#grotesque ≠ ugly. i like hearing it used in this context

[dozydawn]

“Of unknown French origin (c. 1900), this snake necklace demonstrates the grotesque aspects of art nouveau jewelry while incorporating two gemstones, black opal and demantoid, that characterize the period.”

Gems & Gemstones, Winter 1986.

[cosmicjoke]

So I just got through chapter’s 51 and 52 of Attack on Titan, and one thing that stuck out to me in 51, other than Levi’s obvious, deep anger with Erwin, which I’ll talk about in a minute, was how Levi made it a point to tell Connie that he’d done a good job after coming back with Hange from investigating his village.  Once again we see here Levi’s immense compassion for other people.  Nobody else really thought to give Connie that encouragement, despite his obvious distress in that moment.  They all were aware that Connie had lost everyone in his village, including his family, so it really demonstrates Levi’s thoughtfulness, once again, for other people and what they’re going through, that he takes the time to say just a few, kind words to Connie here.  

Then of course, there’s the big exchange in this chapter between Levi and Erwin, and there’s so much going on here.  But the first thing I noticed is the shift in Levi’s attitude, after he notices Erwin smiling upon hearing Hange’s theory about the Titan’s being humans.  At the beginning of this scene, Levi is showing Erwin a great deal of concern for his physical state, apologizing to him for him and Pixis showing up to talk, knowing how tired he must still be, saying to Erwin that he’ll understand if he would rather him and Pixis just come back later so he can keep sleeping.  Levi is giving Erwin the option here to deal with all of these new developments that they’re all dealing with later, and that offers a really insightful glimpse into the kind of respect and consideration Levi has for Erwin leading up to this point in the story.

What’s really interesting is the shift in Levi’s attitude here, after he sees Erwin smiling.  Levi starts to try and ask Erwin a question, after Hange’s revelations about the Titans, and he sees Erwin smiling to himself with a glazed, distant look in his eyes, and Levi’s horror is readily apparent.  He figures out almost immediately that Erwin is excited by this news, and Levi’s reaction is one of repulsion.  He even tells Erwin that he’s going to make him sick.  I think Levi’s reaction here is also partly fueled by his own feelings of deep dismay and horror at learning that all this time, he’s been killing other human beings.  So to see Erwin seemingly HAPPY about this revelation must seem particularly grotesque to Levi in that moment, while he’s dealing with his own feelings of guilt and despair and hopelessness.  Levi’s anger here is REALLY obvious, as he asks Erwin if this is the real reason he joined the Survey Corps.  We see Levi’s belief in Erwin starting to erode here, in real time.  Part of Levi’s anger, I think, must also stem from knowing that he’s put his faith entirely in Erwin, followed him with full belief in Erwin’s altruistic intentions, but now he has to face the possibility that his faith has been misplaced, that indeed the very REASON he joined the Corps to begin with, his faith in Erwin and his greater vision, may have been built on a lie.  This coming on the heels of realizing that Titans were actually humans, and he’s dedicated himself to killing them for years.  All of this leads you to really understand Levi’s controlled fury at Erwin in this scene.  When Erwin gets annoyed himself at Levi and tells him to lay off of him, and asks him to show him some pity, Levi says with obvious derision that, yeah, Erwin IS pitiful.  We see later in the scene Levi turn Erwin’s own words back on him, about him being mentally and physically exhausted, almost mocking Erwin with them as he reveals to him that he’s chosen to make the 104th his new squad and had Eren and Historia moved to an isolated location.  Levi’s anger here is really palpable, and it demonstrates the tension I think Levi’s probably always had with Erwin and their relationship.

Levi respects Erwin immensely, and I have no doubt he’d been ready to tell Erwin about his plans for the 104th with a lot more cordiality and willingness to involve him in that decision before Erwin’s motivations became revealed to him here.  But there’s always been that kind of conflict between them too, where Levi was willing to put his faith totally in Erwin’s vision, and in his ability to make the right choices, in order to advance the cause of humanity, but at the same time, felt deeply uncomfortable at times with Erwin’s methods towards achieving that goal, his willingness to sacrifice the lives of so many to that end, often resulting in the deaths of soldiers with no, substantial gain to be had.  He’s deeply aware of Erwin’s ruthlessness in getting the job done (we see that awareness later in chapter 52, when he asks Hange if they should run or kill their enemies before they can strike, and says it’s just like something Erwin would do when Hange says both).  It was Levi’s faith in Erwin, though, and his belief in Erwin’s purity and the righteousness of his cause, that allowed Levi to put his misgivings about Erwin’s methods aside, because he fully believed Erwin’s intentions were only to benefit humanity, and win them back their freedom someday.  So seeing Erwin smiling here, and having that faith in Erwin’s intentions thrown into question, alongside the awful revelation that Titan’s are actually humans, is obviously a pretty devastating blow to Levi’s own sense of balance and place, throwing into doubt what it is he’s been fighting for all this time, whether it was even real or not.  It’s like in one, fell swoop, Levi’s lost any amount of certainty in both what they’ve all been fighting for this whole time, and in the person he had put the most faith and trust in to guide them in the right direction.  I’m not sure how people could miss Levi’s anger towards Erwin here, or the reasons for it.  Levi is shown something in Erwin that makes him seriously doubt whether Erwin actually cares about humanity at all, or people at all.  Erwin appears happy that it turned out that Titan’s were humans, and Levi has no context, no way of knowing WHY Erwin would be happy about that.  He doesn’t know about his father, or the things his father told him, or how his father died.  So to Levi, it must just seem like Erwin is getting some sort of sick joy out of the revelation.  Again, to see something like that in the person you believed in the most, a person you admired deeply and thought of as superior to you, as holding a greater vision than you ever could, would be really, really hard.  It’s like Levi’s hero letting him down in the worst way possible.  

I think this should also be looked at in the context of Levi’s own experiences in life, and how that shaped his world view.  Levi comes from an extremely hard, deprived background, one of extreme poverty and desperation and violence.  That background, that difficult childhood, resulted in a necessary cynicism and jadedness in Levi.  He knows the way the world works, knows how hard life is, and how cruel and ruthless people can be.  He grew up in a world where there was no pretense, no civility or politeness to hide behind.  He grew up in a world where it was kill or be killed.  We see this weary understanding of how things really are later, again, in chapter 52, when Levi is explaining to Hange and the rest that they have two options, because the MP’s and those they work for aren’t going to just give up on getting their hands on Eren and Historia.  He knows they’re only going to try more forcefully and violently to get what they want, because that’s the way the world works, and that’s the way people are.  He also shows his worldly understanding of these sorts of things when he asks Hange how many of Nick’s fingernails they pulled, and knows that Nick likely didn’t talk because they pulled more than one.  It tells us about Levi’s experience and how he’s been exposed to the darker, crueler side of humanity, more than anyone else in that room.

