the thoughtful angles in the reflections of your characters were superb. The not-quite-dead scene, which I somewhat dreaded as soon as I recognized it (it *is* remarkable how that type of scene just seems to invite terrible writing) was Siriusly wonderful, adding a depth and comfort that feels entirely at home with the relationship this version of Harry would have had with him. The way most dialogues seem to be lifted out of actual conversation rather than two robots reading lines, with all the non sequiturs, banter, and desultory nonsense that actual humans that know each other well base most of their conversations on.

Selfishly, I am somewhat disappointed this is the end of (this part of-) Maybe Tomorrow. Please accept my warmest wishes for the new year, and sincere gratitude for sharing your work with us. I cannot wait to spend more time in the gardens of your creation.

[willidleaway]

so like @desultory-novice​ I’ve been thinking a bit about the voice clips that you can hear in the new remix of the final boss track. the exact parameters are a little lost to me but in Audacity I attempted the following on the original track:

Vocal Reduction and Isolation, Isolate Vocals. Leave the frequency band at the default settings (120-9000 Hz), and set the strength to somewhere around 1.5 and 2. (Too high and Audacity just returns silence!)

Filter Curve EQ with this curve:

and then the only change is to turn the volume back up to max out at -3 dB with Normalise.

this doesn’t work amazingly, unfortunately—the orchestral samples mix hard with the vocal samples so isolating the vocals would probably take a lot of manual artisanal spectral suppression. but! this processing is enough to make things a little less distracting, and I’ve compiled a set of three samples from the resulting output where I think I can particularly clearly hear things:

kaa—bi ... (this was taken from ~04:25)

i ... iroha ... (taken from ~05:00)

ma ke ... fu ... kaa ... bi ... (taken from ~06:30)

(oh, also, these timestamps are for the full track, to avoid confusion.)

and this leads me to my conspiracy theory. keep those audible syllables in your head as you read on. i-ro-ha ... ma-ke-fu ...

if you go look at the Star Allies OST website, there’s a sound staff roundtable discussion (kindly translated previously by Kai), where they discuss how Void Termina’s voice was created (Kai’s translations in square brackets):

（熊崎）そうですね、4人の声です。ゲーム内のボイスではおなじみの安藤さん、比較的若い声の小笠原さん、それから女性の声も欲しかったので『みんなで！カービィハンターズＺ』ディレクターの東藤さん。そして私。4人の演技、声が混ざった鳴き声をやってみよう、って。[Kumazaki: Yes, it was the voices of four people. You, Mr. Ando, being a regular with in-game voice clips, Mr. Ogasawara with his comparatively younger voice, as well as Mrs. Todo, the director of “Team Kirby Clash Deluxe, because we wanted a woman’s voice, too. And me. We wanted to try out a cry made by mixing voice lines from the four of us.]

（安藤）そういえば何て言ってたか、覚えてないなあ。[Ando: By the way, what did we say? I can’t remember.]

（熊崎）「イロハニホヘト、カービィ〜」です。[Kumazaki: It was "Irohanihoheto, Kirby”.]

（安藤）あー、そうか。[Ando: Oh, right.]

（熊崎）全員同じ言葉で、「イロハニホヘト、カービィ〜……」みたいに発して別々に録りました。私が言ったら安藤さんが、「あ、それでいく」って言ったんですよ（笑）。[Kumazaki: We each uttered those same words, “Irohanihoheto, Kirby…”, all recording seperately. When I told you, you said “Oh, we’re going with that”. (laughs)]

hmm. let’s go look at Iroha (emphasis mine):

いろはにほへと ちりぬるを わかよたれそ つねならむ うゐのおくやま けふこえて あさきゆめみし ゑひもせす

some of these look familiar? here, a romaji transliteration (again, emphasis mine):

Iro fa nifofeto Tirinuru wo Wa ka yo tare so Tune naramu Uwi no okuyama Kefu koyete Asaki yume misi Wefi mo sesu

so my conspiracy theory is ... it’s Iroha again. the Iroha is basically a ‘the quick brown fox jumps’-type pangram, and while it has actual literary meaning, it’s often used to simply iterate through all the kana. I think Ando went to record himself reading the Iroha and saying ‘Kirby’ once in a while, and then shuffled the different segments around, and that constitutes most of the discernible vocal samples that aren’t crying or screaming. I say it’s a conspiracy theory because I haven’t gone through all of the vocal samples, so there could be something extra hiding in there (and of course I could be mishearing some things).

and if it holds up? not terribly exciting, I know, but still interesting from a development standpoint!

[bohemian-rhapsody-in-blue]

✨️, 🐰, 🧡 , 🐸!

I’m so sorry, I thought I responded to this earlier but apparently Tumblr deleted my draft and never posted it—I promise I haven’t been ignoring you!

Let’s try this again—responding to your ask game questions, Take 2:

✨ Do you have any nicknames?

Not a ton—“Maya” is a hard name to shorten or nickname. (And yes, I’ve heard “Maya-Papaya” approximately ten million times.) My family has many nicknames for me, though—I won’t share all of them here because they’re personal, but one that I like is “Princess Moonbeam,” which my mom usually calls me when she’s telling or texting me good night in the late, late hours when I typically tend to stay up.