So Levi also understands that if they just wait around, they’ll all eventually be killed.  He understands they can’t be passive here, and have to act immediately.  He impresses that reality unto Hange, who’s still reeling from Nick’s death, and forces her to make a decision as to what their next move should be.  He doesn’t allow her to wallow in her despair, and he does this for the sake of Eren and Historia, and all of them.  Once again, we see Levi being most concerned for the greater good, ready to act however is needed to help the most people.  He knows Hange is hurting, but he knows also that none of them can afford to be, as he says to her, timid.  They have to move.  Well, anyway, my point that I’m trying to make is that Levi’s life experience has forced him to be cynical about other people’s motivations and characters, about concepts of nobility and morality.  To look at other people’s true intentions with a skeptical eye, because he grew up in a cut-throat environment, exposed to deep poverty, trauma and pain, where people no doubt would turn on you, or abandon you in a moment for nothing more than a scrap of bread.  With that in mind, you have to realize that Levi’s faith in Erwin is rather remarkable.  That he’s able to BELIEVE that deeply in another person, to believe in another person’s goodness, and purity of intention, given Levi’s background and the life he’s lived, is extraordinary, and really tells us so much about who Levi really is.  Despite every experience in his life informing him  that he should be skeptical and cynical and mistrustful of people and their intentions, despite his every experience telling him that the world is a cruel, ugly, awful place filled with loss, pain and grief, Levi still wants so much to believe in something better.  To believe in purity of hearts and intentions, to believe in a higher morality and goodness.  And despite all of his life experience telling him otherwise, Levi is able to believe that’s who Erwin is.  A person with a higher, better moral standing, a person with a pure and true heart.  He believes it all the way.  So, to then have that faith, which Levi somehow held onto against all odds and reason, dashed against the rocks in a single, terrible moment of realization, would be horrible.  Levi is someone who wants so much to believe there can be a better world, with better people in it.  And I think Erwin represented that possibility to Levi, for a long time.  And so to learn that his belief in Erwin was, perhaps, too idealistic, to have that skepticism that his life’s beaten into him affirmed, rather than rejected, must have felt like the worst kind of betrayal to Levi, and just a crushing disappointment.

Of course, Erwin later is able to prove to Levi that his faith in him wasn’t misplaced, as he lives up to the ideal Levi saw in him to begin with, with Levi’s help and encouragement.  But that’s a different post altogether!  When I get to that part of the manga, I’ll be positing about it as well.

Also, Hange’s own sense of horrible guilt and remorse in these chapters, both over realizing she’d been experimenting on human’s this whole time, and over Nick’s death, was an amazing parallel to Levi’s.  I think the two of them share so many similar feelings and such a similar depth of feeling over everything.  Always trying to do the right thing, and struggling so much with whether the choices they make are the right choices, or whether any of this is worth the sacrifices they’re forced to make.

[kinktae]

groovy || pt. 2 (FINAL)

↳ PART OF MY REWIND SERIES

Even in the 70s, it goes without saying that you shouldn’t have feelings for your best friend’s little sister.

pairing: tae x childhood friend!reader

word count: 10k

genre: 1970s au, fluff, ANGST, eventual smut, f2l

warnings: tae & OC do the NASTY (smut is being edited), Jimin is an endearing pothead, themes of death, unhealthy coping mechanisms such as alcohol and sex

A/N: This fic was entirely inspired by the song If I Could Tell her by from the musical Dear Evan Hansen. Go give it a listen ;)

OFFICIAL PLAYLIST

01 | 02 (FINAL)

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PART TWO (FINAL) **UNEDITED**

Hoseok crossed his arms over his chest, "Jimin, you gotta be higher than a kite to stand here and tell me that Jaws is scarier than The Exorcist."

"Objection, your honor! How is that relevant to the argument?" Jimin turned towards Taehyung, his bottom lip jutting out ever so slightly.

"Overruled. I'll allow it just this once." Taehyung stated decidedly, rubbing at his chin dramatically.

"Fine." Jimin squinted, turning back towards Hoseok, looking coy. "I will neither confirm nor deny that accusation, but I still vote Jaws."

The two friends were in a heated debate over which of the two films reigned supreme. What started as a mere difference in opinions quickly turned into something far more dramatic, the three boys using it as a means to pass the time as the final hours of the day approached.

"Regan's head literally spins. She was like a fucking owl, man." Hoseok emphasized.

"The Exorcist is unrealistic.” Jimin waved off easily. “Ya know what's real and scary? Sharks.”

Hoseok shook his head in frustration, his dark locks shifting as he did so.

"I don't deny that Sharks are scary but a little possessed girl crab walking down the stairs? Scarier."

"Dude, The Exorcist was gross." Jimin frowned.

Hoseok gasped, quickly turning to his blond friend. "Objection! Your honor, that was a biased claim on his part."

"Sustained. No raggin' on either film." Taehyung agreed, causing Jimin to sigh.

"Fine. The Exorcist was graphic.” Jimin corrected himself. “Who wants to see a little girl projectile vomit all over herself?”

Suddenly, Hoseok brought his hand down onto the counter, the loud noise causing both Taehyung and Jimin to jump.

"Exactly!" He declared far too enthusiastically. "It's grotesque— disturbing even! That's what makes it so damn scary. The Exorcist is the superior horror film. I rest my case."

"Uh... is now not a good time?"

The sound of an entirely new voice appearing suddenly caused all three men to turn around. You were standing by the shop’s door, a perplexed yet amused expression on your pretty face. Taehyung was so taken aback by your sudden arrival that he nearly missed the Tupperware container that was being held between your hands.

"Y/N, Hey!" Taehyung exclaimed, an embarrassed hue crawling over his face. "No, uh, we were just... We didn't hear the bell, sorry!"

You laughed lightly, "No worries."

It hadn't been long since the last time Taehyung had seen you. As a matter of fact, just yesterday morning he had driven you back home so it didn’t make much sense for his heart to be pounding this loudly at the sight of you standing here in front of him.

Your hair had been thrown up in a ponytail that looked last minute but neat all the same, but it wasn’t your hairstyle that caught his attention. Crawling up your legs and underneath your denim skirt were a pair of bright yellow stockings, very much like the ones you used to wear when you were younger.

You were brilliant, he realized. Standing there in all your colored stocking glory, you were absolutely captivating and the blond boy suddenly wished he had put more effort into getting ready today.

His hair was lying flat against his head, having gone unstyled, and he had run out of his contact lenses, forcing him to wear his unflattering frames today.

You took note of his glasses' sudden appearance immediately; the last time you had seen Taehyung with them was when the two of you were still both puberty plagued teenagers. Still, there was something about the bespeckled boy that was comforting to see and much to his chagrin, you stared at him openly.

"U-Uh, you’ve met my friends Hoseok and Jimin, right?" Taehyung stuttered, growing flustered under your stare.

At his words, you looked over at the two boys in question– the shorter of the two had light brown hair and offered you a pleasant smile while the other one stared at you stone-faced, arms crossed over his chest.

"Jung Hoseok, right?" You recalled, flashing the solemn boy a nod.

Hoseok's eyes noticeably widened.

"Wasn't sure you remembered me." He responded cautiously.

You cocked your head to the side, "You were the first guy to ever kick my brother's ass. Hard to forget a moment like that."

"Yeah, well, someone had to knock that asshole down a peg." Hoseok smirked causing Taehyung to bump his shoulder into the dark-haired boy disapprovingly.

"Uh... no disrespect, of course." Hoseok corrected himself. You shook your head.

"No, you're right. He definitely had it coming." You smiled softly.

The exact moment the two of you were referencing had occurred in your junior year of high school, before Jungkook's death. You didn't know much of your brother's social life other than that Taehyung was in it but you remembered hearing the name Hoseok thrown around once or twice. From your understanding, he was someone in Jungkook's social circle that he didn't particularly care for but seemed to tolerate for Taehyung’s sake.

That all changed, however, one day in your school’s courtyard.

You weren't surprised to hear that your brother had started yet another fight in school– he had an awful temper and an even worse ability to control it –but you were, in fact, pleasantly surprised to find out that the fight had ended with Jungkook getting his ass handed back to him by Hoseok.

Both boys were suspended but Jungkook's punishment lasted far longer than Hoseok's was– the fight having not have been his first offense on school grounds.

Jungkook never got to see the end of his suspension, you realized suddenly. He died two weeks before he was due back.

Pushing that dark thought away, you shook your head, putting on a pleasant expression.

"I don't know what was more bruised, his eye or his ego." You joked. Hoseok grinned at your words, clearly surprised at how lightly you spoke of the situation.

“I gotta say, Jeon, you’re not nearly as shitty as your brother.” Hoseok chuckled.

There was something off about the smile that you gave him in reply and, for a split second, he feared that he had said something out of line. Taehyung noticed it too. Seeping through the place where your lips met was a bitter truth– a silent disagreement that you were in fact just as shitty as your brother but lacked the courage to say it.

“Hey, what’s in the container?” Taehyung finally spoke up, eager to shift the topic to something lighter.

“Oh. Right!" You blinked, your entire demeanor changing, "That’s actually why I came. I made brownies.”

Jimin noticeably perked up, eyes falling onto the container silently.

“What kind of brownies?” Jimin wondered lowly.

Hoseok shot him a look before turning to you, "You made us brownies?"

You shrugged, "Well, technically, I made them for Blondie but you guys are more than welcome to have some."

Taehyung's ears went pink. The idea that you made and brought brownies specifically for him was so overwhelmingly endearing he thought his heart might combust.

"F-For me?" He stuttered. You nodded eagerly.

Something you always liked about Taehyung was how easy it was to know what he was thinking, even if he didn’t want you to. He wore his emotions on his sleeve and was pretty much an open book to all.

You knew there was a small part of you that was jealous of him. Jealous of how transparent and honest he was. Because if you tried to be that way it wouldn't be something admirable or wonderful at all. It would be ugly and spiteful.

When Jungkook first died, you were something like a bomb, fragile yet on the verge of exploding at any given moment. You were angry all the time and lost a lot of friends who you treated poorly, taking from their wells of forgiveness until they had entirely run dry.

So for the moment, you were content with presenting a false version of yourself to others. If you had to paint a picture of yourself for them then at least you would make sure it was a pretty one.

"Yeah. Think of it as a thank you for letting me stay over the other night." You continued.

Hoseok's eyebrows raised, finding the context of your words incredibly interesting given the last thing he knew of your and Tae’s relationship was that it had been severed when Taehyung had tried to kiss you in your brother’s room.

"Oh? Is that so?" Hoseok mused cheekily causing Taehyung to send him a glare.

"It's... uh, no big deal." Taehyung dismissed easily, ignoring the way his friend was staring at him suggestively.

"So," Jimin spoke up once more, "are they just regular brownies or...?"

"For fuck's sake, Jimin, they're not weed brownies!" Hoseok laughed, causing the shorter boy to huff.

"What makes you think that's why I was asking? I could have a nut allergy for all you know." Jimin defended.

Taehyung blinked, "You don't have a nut allergy?"

"Yeah, I don't." He admitted, turning to you with a boyish smile.

"They're just regular brownies. Sorry to disappoint." You laughed, setting the container down onto the counter.

"Don’t sweat it. I’m still stoked." Jimin shrugged, walking over to pry open the container. "Free food is free food.”

And with that, the three boys finally began to dig in and you watched cautiously as they did so, hoping that at least some of your mother’s baking ability had been passed down to you.

"These are ace!" Was your eventual reassurance, coming from a satisfied looking Jimin, who shot you a thumbs up with his unoccupied hand.

Taehyung and Hoseok made noises of agreement, mouths too full to verbally agree.

“Aren’t you gonna have one?” Jimin pressed, shoving his mouth with the remaining piece of his brownie.

“They’re really good, Y/N.” Hoseok added.

You shook your head, “Oh no, I don’t really care too much for sweets. I just know Taehyung loves the recipe my family uses.”

Taehyung's head turned towards you, swallowing down the food in his mouth harshly as he looked at you in surprise.

“I didn’t know you knew that.” He admitted, licking his lips clean. You tucked your hands into the pockets of your skirt, a familiar memory creeping into your brain.

“I remember one Sunday night when you were sleeping over my mom made brownies and you ate like eight pieces. And then, when you thought everyone was sleeping, you snuck back into the kitchen for more.”

Taehyung’s eyes went as wide as saucers, “Wait, hold on... you knew about that?”

Honestly, this was the first time Taehyung had thought back on the moment in years but he remembered it vividly. Slipping out of bed without waking up a sleeping Jungkook and tiptoeing past you and your parent’s room felt like mission possible at the time and he was under the impression that he had gotten away with it.

“Yep. I heard you walk past my room. I got curious so I followed you into the kitchen and watched you pig out.” You laughed heartily, your ponytail swaying side to side as you did so.

“You watched me?!”

“I was always watching you.” You admitted coolly, picking up a brownie crumb from the container lid and plopping it into your mouth.

“That sounds... kind of creepy, Jeon.” Hoseok muttered, flashing you a concerned look.

You shrugged, leaning your hip against the counter.

“I was a kid and, well, I wasn’t exactly allowed to just go up and talk to Blondie. Jungkook would’ve literally killed me if he found out that I had a cru–”

Cutting your sentence off abruptly, you cleared your throat, oblivious to the way Taehyung had gone stiff, heart in his throat.

“Anyway, where were you guys with the trial?” You turned towards Hoseok, face burning as you change the topic onto the debate that was taking place before you arrived.

Holy shit.

You had a crush on Taehyung?

He felt like he had been dunked into an ice-cold pool; was it really possible that you ever saw Taehyung the way he still saw you?

He exhaled in disbelief, tucking a hand into his jeans.