I’ve also been called “Maya the Water-Chugger” by my friends (that one should be pretty self-explanatory—hydrate or diedrate!), “Machine-Gun Maya” by a middle school teacher (because I type so fast it sounds like a machine gun firing), and “Carl Sagan Jr.” by a DIFFERENT middle school teacher (that one should also be pretty self-explanatory—I was a little astronomy nerd.)

🐰 What do you think says the most about a person?

My very generalized answer is: how they treat others—if they show them respect or understanding, or not.

🧡 A color you can’t stand?

I tend to like most colors, but really bright, saturated ones like magenta (hex code #FF00FF), bright green (#00FF00), or bright blue (#0000FF) tend to hurt my eyes and I don’t really like their use in digital art. My favorite colors are anything in the purple-pink-red range, so I like magenta in theory—just maybe a slightly less eye-searingly bright shade of it, please?

🐸 Describe your aesthetic.

Do…do I even have one? My fashion sense is basically “the first T-shirt and leggings I pull from my closet every day” (usually with a desultory attempt at color-coordination, and maybe matching earrings if I have the time and motivation). And what T-shirts and leggings I own are dictated less by a sense of personal style than by what A) doesn’t cost a ton, B) is comfortable (I’ve worn the same bunch of leggings since 9th grade because they’re some of the only pants whose texture doesn’t bother me), and C) has things I like on it.

I guess in terms of personal style/aesthetic, I like colorful things more than…not-colorful things? Instead of muted or monochrome palettes, I like bright colors (as long as they’re not TOO eye-searingly bright, as mentioned above), especially anything in the pink-purple-red range. A lot of things, although not all, in my dorm room fit this color palette.

But honestly, if my clothing or decor has Spike Spiegel on it, then I’m happy.

[~💖 Ask Game 💖~]

[miriamw009]

NEW MORNING

A new day the hot box brain module has been idling down the hours of darkness but I shake my head & go through some calculus to open up the choke & kick start the motor out of its idle status I struggle to the edge of the mattress gaze down my body over my long legs count toes wiggle them in a slow desultory type of fashion I assume I’ve done before like…

[seastarved]

I’ve been journaling quite a bit recently and experimenting with painting. It’s been kind of really fun!

Because it’s really really hard for me to get over my inner perfectionist to even start a thing that I know I’m gonna suck at, I’ve never actually committed to something this long. But I got through one month and painted a couple of things that I feel like look okay for a beginner?

The best part was sort of trying to let go of trying to make art that was someone else’s or comparing it to someone else. Like, I ended up painting the jasmine flowers that grow outside my house, a photo I took from a window of a plane a few years ago, abstract florals based on a bouquet that Julia bought, just greenery that grows around me, stuff like that?

It’s all stuff from my actual life so it feels more genuine for one but also I can’t really tell myself I’m wrong or doing something incorrectly lol

It’s my life in pictures and it’s my sort of growing into a creative outlet and yeah idk, it’s been wonderful and I just wanted to share.

Okbye

[heyjude19-writing]

Between Certifiable and Bliss, Chapter 15

Chapter excerpt:

“You should send her flowers,” suggested his mother.

“This is more than a sending flowers type of debacle,” he answered and picked at his food. Normally, this desultory habit would have earned him an admonishment from Narcissa about proper table manners, but she seemed too determined to course correct Draco’s relationship instead.

“Jewellery? Your father once had the most gorgeous earrings commissioned for me after he dropped you as an infant.”

“Father dropped me? Wait, he held me?”

“The most beautiful opals you ever saw.”

Read the rest: Ao3 I FFN I wattpad

here's a playlist.

[cher-writes]

Playground Love | Klaus Hargreeves X Reader (16+)

A/N: I've always felt like Klaus had a lot of selfish lovers at some point in his life. People who didn't really love him but his masochistic tendencies made him go back to them time and time again. This one-shot is kinda on the perspective of such a lover. Hopefully you'll enjoy.

Word count: 1.3k

CW: Insinuation of Self-harm, Suicide attempts, Substance use and Sex.

Art work by: @meamme1 , Thank you so much for letting me use your gorgeous piece!

Follow the artist's insta here (or search @meamme1 on insta).

Special thanks to my beautiful friend @crisis-of-joy for being my benevolent editor.

~Yet my hands are shaking

I feel my body remain,

Time's no matter, I'm on fire

On the playground, love~

It was hard to love Klaus. But you didn’t really love him, did you?

Let’s not discount your efforts. You tried at first; perfunctory, desultory, trivial tries. And maybe you did love him, in some of those moments when he blew cigarette smoke into your open mouth in the early hours of a July hell, or when he ardently kissed your cold feet warm in the late hours of a November void.

How could you not have loved him when he cleaned the vomit, spit and snot off your face with his bare hands after you drank a bit too much, not being able to bear the sheer helplessness of January rain?

When you took him in your tart mouth after days of him sweating and trembling for some humanly unknowable reason, under the window sill as the April dusk soaked through the lifeless buildings, how could he not have loved you too?

Maybe that’s what love is, those fleeting, inconsequential moments. But deep down you both knew that there was no love between the two of you. Those moments only stuck like leaves on a tree baring itself for the fast approaching winter.

You knew, and you pretended he did too.