He could die of happiness. They could bury him six feet under and it wouldn’t phase him in the slightest. It didn’t even matter that you no longer felt the same way. Just knowing that his one-sided love for you wasn’t always so one-sided was fulfilling enough.

Then again… he could be wrong. Maybe he was jumping to conclusions. You hadn’t finished your sentence, after all, you could’ve gone on to say any number of things. He was probably just overthinking like he always did. He spent nearly every second of his teenage years watching you, he would’ve noticed if you had any sort of feelings towards him... Right?

Your face felt like it was on fire. Worst yet, you could feel Taehyung’s eyes on you. He wasn’t saying a word and it made your chest feel tight.

“Oh. That. Whatever, I retract my statement, let Hobi have this win.” Jimin shrugged, too concerned with grabbing a second brownie to keep the debate going.

“Wait, really?” Hoseok frowned, suspicion gleaming in his eyes.

“Sure. If you say The Exorcist is scarier, then it's scarier.” Jimin concluded, moving to bite into his brownie.

“Right on!” Hoseok laughed, throwing an arm over the shoulders of his passive best friend suddenly.

The action took Jimin by surprise as he was yanked into Hoseok’s side, a small noise of disappointment escaping his lips as he lost grip of his brownie and it flopped onto the floor.

Hoseok showed no indication that he even noticed, his cocky grin persisting.

“This is why I keep you around, you know.” Hoseok teased. “What’s that you always say? Get laid, don’t fight?”

“Make love, not war.” Jimin grumbled, still mourning the loss of his fallen snack.

“Same shit.” Hoseok dismissed, turning towards Taehyung. “So then, your honor, what’s the final verdict?”

Maybe if Taehyung weren’t so preoccupied with staring at you, then he would have heard Hoseok’s call, but it wasn’t like he had much of choice. You were staring down at your shoes as if they were the most interesting thing in the world, bottom lip tucked in between your teeth as you appeared lost in thought.

“Tae? Anyone home?” Jimin laughed, finally pulling the blond out of his Y/N focused trance.

“Huh?” Taehyung replied.

Something both of his friends never gave Hoseok enough credit for was his ability to read people. So the moment he laid eyes on Taehyung staring at you like a love-struck puppy, he knew he had to do something to help.

“Actually… I think it’s about time Jimin and I headed out.” Hoseok announced suddenly, glancing down at his watch lazily.

“What? Why?” Jimin turned towards Hoseok in confusion.

“Yeah, what? You guys can stay until closing, you know that.” Taehyung added.

"You mean stay and have to help you clean and close up shop? Nah, man.” Hoseok scoffed, waving off the idea with a hand.

“Listen, I’m sure you and Y/N have lots of other nostalgic brownie stories to reminisce on.” Hoseok turned to meet Jimin’s eyes. “Besides, Jimin and I have stuff to do. Isn’t that right, Jimin?”

Jimin blinked, unsure of what was happening but knowing Hoseok well enough not to question whatever scheme he had cooking up.

“Uh… yeah! Lots of things. You know us, busy busy! People call us the busy boys, you know.”

Taehyung squinted, recognizing the boy’s awkward rambling as his attempt to lie. While Hoseok had a real knack for trouble, Jimin was just not cut out for such mischief.

“No one calls you guys that.” Taehyung pointed out flatly.

“Well, they should.” Hoseok chimed in, pulling the flustered hippie towards the door.

“Guys–”

"Check ya later, Tae!" The older boy called out, the door’s bell harmonizing with his goodbye. Taehyung frowned.

“Bye, Tae. It was nice meeting you, Y/N. Thanks for the brownies!” Jimin added, flashing you both a wide smile before the front door closed shut, leaving Taehyung alone with you.

There was a record playing somewhere in the back of the room. You remembered hearing it when you first arrived but forgot all about it once you began to speak to Taehyung and his friends.

It sounded somewhat familiar, but not familiar enough for you to pin down a title. You thought you recognized the artist– The Isley Brothers, maybe?

You crossed your arms as you listened briefly, opening your mouth to ask Taehyung before shutting it before you got the chance.

Taehyung was doing that nervous sleeve thing, you noted.

God, this was so awkward. You had to say something. Maybe you should clear up what you meant earlier.

“Hey, I’m–”

“Do you–’”

The two of you spoke in unison, surprising each other. Taehyung felt his shoulders relax as you burst out into light giggles, clearing finding amusement in the situation. Your laugh could lift any mood, he was sure.

“You go first.” Taehyung insisted happily.

Things were okay, you realized. There was no need to go back and dwell on things that would just make things complicated.

You shook your head, “No, nothing, I just… Your friends are nice. I like them. I miss that feeling.”

“What feeling?”

“Being surrounded by friends, I guess. I don’t really have any. I miss hanging out with people.” You shrugged.

Automatically, Taehyung flashed you a sympathetic look. You knew it was a normal response and that it came from kindness but it made you feel uneasy. You were far too used to people looking at you with pity.

“So.” You say, clearing your throat.

“So.” Taehyung countered.

“What were you going to say?” You asked.

“Huh?”

“Before I interrupted you, what were you going to say?” You reminded. A look of remembrance flashed onto Taehyung’s face before a lopsided smile crept onto his face.

You cocked your head at his expression, raising an eyebrow as you awaited his next words.

“Do you want Burger King?”

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“Yes, I know I should have called sooner.” You sighed, listening to your frantic mother’s voice seeping through the phone.

“Mom, I–”

Your eyes flickered over your shoulder, meeting a worried-looking Taehyung who was holding a fry up to his mouth. You stuck your tongue out at him, hoping to lighten up the mood.

He could hear your mother’s muffled but clipped voice through his house phone. Naturally, after the two of you picked up food, you found yourself back at Taehyung’s house to eat it. It wasn’t until you had finished your meal that you realized you hadn’t come back home as scheduled and that your parents were most likely furious.

Despite Taehyung’s efforts to get you home in one piece the other day, your lack of change in clothes clued them in on the fact that you hadn’t gone out to spend the night at a friend's like you had claimed.

One heated confrontation later and the truth of your excursion came to light. Your mother had broken down into tears when you told her that Taehyung had found you drunk and alone on the side of the road; as far as your parents were concerned, you had stopped such reckless behavior years ago.

You let your mother ramble over the phone for a bit before finally explaining yourself.

“Mom. I’m at Taehyung’s.” You explained. Your words were met with a brief pause on your mother’s end and Taehyung quirked his head in confusion.

Something he couldn’t hear must have been said, however, as a satisfied grin took over your face and you bid your mother a light-hearted goodbye, promising you’d call when you were on the way back home.

At the sound of the line going dead and you putting the earpiece back into the phone, Taehyung spoke up.

“Everything okay?”

“Mm? Oh yeah. All it took was mentioning you and her whole tune changed.” You nodded, walking over to where Taehyung was sat on his couch.

The blond boy flashed you a toothy grin.

“Really? That’s all it took?”

You laughed.

“Are you kidding? Your every parent’s dream kid. Kind, responsible, hard-working... Man, they love you, Taehyung.”

Suddenly, a pensive look fell over you as you appeared to get lost in thought.

“It’s hard not to.” You sighed finally, grabbing a fry from Taehyung’s plate and popping it into your mouth casually.

He wasn’t sure what to make of your words but warmth found his face all the same.

Lately, it felt like he was always finding double meaning in your words and he wasn’t sure if they were purposeful or if he was just getting more and more desperate to paint the narrative that you somehow loved him too. He had to force himself to push back such ideas, his own selfish desires too much for his fragile heart to endure.

“Taehyung?”

Realizing that you had been standing while he sat all this time, Taehyung stood up suddenly. It was an awkward repositioning but you paid it no mind, your next words clearly weighing heavily on your mind.

"What would've happened if my parents didn't come home that day?”

Taehyung froze. He opened his mouth to respond but thankfully shut it right away, needing a moment to collect himself.

The question had blind-sighted him; he had spent the better half of the past three days trying not to think about the unfortunate event that went down in Jungkook’s bedroom.

He’d never stop hating himself for that moment.

Still, he wasn’t sure what to make of your question. He allowed for a few more moments of wordlessness before he decided that answering honestly would be his best bet.

Tucking his hands into his pockets, he swallowed harshly. "I probably would have kissed you."

He had no doubt he was blushing, especially with the way your eyes refused to pull away from his face.

"To comfort me?”

"I, uh… No."

“Then, why?” You pressed.

Taehyung bit down on his lip, wondering just how honest to be with you right now. Was this how he was going to admit that he had been in love with you all these years?

He shook his head.

“I just… wanted to.” He admitted, before continuing hurriedly, “B-But I’m sorry! I wasn’t thinking– seriously, I shouldn’t have taken advantage of such a vulnerable moment. I’m really, really sorry. I should’ve apologized sooner.”

You nodded.

“It's okay. I’d just prefer if you didn’t, you know, try to kiss me in my dead brother’s bedroom.”

Taehyung grimaced at your words, offering you an awkward laugh and sheepish smile, “Yeah… Definitely not the right time or place.”

Taehyung felt like he could breathe easier now knowing you hadn’t looked too deeply into the attempted kiss. Hopefully, this meant things could stop being so awkward between you two and things could go back to the way they were before. He missed having you around.

“Um…”

Taehyung’s thoughts were interrupted by the feeling of one of your hands reaching out and gripping onto the fabric of his sleeve, much like the way he would himself when he was nervous. He glanced down at the gesture, eyes wide at your proximity.

"We’re not in his room anymore." Your words were muttered lowly, as if suddenly shy.

Taehyung blinked.

What?

Did that mean what he thought it did? Did you just imply that he could kiss you? Or did he just fail to wake up this morning and was stuck in another one of his sad, pining dreams about you?

Gaze fixated on where your fingers were still wrapped around the fabric of his sleeve, you were unable to meet his eyes.

"Huh?" Taehyung replied, simply because he couldn't conjure up a single intelligent thought.

Your eyes met his for a moment before flickering away once again, brows furrowed.

"My parents aren't here either so..."

Taehyung's heart was banging against his chest as if wanting to lurch right out of it and offer itself to you as you were its rightful owner.

No way.

There was just no way the girl he had been in love with since he was fifteen was standing in front of him asking him to kiss her.

“I'm... Are you–"

"Geez, Blondie." You cut him off, voice pitched high at the thought of having to repeat it. "Do I have to spell it out for you?"

If it were in any other situation, the tone in your voice would have suggested that you were angry, but the way you tugged at his sleeve let him know you weren't upset, but rather just incredibly embarrassed, unable to express directly just how much you wanted Taehyung to kiss you.

To your surprise, instead of Taehyung awkwardly stuttering out an apology, two large palms found either side of your face, forcing you to look back over at him. Before your eyes even got the chance to make contact with his, however, his mouth found yours, eliciting a small noise of surprise from the back of your throat.

The kiss was everything you imagined a kiss from Taehyung would feel like.

Soft. Gentle. Perfect.

His mouth felt warm against yours, distracting you from the subtle way his hands trembled. Despite the way your mouths moved against each other cautiously, still unfamiliar with such intimacy, something about the exchange felt natural, as if the two of you were always meant to embrace each other like this. And as Taehyung pulled away, you let that thought run through your mind, his warm eyes holding yours.

Silence rang between the two of you; Taehyung bit onto the inside of his cheek, waiting for you to say something but neither of you could seem to work up the nerve.

“Should I not have done that?” He spoke finally, heart in his throat.

“Probably not.” You murmured, still slightly dazed from the kiss.

Suddenly, you placed a hand against his chest, the faint pounding of his heart kissing your palm. Part of you was thrilled to see that the kiss had affected him as much as it had you, but there was also a part of you— a bitter one— that knew that taking this any further would be unfair to Taehyung.

Something told you that if you asked Taehyung for his heart that he’d give it to you, that he was just that kind, and that scared the hell out of you. Taehyung deserved a hell of a lot more than the selfish little sister of his dead best friend.

Sure, you did your best to paint a pretty picture but that didn’t negate the parts of you that were monstrously ugly.

When Jungkook first died, you picked up drinking; weekends usually blurring by as you drifted through the days without regard. You used to think it helped, that drinking all night only to wake up the next morning still just as intoxicated would silence your screaming thoughts of self-loathing, but you came to find out quickly that alcohol was merely a temporary novocaine.

That’s when you turned to sex. It was usually coupled with alcohol, having had realized that inebriation was a great crutch to cling onto the next morning when you hated yourself for your actions.

You weren’t exactly sure when the thought process behind it manifested but you had turned to nameless faces and their bodies to help make you feel desired as you couldn’t love yourself. Whenever friends would raise their concerns, you would brush them off with a clipped tone, claiming that you were merely having fun, oblivious to the fact that all your self-worth was stemming from how many people you could lure into bed with you.

Both reckless behaviors were meaningless attempts at filling a void you refused to acknowledge and if it weren’t for your parents eventually stepping in, there’s no telling just how bad things could have gotten.

You and Jungkook were similar in that aspect, you suppose. Both Jeon siblings having had their tendencies for self-loathing and self-destruction, only Jungkook ended up a corpse on your bathroom floor while you got to walk away without a scratch.

Sometimes, when your mind got particularly dark, you wondered why Jungkook was dead and not you. Why were you the one who had to remain alive, damned to hold up the crushing burden of being the living sibling?

With your brother dead, you had to stay alive— not just for your parents, but for Jungkook as well. If you were going to be chosen as the Jeon sibling that lived then you couldn’t go and destroy your life, not when Jungkook had lost his.

So you tried your best to clean up your act.