He came and went as he pleased, habitually whimsical. Always looking a bit different than the time before, or as much as you could care to remember. His face faded from your memory every time he left. You let him ‘cause there was no reason for you to keep him on a leash.

You two weren’t close like that.

He talked. He told you all kinds of things about himself, most of which you didn’t listen to and the parts that you did, you don’t remember. Maybe that’s why he talked to you so much, he sensed your absence.

Although you were merciful to him, never really telling him anything substantial about yourself. You didn’t need to, there was no reason to.

You two weren’t close like that.

But he knew you liked his warm hands on your hips under the blanket following a cup of hot chocolate.

You don’t really remember how you met him. It’s as if he existed in your life since the beginning of cruel time but that wasn’t the case. You can clearly remember a time before him but exactly when he appeared out of thin air, you didn’t bother to keep track of.

Then why was that, you wondered, as his tongue set fire to your loin on miserable festive evenings, you let him in your life?

Then why was that, you tried to remember, as his throat pulsed under your crude grip on hollow autumn daybreaks, you let him in yourself?

Then why was that, you furrowed your brows contemplating as his hot, panting body pressed you against the wall on doleful Friday nights, you let him stick around?

It wasn’t love, that much you knew. It wasn’t kindness either, there was no rationale for you to be kind to him. And you were beyond the capabilities to conjure pity. Then why?

As he licked the disgusting maple syrup from the side of your mouth on one unbearable Tuesday morning, it occurred to you; about the invisible and invincible ties of the universe which bestowed his company onto you. Some intangible force, some abstract fate, some obscure theory about the atoms made it so that he had to exist in your vicinity every now and then, and you didn’t have it in you to defy God.

You couldn’t defy God, but you did defy compassion on multiple occasions.

Some nights when he couldn’t close those green, exhausted eyes of his with all the strength in his supernatural world, or on the afternoons when he clutched those absurd dog-tags round his neck lying on the cold bathroom floor, you defied all of your theoretical humanity as you simply just looked away. You never knew why he did what he did. He told you, maybe, but you don’t know that either.

His existence didn’t make sense to you, it was as if a glitch in the logic behind the cosmic mechanics.

It wasn't about what he was, you weren’t oblivious to his paranormal origin. You wouldn’t say it was about who he was either.

In all honesty, you didn’t really know who he was...is. Everytime he came around he’d become a different “who.”

Rather it was the very normal about him that sent you thinking in circles. It was the very normal about him that you couldn’t align with logic, you couldn’t put in perspective.

And he warped your perception when he bit your earlobe. He toyed with your logic when he let your fingers dig a bit too deep in his flesh. He loved playing Guns N’ Roses when he put his head on your lap, and maybe he loved you too, it was impossible for you to know that, implausible for you to try.

Though there was one thing that you knew about him with indubitable certainty, he wasn't afraid of death. You’d even go on to say he had a rare fascination towards it, the type of fascination star-crossed lovers seem to have. You knew that ‘cause you saw it. He tried and tired and you stood, looking over, as his sole, soul-less witness.

He never succeeded and at times, it felt to you as if even God hated him. What kind of God doesn't grant His creation even the least bit of relief? So you played God, helping him crush his violet pills when he couldn't get up.

So you played God, letting him bleed on your kitchen counter as long as he cleaned up after himself and discarded the razor blades safely.

He’d sway in your balcony afterwards, dance to some music only the doomed could hear. He’d smile affectionately at you when he caught you looking at him through your half-asleep eyes.

“Mein egoistischer Liebhaber,” he whispered once in your ears while uncut blissful rapture fell upon you, while you pathetically crumbled under him. You didn’t know what he meant, whether it even was something or just his fervid groans taking the shape of foreign words for the amusement of the same God.

Yet those words, you recall their sound, clear as an azure lake, distinct as his emerald irises.

Their meaning didn’t ignite curiosity in you, you still don’t know what they mean. Just the way he said them felt familiar to you. And for that reason alone, you remembered them.

You remembered them every time he looked into your eyes with his dilated pupils after you denied him entry to your apartment in the dead of the night because someone else’s naked body laid across your battered bed.

“I'll crash on the couch, please...”

“No.”

“I won't disturb anyone, I promise!”

“I said no.”

But you let him in tonight, and he’s talking about something, lying beside you as your phone lets you know it’s 4am.

He’s talking about something incoherent again; some apocalypse, some catastrophe, all equally meaningless to you. He talks and talks and let’s you know, finally after a long painful soliloquy, that he has to go away again and maybe this time, he won’t return. You understood that part only, the rest brushes off your skin like mere carpet dust.

Does it bother you? You can’t tell. He says he wants to be loved tonight, very well then.

You give him what he wants. You kiss him on his parched mouth, you take him in like you’re parched of him. His honeydew skin dissolves on your tongue, his fingers wander on your bitter body with endless love. Love...what was that again?

You let him come inside of you. Let a part of him linger in you just for a bit. He kisses you on the temple. You could feel him quivering, holding onto you, tight enough to leave bruises.

He says he’ll miss you.

He asks you to turn around, face him while falling asleep.

And you shouldn’t cry but you are.

It is hard to love Klaus. And you don’t really love him...do you?