You cut off all ties to your old habits and old friends; it was lonely sometimes but you were sober and your parents were happy, and so were you for the most part. Denial became your coping mechanism and any sadness you felt towards your brother passing morphed into anger, forcing you to detach yourself from him altogether.

It was healthier than the other ways you had tried to cope but it was still just a temporary numbing solution, one which Taehyung had wiped away easily, which is why you had turned once again to alcohol and sex. Thankfully, Taehyung found you on the side of the road that night.

“Y/N?” Taehyung called out, watching the way your expression had darkened. You furrowed your eyebrows, eyes flickering up to meet his.

“I’m… I’m sorry. I can’t do this to you. Let’s stop.”

Taehyung frowned, “Do what to me?”

Taehyung looked so incredibly confused that you found yourself looking away, unable to face him.

“I know you care about me which is why we shouldn’t go any further than this.”

Taehyung felt his heart sink into his stomach. Was kissing you a mistake? It didn’t feel like one but you couldn’t even meet his eyes so he knew something was wrong.

You let your hands fall off his chest before continuing.

“I… I care about you. You mean a lot to me, probably more than you know, which is why I won’t risk you getting hung up on someone like me.”

He could see the way you had begun to shrink; you were standing in front of him like you were insufficient and frail when he knew you weren’t any of those things.

“Someone like you? What are you talking about?”

“I’m not the girl you think I am. I’m not the girl you knew when we were kids anymore. I’m bitter and angry and have got so much baggage– I’m not going to put you through carrying any of that. You deserve a lot better than that.” You explained, hating yourself for the way your voice was wavering.

Once again, you were crying in front of Taehyung and you couldn’t stand it.

“Y/N, c’mon—”

“I’m serious!” You cried, hands shaking. “I used to drink myself numb and I slept around with so many people— the majority of them whose faces I don’t even remember —and I’ve hurt and pushed away everyone who's ever cared about me and just— fuck, Blondie! I’m a fucking shitty person!”

“No, you’re not.” Taehyung said quietly, hand coming up to cup your cheek.

“I know you, Y/N. Maybe you’re not the girl who dances in her room or reads teen magazines anymore but you’re still the girl who wears yellow stockings and bakes me brownies just because she remembered I liked them.”

As his thumb ran over your wet cheek, you weren’t sure whether to laugh or cry so you did both, once again crumbling under his touch.

“You’re more than just a series of bad decisions. You’re hurting and you’re doing it alone when you shouldn’t have to. You’re a hell of a lot stronger than you give yourself credit for and,” Taehyung swallowed roughly, losing footing of his voice, “And you deserve better too, dammit. You deserve so much more.”

There were only a few things Taehyung couldn’t forgive himself for, and leaving you by yourself after Jungkook died was one of them. He knew what it felt like to sink back into the dark place he was in after his best friend’s death but he had his parents and his friends to pull him back out– it made his heart heavy to think that you had been drowning in that lonely limbo this whole time.

“You don’t have to be alone. You don’t have to do this on your own. You’re not made out of stone, Y/N, you’re human. It’s okay to rely on others and accept help and love and everything we think we're not worthy of.”

Taehyung could see the way his words were hitting your skin; he could see the way you flinched as if you couldn't believe them but the way your watery eyes held onto his told him that you wanted to.

“Don’t push me away.” He pleaded finally, voice firm but tender all the same.

You wish you could’ve told him straight up that you wouldn’t, but your mouth was void of any and all words as you answered him with a kiss, hoping for it to say everything you thought Taehyung deserved to hear.

The kisses grew more heated and emotions became intertwined and there was a small voice eating away at the back of your mind telling you that you didn’t deserve this, that you didn’t deserve him. Even as the two of you found yourself in Taehyung’s bedroom, laid out on his bed, the voice persisted, silenced only by the sound of Taehyung speaking suddenly.

“Is this okay? For me to kiss you like this?” Taehyung asked, breathing heavy as he ran his tongue over his bottom lip nervously.

You fought back the blush that wanted to make its way onto your skin, the question catching you off guard as there wasn’t any need for it in the first place. You wanted Taehyung to do far more than just kiss you. Taehyung had you pinned underneath him, your legs parted by his thigh as he hovered over you, and you were alight with an insatiable need for him.

Your fingers found his glasses; they were struggling to hold onto his face as he stared down at you. Gently, you took them off, chest tightening as Taehyung’s eyes widened at your action.

“Taehyung.” You cooed, eyes flickering to his lips. You wondered if their red color mirrored yours right now.

Taehyung wanted so badly to kiss you again but the last thing he wanted to do was to push things in a direction you weren’t comfortable with.

“Yeah?”

“Touch me, please.” You murmured, causing Taehyung’s heart – among other parts of him – to stir.

A small sound of surprised content escaped you as Taehyung’s mouth found your neck, wasting little time as he began to bruise the delicate skin there. He wasn’t being nearly as gentle as you imagined he would, taking your skin between his teeth before soothing over the bite with a soft flick of his tongue before moving to another spot.

His fingertips were running up and down your sides frustratingly; it was a side of Taehyung you had never seen and it excited you to no end, small whimpers and sighs falling from you.

Taehyung was in absolute bliss– he had the girl he had been in love with for years laid out underneath him, panting his name as he marking you as his, loving the way your hips were rutting up, not so subtly trying to grind against his thigh.

He felt it too, of course; the strain of his aching cock pressing against his pants becoming harder and harder to ignore, and before he could think to ask, he moved between your legs, urging your skirt up to your waist so that he could grind into you.

A low grunt left his mouth as he began to rock into you, your soft whines only edging him on. But he knew there were far too many layers separating the two of you.

“Why don’t… Why don’t you go ahead and take some clothes off?” Taehyung suggested, slightly caught up in the feeling of your legs tightening around his hips.

You let out a small huff, not because you didn’t like the idea but because he had stilled his motions. As lovely as the friction was, it wasn’t nearly enough to get you where you wanted. You sat back up on your elbows.

“Should I leave the yellow stockings on for nostalgia’s sake?” You joked dryly. You hadn’t meant it seriously, of course, you were hoping to elicit a laugh from Taehyung but to your surprise, his response was anything but humorous.

His palm came down onto your covered thigh, moving forward to bring his mouth to your ear.

“Unless you want a few new rips in them, I’d suggest you take them off as well.” He hummed darkly, his voice sending a shiver down your spine.

A grin found Taehyung’s face as he leaned back away from you, watching as your expression fell into one of surprise, clearly not expecting such a forward statement from him.

Flustered, you began to undress clumsily, struggling to do so as the feeling of Taehyung pressing kisses against your jaw was incredibly distracting.

Where the hell did this surge of confident from Taehyung come from and why the hell was it so hot?

The second you finally freed yourself from your garments, you threw a leg over his lap, forcing him back down onto the bed.

Your fingers found his shirt without so much as a second thought, undoing the buttons of his shirt as you began to trail hot kisses down his chest. A low sound emerged from Taehyung’s chest and if you had any shame whatsoever, you might have felt embarrassment as the sound caused your panties to dampen.