[dwellordream]

“Entertainment held an important place at the English royal court under Eleanor and Henry II, in contrast to Louis VII’s court, known for its sobriety and solemnity. Eleanor’s second husband invited jongleurs and performers of all sorts to his court, doubtless encouraged by her. English moralists, much like critics of the court of Eleanor’s grandfather at Poitiers, condemned the Plantagenet court for immorality, complaining of actors, mimes, and dancers who fostered debauched conduct among the courtiers.

Just as with other princes new to power, Henry Plantagenet, after winning the English Crown, attracted to his court singers and writers to compose poems and songs, glorifying him and his lineage. Among the crowd of courtiers were serious writers in Latin and in the Anglo-Norman vernacular, and during Eleanor’s years as English queen, troubadour lyric poetry, courtly love, and courtly romances spread to the Anglo-Norman world. A former poet turned monk at Eleanor and Henry’s court noted ruefully, “When I frequented the court with the courtiers, I made sirventes, chansons, rimes and saluts [types of secular lyrics], among the lovers and their mistresses.”

Yet a cause and effect relationship between Eleanor’s arrival in England and the advent of courtly literature there is dubious. Certainly a uniquely productive literary culture flourished at the royal court under Eleanor and Henry, and learned men flocked there, as evidenced by an extraordinary flowering of literary works in several genres. The queen, of course, had grown up at a court where literature and learning were valued, as had Henry. A contemporary described his father Geoffrey le Bel as “most highly lettered, commanding eloquence which set him far above both clerics and laymen, replete with all good manners.” Even before Henry became king, writers were dedicating works to him. 

It is unlikely that the young duke of Normandy commissioned their works, however; they were dedicated to him in anticipation of his patronage once he took the English throne. Certainly, the court of Eleanor and Henry II earned a reputation as a beacon for courtly writers. As king of England, Henry was eager to encourage authors writing on varied subjects, no doubt expecting their works to reflect favorably on him as a powerful monarch. He sponsored both Latin language and Anglo-Norman vernacular works, among them historical works written in England and Normandy and also in Anjou that would give an illustrious past to both his Plantagenet predecessors as counts of Anjou and his Norman ancestors who had captured England’s royal Crown. 

He wished during his quarrel with his archbishop of Canterbury to shore up the English monarchy’s sacred character with writings pointing up the sanctity of his predecessors. In his competition with the Capetian kings he needed to claim as forebear some heroic figure equaling their prestigious predecessor Charlemagne, and King Arthur or Edward the Confessor could potentially fulfill that need. Both of Henry I’s wives had been known as patrons of literature, and Henry II, who modeled himself on his grandfather, associated his queen with him in extending patronage to writers, even if no explicit evidence for their commissions of works survives.

Yet dedications or eulogies inserted by authors into their works afford indirect evidence that they viewed their monarch or his queen as prospective if not actual sources of patronage. Not all clerics wrote in search of material gain, however; some were impelled to write in the hope of instructing and correcting their prince, and others simply sought to show themselves loyal subjects through passages praising their ruler. There is no evidence that the nun of Barking who translated a Latin life of Edward the Confessor into Anglo-Norman had a commission from Henry II or his queen, although she would have known of the king’s support for the Confessor’s canonization. Perhaps she hoped to win their favor for her convent through her work. She inserted into her translation a passage calling on God’s protection for the king, the queen, and their lineage, and their divine sustenance in sanctity, peace, joy, and plenty.

For clerical authors at court who often doubled as royal clerks, it is impossible to separate patronage of their literary activity from payment for their secretarial services. Their reward from Eleanor or Henry often came in indirect forms, as presentations to churches or to cathedral prebends, whether in return for activities as royal scribes or as authors. Best known are clerics writing in Latin at the court of Eleanor and Henry, such as Gerald of Wales, Peter of Blois, or Roger of Howden; but Wace, a writer of histories in Anglo-Norman, was awarded by the king with a prebend at Bayeux Cathedral in the 1160s.

Eleanor had grown up at the Poitevin court that gave birth to troubadour poetry, and she certainly heard, read, and encouraged courtly literature. The royal court of Henry II attracted singers of songs, viol players, pipers, and other musicians; and among these entertainers were poets and composers. No doubt scores of songs were commissioned as propaganda in praise of the monarch and his queen or to commemorate special events such as celebrations of victories or the births and marriages of royal offspring, and once sung were soon forgotten.

Occasionally a pipe roll entry records payments to a storyteller  (fabulator) or a harpist (citharidus). Although no documents survive to register Eleanor’s own commissions of literary works, handsome sums were regularly handed over to her from the royal treasury that could be used for distributing patronage to writers without leaving any trace in the exchequer accounts. The absence of documents recording Eleanor’s payments to writers does not preclude her showing favor to them with cash from her personal treasury or with gifts of precious objects. 

Royal reward to writers, like favors to other courtiers, could take the form of gifts of robes or other clothing, gold cups, or even horses and mules. A Catalan troubadour writing a decade or more after Henry II’s death wrote of hearing how “Sir Henry, a king of England, gave horses and mules as gifts.” A week spent entertaining a generous patron could win a singer or poet robes worth more than most peasants earned in a year. Lacking other documentation, however, the poems themselves must bear witness that their authors expected to win the English queen’s favor through their writings. 