His skin was soft and you let your tongue trace the ridges of his abdomen. You imagined you might have stopped to press some more permanent marks on his skin if you didn’t have another destination in mind, hand slipping down further and further.

For the second time today, Taehyung wondered if dreaming; you were sat up on his lap in nothing but your panties, lips parted as you tried to catch your breath, hand rubbing over Taehyung’s clothed cock lightly.

Taehyung let out a groan, causing you to smirk.

“Poor, Blondie. Bet you’re dying to get out of these pants, huh?” You teased, applying more pressure to your touch.

“Fuck, Y/N. You really are such a tease.” Taehyung hissed, thrusting up to meet your touch.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You replied innocently, cocking your head one side to truly sell the act.

“Sweetheart, I’m gonna give you five seconds to stop that little game you’re trying to play with me and lay back down on the bed.”

“And if I don’t?”

“I’m going to cum in my pants and, fuck, I’d really much rather cum inside of you.”

You paused your actions begrudgingly, realizing you also would rather him cum inside you. You crawled off him and laid back beside him as instructed.

“Good girl.” He praised, kissing one of your bare breasts, causing you to whine. “Why don’t you let me play with you now, hm?”

One of Taehyung’s hands was quick to make its way between your legs, wasting no time to drag this out any longer.

“Oh, fuck.” He hissed, middle fingering running up and down your clothed slit. Your eyes fluttered shut for a moment, his actions earning him a sharp inhale of his name.

“Sweetheart, you’re so wet.” Taehyung cooed. “We only just started too.”

“D-Don’t tease me.” Your voiced hiccuped slightly as the tip of his finger found your clit, rubbing at the swollen pearl lightly. Taehyung laughed, pressing a peck against your bottom lip that was jutting out slightly.

You took advantage of the moment immediately, hand reaching out to slip into Taehyung’s hair so you could deepen the kiss. You could feel him smile into the kiss, clearly pleased with how desperate you were for him.

The feeling of one of Taehyung’s long fingers sinking into you caused you to grasp, pulling away from the kiss as his fingers ministrations began to occupy all your attention.

Taehyung admired you from his spot beside you, watching the way your face scrunched up and you threw your head back as one finger became two.

“You’re so pretty like this, baby.” He found himself purring into your ear, head too clouded with the sounds of your moans to hold himself back.

“God, I... fuck.” Was your intelligent response, hand clasped around his wrist as his motions began to quicken.

Your thighs were beginning to shake, the obscene sound of Taehyung’s fingers entering your wet pussy filling the room.

A particularly hard rub against your clit sent out a chirp of his name, pulling Taehyung away from your breasts, where he had temporarily fixed his attention.

“You need something?” He teased, flicking his tongue against your nipple frustratingly.

You let out a groan, sending Taehyung a glare as a sharp wave of pleasure ran through you, causing your spine to arch.

And just like that, his fingers were pulled off you, evoking a small cry of disappointment from your lips. The kiss that followed, however, was enough to silence your protest, Taehyung moving to rest in between your hips again, only this time, he fumbled to take off his jeans.

“I’m going to make love to you, sweet girl. Is that okay?” He asked as he freed himself of his garments.

Your eyes widened at the sight of his cock, swollen and red-tipped, and you nearly begged for him to fuck you right then and there.

You nodded eagerly, eyes still fixated on Taehyung’s newly revealed state. You bit down on your bottom lip, insides fluttering with desire as Taehyung adjusted himself, rubbing the length of his cock against your sopping center.

A small cry left your lips as he finally entered you and Taehyung knew he was absolutely ruined, wrecked by the way your warm, velvet walls wrapped around him.

“F-Fuck, you’re so beautiful.” Taehyung was absolutely beside himself as he began to rock into you, moaning as you took every inch of him, profanities spilling from your swollen lips.

You jolted as his thumb found your clit, clearly set on getting you to cum.

“That feel good?” He hummed, pressing a kiss to your collarbone cheekily.

Your eyes were shut, overwhelmed by the feeling of Taehyung filling you, bringing you closer and closer to your climax with every rock of his hips and fingers.

“So... ah, so good.” You whimpered, voice trembling as you tried to meet every one of Taehyung’s thrusts.

Taehyung was close to his own release, balls tightening as he relished in how well you took his cock and how pretty his name sounded falling off your tongue like that. You were so beautiful– your chest and neck glistening lightly with sweat, breathing labored as you entirely lost yourself in the sensations being sent your way.

“Taehyung, I–”

Your sentence was cut short as your orgasm washed over you, a broken whine leaving your lips. Taehyung hardly had time to admire the lovely way your body was shuddering in pleasure when his own orgasm hit him, your walls tightened around him as he coated your walls with hot spurts of cum.

Tangled sounds of pants and whimpers fell between the two of you as you both came down from your highs.

“You okay?” Taehyung spoke finally as he pulled out of you.

You let out a sigh at the feeling, suddenly empty. You offered a nod in response, not trust your voice to respond to him verbally. Taehyung laid down beside you, gesturing for you to come closer; the cold of his room had suddenly caught up with you both as you huddled into one another for warmth.

Your head found itself on Taehyung’s chest, listening to the way his breathing evened out with post-coital bliss.

His fingertips were running along the length of your bare arm as the two of you lay there, causing light goosebumps to pull at your skin.

“What are you thinking about?” Taehyung said suddenly, sensing the melancholy that lingered in the air.

You didn't respond immediately, taking a few moments to yourself before pulling yourself up to face Taehyung.

"I was thinking about my family and how they'd react if I told them about us." You admitted.

"My parents would be thrilled. Both of them. Dad has always seen you like a second son and if my mom were twenty years younger, she would've snatched you up herself."

Taehyung let out a contemplative hum, "And Jungkook?"

It was the question that was weighing on both your minds. There was a small prickling feeling of guilt there as if the two of you were doing something behind his back, even though he was gone.

"I'm not sure."

“I think Jungkook would kill me if he knew I slept with you.” Taehyung admitted honestly, his frows furrowing ever so slightly.

“Probably.” You nodded before pausing. “But he would’ve forgiven you.”

“You think?”

“Are you kidding? You were his favorite person, he never shut up about you.” You chuckled, laying back down beside him.

“You’re a good guy, Blondie. I think that’s why he liked you so much. Everything became so bad so quickly but you stayed good. You never left his side. You always had his best interests in mind, even when he didn’t deserve it.” You yawned, pulling the blanket up to your chin.

Suddenly, Taehyung’s expression fell into an unreadable one, the room’s atmosphere growing heavy as his aura suddenly darkened. Your eyes ran down his profile as he stared off across the room, clearly deep in thought.

“I knew.” He said finally, voice small.

“You knew what?”

“The drugs. I knew.” He clarified, turning his head towards you.