…During Eleanor’s early years as English queen, she seems to have shared her husband’s taste for histories, especially those written in the Anglo-Norman vernacular. Henry II commissioned writers experienced at composing romances who could make historical writings available to a courtly audience not well educated in Latin. In about 1155 a royal clerk Wace won a commission to write the Roman de Brut, an Anglo-Norman adaptation of Geoffrey of Monmouth’s Latin history. Layamon, a priest who translated the Brut into English in the first decades of the thirteenth century, claims that Wace had dedicated it to Queen Eleanor and that he wrote of her, “Generous is Eleanor, gracious and wise.”

Possibly Layamon had seen a now lost presentation copy that contained a dedication to the queen. While his statement is no direct proof for Eleanor’s patronage, at least it indicates that she was thought to be a queen interested in literature and capable of offering favors to authors attracting her attention. Hardly accurate history, the Roman de Brut presents the story of the early Britons from the arrival of Brutus, a refugee from the Trojan War, to the Saxon invasions as if a translation of an ancient book in Breton (or Welsh). Although Wace incorporated oral traditions transmitted in minstrels’ songs, Geoffrey of Monmouth’s History of the Kings of Britain was his chief source. 

His vernacular reworking of legends of the ancient Britons, adding courtly elements, would play a pivotal part in medieval literature as the source for the “matter of Britain,” for it proved appealing to composers of later twelfth-century romances centering on King Arthur, Guinevere, and the knights of the Round Table. As a result, the legendary Arthur, his queen, and his knights became as much a part of history for twelfth-century readers as biblical personages or as heroes from the Latin classics, and Wace may have modeled his depiction of Arthur’s queen on Eleanor. 

Perhaps courtiers hearing or reading these romances were tempted to see Henry and Eleanor in the portraits of Arthur and Guinevere. If modern readers can see parallels between fictional characters and historical personalities in twelfth-century romances, then Eleanor and Henry’s contemporaries could have seen them even more clearly. Medieval readers expected to uncover more than one level of meaning during their reading, and they were attuned to the allegorical nature of poetry. 

Henry II, though materially more powerful than his rival Louis VII, felt himself “ideologically inferior” because of the Capetian king’s prestigious ancestry, traced back to Charlemagne. Arthurian material is sometimes said to have provided useful propaganda for Henry in his rivalry with Louis and later with his son Philip II, offering King Arthur as a prestigious royal predecessor from an even earlier time than the Capetians’ Frankish predecessors. Yet Henry made only fitful and desultory attempts at constructing an Arthurian ideology to counteract the Capetians’ use of Charlemagne. 

Seeking ideological advantage from Arthurian material was not without risks, for King Arthur and Arthurian legends could serve better the purposes of rebellious English nobles, who found in Arthur and his faithful men gathered at the Round Table an idealized view of earlier kingship. Arthur was closely identified with the inhabitants of the Celtic fringes, people looked on by the English as savages, and Arthurian tales had an especially subversive effect on the Welsh and the Bretons. Henry II commissioned another book from Wace, the Roman de Rou, a history praising his Norman ducal ancestors from Rollo (or Rou), the Viking invader of Normandy, down to his grandfather Henry I; and the clerk prepared himself for the task by reading early Norman chronicles, listening to epic poetry, and even examining charters in Norman churches.

…Eleanor may have had some connection with another scientific work, a medical text in Latin brought from Sicily to England by Robert Cricklade, prior of Saint Fridewide’s, Oxford (d. c.1171). He was the compiler of a scientific text, an abridgement of Pliny’s natural history, that he had dedicated first to King Henry I, then later to Henry II. Like a number of English scholars, Robert traveled in Italy, going to Rome and Sicily in 1156 and returning in 1158. While in Sicily, he was given a copy of the Gynaecia Cleopatrae, originating in Constantinople, to take back to England to the queen. 

Eleanor would have learned of the reputation of Greek medical learning while in Constantinople during the Second Crusade. It is plausible that the English queen, anxious after the early death of her son William, had asked the prior to bring from Sicily medical books on childbirth, care of children, and female disorders. At the time of Robert’s departure, Eleanor was left with only one boy, Young Henry. Given her record of bearing only daughters in her first marriage, she may have had dynastic concerns about producing more sons. If so, her fears proved unrealistic, for she quickly produced two more sons in 1157 and 1158.”

- Ralph V. Turner, “ A Queen’s Work: Regent for an Absentee King, 1155–1168.” in Eleanor of Aquitaine: Queen of France, Queen of England

[rustbeltjessie]

7 + 8 + 22!

7. what are some of your favourite words?

Gloaming, crepuscular, abattoir, lonesome, desultory. (This does not mean all those words show up frequently in my poems—in fact lonesome is probably the only one I use with any frequency—these are just some words I love the sound/feeling of.)

8. name three poets you enjoy, and three you do not.

Three I enjoy: Cedar Sigo, Hera Lindsay Bird, Kim Addonizio. Three I do not: Rupi Kaur (I know, everyone says that, but I just do not like her stuff or really most of that Instagram-type poetry), Andrea Gibson (I don’t hate their stuff, there are a few of their poems I really adore, and I enjoy listening to their spoken word, but reading their work on the page overall is just meh for me), and like a hundred thousand dude poets who are as whiny and misogynistic as Bukowski but don’t have even half the talent (there are so many that I can’t even think of specific names).

22. what do you struggle the most with in your writing?

Getting started. It can be really, really hard for me to sit down at the page or the typewriter or the computer and just begin. Sometimes it’s because I’m afraid it’s not going to come out ‘right’ (meaning fully-formed and perfect, which rarely happens on the first draft for anyone, ever). Sometimes it’s because the thing that I am writing about is something that’s scary for me to write about.

The other thing I struggle with is the feeling that I’m writing the same thing(s) over and over, in slightly different permutations. And that no matter how long I’ve been writing, and how much I experiment with style and form &c., my poems (and stories and essays) still sound like I wrote them. This tweet really struck me in that regard:

People hate their own art because it looks like they made it. They think if they get better, it will stop looking like they made it. A better person made it. But there’s no level of skill beyond which you stop being you. You hate the most valuable thing about your art. —@eliciadonze

She was specifically talking about visual art, but I think the same applies to writing (or music, film, dance, &c.). So whenever I’m getting down on my poems for sounding like I wrote them, I try to remind myself of this.

On a similar note: sometimes when I discover a new-to-me poet (or prose-writer) whose work I fall in love with, or reread one of my long-time favorites, I think their stuff is “better” than mine, and wish I could write like they do. But even when I write a poem ‘after’ another poet, or borrow elements of another writer’s style, my stuff still winds up sounding like I wrote it, and I get sad. And then I remind myself of something my friend Brent once said. He said when he sits down to write a poem, he’s not trying to write the best poem ever written, he’s trying to write the best Brent Mitchell poem. So, even if no matter what I do, everything I write sounds like Jessie Lynn McMains wrote it, I may as well try and be the best at writing like Jessie Lynn McMains, y’know?

[bearseokie]

When We Dream (M) | mkt

pairing: soulmate! mark x fem! reader genre: drabble, soulmate! au, fluff, smut, some angst, slight horror [warnings]: mature content, detailed scenes, detailed sexual content, nightmares, mentions of murder + blood, fear, oral (receiving), distance word count: 2.4k summary: Ever dream of a stranger? As the same man seems to be within your dreams, the only link you have to finding out his identity - how he always seems to be around - is by lucid dreaming. A/N: bro i don't even know about this one, it was a fever dream (literally) and has a lot of blind spots. a continuation might be necessary? this is why i made it a drabble. it’s meant to confuse you and make you think.

got7 m.list | navi.

Darkness. That's how dreams always begin. Whether or not you fall asleep immediately, it always manages to find you. Imagination running wild. A thin thread connected to others that can deliver you to the unimaginable, and yet he was always there.

A man - whose name you hadn’t received - a face you couldn't forget.

Desultory settings, almost alone in another world, you took notice of him over time. At first, he was just a bystander within your dream. Walking down a sidewalk, most people were faceless due to your mind never being able to comprehend other's features. But he stood out. A gentle smile as your eyes met his brown ones, keeping on his agenda within the dream. You continued on your way, not knowing what was next. You never controlled dreams.

Too fit in your own daily life, you were drawn to dreaming - it seemed to be the one sense you inherited without having to use any effort or force. It was natural.

By the second time you saw him, your mind grew analytical. Though most dreams faded when your eyes would finally open, his face was seared into your brain. Throughout your days you believed you saw him within other people. His presence a mere mirage. Set in a myriad of daily problems, you always found yourself dreaming instantly as your body fell asleep. 

This dream - in particular - was nothing less of a nightmare.

Running down a twisted hallway with nothing leading you but dim light bulbs above, you were panting. Tears rushing down your face, fear had taken over your body. Something was chasing you, but you couldn't see it. You were afraid enough to be running, scared out of your mind. Screams echoed from different sections, the building seemed like a motel built inside of a factory - another setting your mind didn't program well.

Loud, booming stomps came from behind you, making your pace speed up as you looked through the doorways of the building. One quick glance into a room, and you were met with the gored scene of a murder. The next room you saw was full of flowers, but a woman and man having intercourse. Her moans making your tears fall faster, you couldn't understand the situation. Scared to peer into another room, you kept moving forward. The hallway seemed never-ending. Rounding a corner was when your gaze met his again.

He stood much taller than you, a simple outfit on him as his light brown hair blew from the breeze that was created by you running. He held out his hands, palms in your view. You halted in front of him. Eyes filled with worry, he took your wrist, running down a different hallway. Turning to look back, you noticed he was just as scared as you.

"Where are we going?" you called out to him. With another short glance back at you, he continued to tug you behind him.

His longer legs made it hard for you to keep up, pace slowing every few seconds to reassure you were still in his grasp. Taking you through more hallways, he finally reached a door that was locked.

"Why are you set on this door?" you asked as he let your wrist go, fingers running over the top of the doorframe. He searched for a key to the padlock latched between the door and its frame, ignoring your question. Stumbling around and tossing objects, he found a small key underneath a potted plant. Turning back towards you, he took your wrist once more, placing your hand on his hip. Putting your index finger through the loop of his jeans, he watched over you.

"Do not let go of me," he spoke deeply, inserting the key into the padlock and turning it, pulling it from the latch. Opening the door, you were met with an indoor forest. With the setting being wildly different than the creepy motel-factory, your body shook. As the door shut, you were convinced the other place had vanished. "Don't let go of me." the man repeated as he yanked you forward into the leaves of the trees.

The moist area made you sweat, the man lunging through the bushes. He was convincing you that he knew where he was going, but you sustained his process as being disoriented. Rummaging through more bushes, the two of you stood at the trunk of a large tree. The tree being triple its normal size, both of you shared a curious glance, making your way up to it. Placing your hand against the bark, the man's hand moved beside yours. Hand just as warm as your own, a gasp fell from your lips when his hand made contact against your finger. Feeling his body close to yours, darkness fell over you again, the bright sunlight peeking through your lids pulling you from sleep.

You constantly asked yourself: Is he just part of the dreams? What is his purpose? How was he there again? But no clear answers ever surfaced.

Researching the meaning behind seeing the same face, the universe seemed to always derail you. No mentions of it were accounted for; you were alone on this journey.

You had to give the universe credit, though. Mother nature binding with it constantly sent you on a whirl. Your mind shallowed and allowed you to fall asleep once again, body on fire.

Laying in a pure white room, you rocked up into friction against your core. Opening your eyes, the scene was much different than the leading dreams. White curtains on the blindingly bright window, walls shell white, a large bed with a thick duvet, something moving against you as you could only moan. A tongue was pressed flat against you, your hips bucking into someone's face. You were at a loss for words as your orgasm hit you quickly, mind foggy. You couldn't tell if this was all real or not.

The duvet moved, his gaze meeting yours again. He wiped his chin, taking in a breath. Eyes brighter in the white room, you stared at him in disbelief.

"Hello." he smiled, cheeky and fresh.

"Hello." you choked out.

His lips moved to your bare torso, a confused look on your face. He was so comfortable. Unable to fight against his kisses, your head fell back against the puffed pillow. Moaning into the air, his hands ran up and down your sides, fingers gentle.

"I-I," you stuttered, his face peering up at you, keeping his eyes fixed there while his kisses continued up to your breasts.

Kisses turned to bites. A small hickey was sucked onto your breast, a moan passing through your entire body making you jolt against him. A smirk on his face, a single hand placed at your pelvis held you against the mattress. Keeping with his teasing, he seemed resolute. Lips moving everywhere, his face was fully centered above yours. Finally able to see his features in full view, you were at a loss for words.

Your heart was beating so fast, you knew he could hear it. With a bright grin, his dark eyes blinked and squinted. His cheeks rose up from the smile, soft and kind. His hair smelled like generic soap, the locks soft as you raised your hand to his head and intertwined your fingers within it. His peaceful kisses moved across your face, ending at your lips where they floated above your own. Staring down into your eyes, you watched his irises disappear behind his eyelids, lips connecting with yours. As the oxygen rushed out of your lungs, a spark was within the seam of your lips. Moving in sync, your fingers in his hair gently moved from his head, latching to the back of his neck to bring him closer.

Pulling from you, his eyes shot open, wide with fire. You looked up at him with confusion, brows raised. Never in your life had you experienced such a link to someone else, much less the rapid heartbeat of theirs mirroring your own. His touch on your skin created a heat you never felt before, the mix of feelings emanating from both of you making the room fill with tension. Fixed on each other, you sat in silence with your mind becoming conscious of the dream-like state.

"Are you real?" you asked him, his head tilting as he blinked.

"Are you real?" he mimicked your question with abashment as he sat up on his knees between your thighs.

Neither of you had an answer. Within the white room, all you could do was stare at one another. His features seemed realistic, much more than the others you've come across in your dreams. He seemed to be flesh and bone, just like you. Though you weren't awake, he felt all too real. Your breathing sped up under him, eyes shutting as you woke in your own bed, a position you've become accustomed to.

Body weak, you shook as you stood from your bed. Madness, the dreams had escalated into your reality, your core still aching from the man's touch as you were idle in the middle of your bedroom. Gathering your bearings, you walked to your desk and sat before the computer. Turning it on, you opened your browser, typing in a subtle search of "dreams". The vague study led you down a rabbit-hole, words passing your pupils as a single title caught your thoughts. Lucid dreaming.

Reading over the search, everything listed that in order to stay lucid dreaming - you have to really want it. Staying focused, you would be able to control the dream for a limited amount of time while unconscious - yet conscious. With the slim chance that you would be able to hold a full conversation with the man - to be able to retrieve answers - you agreed with yourself to try it.

Night fell over, your room calm, mind settled as you laid on your back above your covers. Muscles relaxing, breathing steady, you fell asleep within minutes. The darkness took over, everything pitch dark. Your eyes opened - but nothing was in your view.

"Do you hear me?" you called out, hoping the man would hear. Nothing sounded back, your own voice echoing in the dark space.

"Hello?" you asked, voice louder this time. "Relax and control it. Focus. Talk to me."

The darkness seemed to fade as you stood in a room. Walls of black tiles plastered about, an illuminating light behind each one. It looked as if you were in a purgatory state that your mind couldn't envision. Finally being able to see around the room, you noticed the man was now standing at a distance away from you.

"Hello," he spoke slowly, peering around the strange room as his gaze looked you up and down.

"How did you know to do this?" he questioned, eyes large as his hands moved into the pockets of his jeans, rocking on his heels.

"It's called lucid dreaming," you said quickly, moving towards him. "I don't believe our minds can create a setting currently, so let's use this time wisely."

He nodded, hair bouncing as he watched you stare back at him. His lips curled up, taking in your form. His teeth shined through with a smile, making your heart leap.

"It is you." he grinned, your head tilted to the side. "How did we find each other again?"

"Wait," you said, eyebrows furrowed. "Weren't you purposely getting into my dreams?"

"No, not quite. You were in my dream first, the sidewalk."

Your breathing stuttered. Looking down at the floor in thought, he swayed. He wasn't part of your dreams - he is separate, and you both managed to come across each other in a state of mind neither of you could comprehend.

"So, you are real?" he asked, referring to the dream in the white room. "I wasn't just dreaming of a stranger with no face. It really was you again!" he jumped, his right hand reaching out for your own as he held it, looking into your eyes.

"What does this mean?" you asked, startled. "I mean, how is this possible? I didn't think separate, cognitive minds could adjust to the same consciousness, much less same dream states."

He seemed just as confused as you, similar to your second meeting. Looking into your eyes, his brown ones seemed darker than they were in the white room. Purple marks lined under them, his face seeming tired compared to the original instances that you met. He seemed almost ill.

"Are you okay?" you asked, voice almost in a whisper.

His eyes shined in the dim lighting, grip on your hand tightening as he glanced down at the floor.

"Mark?" you spoke.

"H-How do you know my name, Y/N?" he asked, head shooting back up as he seemed lost with his own sentence.

He never mentioned his name, as you never mentioned yours either. Words were falling from your lips as if your brain knew something you didn't. "I-I don't know. You know mine, too."

His hold on your hand warmed your skin, similar to how his body heated you up in the white-roomed dream. Barely able to speak, his eyes were focused on yours. His head dipped down, lips against one another as they met your own. The spark cascaded between your matched lips. His grip on your hand seeming to go numb. You felt darkness take over for the last time. With his touch tattooed into your skin, you laid on your back. Eyes opened to your ceiling, mind wired, you breathed in.

Months passed and it felt as though Mark never let you go. From time to time - within your dreams - you could still feel his kisses. His hot skin against your own. But you never saw him. You felt alone in the world, the connection between the two of you lessened.

Sitting on a bench in your local park, the sunset was in the sky as people moved along their own path. The metal bench below you was stiff, your body standing and stretching, turning. The bright lake beside you was blinding from the little sunlight left, and as your left hand moved to block it out, a shadow was in your view.

Mark stood before you, a wide smile on his face. The purple marks under his eyes were gone. Slowly walking to you, he took your hand in his, lifting your knuckles to his lips as he placed a chaste kiss to them.

"Hello again, Y/N." he smiled. "We have a lot to discuss."

[seastarved]

Hey ho!

So since you’ve last seen me, I have been up and down mental healthwise, been to therapy, been out of therapy, have gotten so so so much better because of therapy, took up painting, became obsessed with baking bread and baking in general, travelled to a bunch of cool places, met a boy, fell in love, had a very very fanfic-like romance before he broke up with me a month ago for equally awful fanfic type reasons and it has sucked and now I’m in quarantine with the rest of the world.

So how have you been?

[doycetopia]

The death of the Emoticon

A few weeks ago, I noticed an interesting comment from someone I follow on YouTube, which went something like this.

“This is really great news, which I feel calls for a pretty major deviation from my normal internet posting rules. I know you guys hate them, and you know that I hate them, but just this once, in honor of the occasion, I’m going to type a smiley. :-D”

In the replies to the original poster, I saw a number of people surprised (or mock surprised) at the inclusion of the smiley, and it got me thinking about emoticons in general; has there actually been a drop off in their use?

After almost a week of paying desultory attention to painstaking research on the subject, I’ve decided the answer is a qualified yes. Yes, within the group of people whose electronic communication I regularly read, there has been a marked drop off in the use of emotion-indicating text markers. They aren’t completely gone, but there are definitely fewer showing up than there used to be.

Any thoughts on why that might be?

My personal theory is that emoticons emerged (re-emerged, actually, since they were in use in other non-electronic eras) when communication over the (nascent) internet was starting it’s first major uptick, and more and more people were trying to make use of the written word, sans any other medium, to make a point or (harder still) have a conversation and/or debate. The reason given at the time was that communication solely via text was ripe for miscommunication – that text robbed the speaker of tone and inflection critical to conveying the nuances of an ironic or satirical statement. In short, they were saying they needed a smiley face so that people knew they were joking. (Conversely, readers said they needed the smiley to identify such things.)

Are people less sarcastic/ironic/satirical today? Seems unlikely. Sure, most of us use a smiley here and there, but – at least for me – it’s often to take the sting out of a particular harsh statement; less “this is a joke” than “remember we’re all friends here.” My opinion is that we (the global internet-using culture) have so immersed ourselves in text-based communication since those early digital days that we’ve collectively relearned how to clearly communicate nuance in the medium, as well as how to detect it.

We’ve become better readers. And writers.

Now if we could just get people to stop typing “LOL” as though it’s an actual word.

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