“I didn’t know exactly what he was using but I knew something was wrong. And I didn’t say anything. I hate myself every day for nothing saying something.” Taehyung confided solemnly.

You turned away towards him, silence fell over the two of you. You didn't know what to say– the idea that Taehyung wasn't this perfect, happy human completely throwing you off guard. Not once did you think to consider how Taehyung had dealt and continued to deal with the death of his best friend. You contemplated his words for a moment.

Shifting slightly, you moved further down the bed, letting your head rest on his chest once again.

“How do you live with yourself?”

Your question wasn’t malicious in any sense. No. It was pure, unadulterated curiosity that prompted it and Taehyung was felt a quiet feeling of relief in that fact that you hadn't dwelled on his confession any further than needed. You held no judgment in your tone, but rather a desire to understand, undoubtedly stemming from the need to replicate the answer for yourself.

“I learned to forgive myself.” He said before pausing.

“I learned to forgive him.” He added after a moment of silent contemplation.

You frowned, letting your eyelids fall shut.

"I can't. Not yet, at least." You confessed wistfully.

Taehyung let out a hum, "That's okay. I didn't know at first."

“So what did you do before you found yourself at that point?”

You could hear Taehyung's sigh through his chest, it was soft and reverberated lowly.

“I looked for the things that made me happy. The music, the people– you just gotta keep on keepin’ on. It'll start to hurt a little bit less every day until one day you'll wake up to find that the good outweighs the bad.”

"You're a good." You said suddenly, catching Taehyung by surprise.

"Huh?"

You lifted your head, turning it so that you could face him.

"The bad is heavy and it hurts but... you're definitely a good." You murmured gently. "You're my good, Blondie."

Taehyung didn't care that he was blushing or that you could probably feel the way his heart rate had spiked because, as you leaned over to kiss him, all he could find himself caring about was the fact that he was your good and that you were his too.

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"You're a sneaky little minx, you know that, right? I gave in that time but now I seriously have to go." Taehyung sighed, causing you to frown.

Taehyung had been taking a shower, on his way to get ready for his morning shift at Rose's when a certain someone slipping into his shower had extended his time spent in there tenfold, unable to resist your advances.

The two of you were in towels now; your fooling around in the shower now over.

"Nooo." You whined. "Stay."

You had pulled Taehyung into an embrace, your arms snaking around his waist as you propped up onto your toes and pressed kisses onto his collar bone.

The nature of the kisses seemed harmless, but with the way two of you had spent all night, and now morning, Taehyung knew that things would only escalate from here.

"As much as I'd love to make love to you all day, I'm needed at the record shop." He stated decidedly, causing you to pull your mouth away from his skin.

"Can you call in sick?" You moped childishly. Taehyung shook his head no, chuckling as he leaned over to place a chaste kiss against your mouth.

"Seven years, Blondie! We were robbed of seven years together. We deserve to be going at it like rabbits." You looked up at him through your lashes, a sour pout on your lips.

The blond boy let out an abrupt laugh as if he wasn't expecting those words to leave your mouth.

"So dramatic." He hummed teasingly.

Despite his words, the truth was he couldn't agree more and if it weren't his moral obligation to his job, then he would gladly spend the day with you in bed.

You tilted your head in contemplation, "Has it not been seven years since you first started liking me?"

You felt Taehyung physically stiffen against you, and it suddenly occurred to you that Taehyung was still under the impression that you had no idea about his childhood crush on you.

"You knew?!" Taehyung gaped, mouth falling ajar slightly.

You raised an eyebrow at him, "Of course I knew."

"Wha– How? For how long?" Taehyung pressed, voice rising in pitch. You tried your hardest to suppress your amused smile, enjoying the way he was growing increasingly flustered.

"Well... you trying to kiss me in Jungkook's room was a huge giveaway," You laughed, "but I think I figured it out when you talked about the purple streaks I put in my hair."

At your confession, Taehyung frowned, clearly not understanding. You pulled away from him, letting out a sigh as you accepted the fact that you weren't going to convince Taehyung not to go to work any time soon.

"You told me Jungkook liked my purple hair."

Taehyung paused for a moment, digesting your words. He nodded slowly; it was a lie he had told you in an attempt to comfort you. He should have figured it would come back to bite him in the ass.

"... Yeah?"

"I dyed my hair after he died." You revealed, leaning back against the bathroom sink.

Taehyung thought back to Jungkook's funeral, trying to make sense of where his memories had gotten muddled.

You were right, of course.

Your entire family was dressed in all black, as were you. But sprinkled throughout your hair were bright streaks of indigo, contrasting almost purposely against the dark and gloomy day. Taehyung remembered thinking it suited you; the color was just as vibrant as you were, even if you remained silent and solemn the entire time.

"I dyed it the night before Jungkook’s funeral actually. I couldn’t fall asleep so my mom went out with me to buy the supplies and she helped me do it. It was a nice distraction for both of us." You remembered, your expression slightly melancholic. "Jungkook never got to see my hair. But you did.”

Taehyung's cheeks grew pink. "Not everything I told you was a lie. Everything I said before that really was Jungkook."

You nodded, a small smile visible, "Thank you for that by the way. Whether it was you or Jungkook saying those things, it meant a lot."

The corner of Taehyung's lips curled upwards.

"What about when we were younger? Did you know I liked you back then?" He wondered innocently.

"Thinking back on it now, it was kind of obvious that you did but I think I was too concerned with feelings for you to notice." You admitted through a laugh.

"So, you did have a crush on me?" Taehyung asked, a wide smile of disbelief growing on his face. You nodded shyly.

“You think I bugged you guys for all those years because I enjoyed Jungkook telling me to fuck off?” You grinned lightly. “I did it because I wanted to spend time with you.”

"I still do." You reminded him of the conversation's previous topic, pointing a finger against his naked chest.

Taehyung was absolutely buzzing, his chest full of pride at knowing that you had liked him all this time. If there were a cloud higher than cloud nine then he'd be on it– Hell, he'd be king of it.

Suddenly, the gravity beneath your feet shifted as you were scooped up in Taehyung's arms, a loud squeal of surprise leaving you.

"What are you doing?!" You laughed, arms scrambling to better hold onto Taehyung in case he accidentally dropped you.

"Screw work, I'm about to make your teenage dreams are coming true, baby." He grinned cheesily as he laid you back down onto his bed, laughter all but breaking the kisses the two of you began to exchange.

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“Are you okay?” Taehyung spoke finally.

You bit down onto your lip, contemplating your next words carefully.

“I feel dumb.”

Taehyung let out a sigh, “Y/N…”

“Sorry, sorry. I just… I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.” You replied, causing him to shrug.

“Just do whatever you’re comfortable with.”

Your hands found one another as you let those words sink in for a moment before nodding, ultimately sinking down onto your knees, the damp grass wetting the knees of your jeans.

“Hey, shrimp brain.” You began cautiously.

The headstone you spoke to was a light grey. Granite. There was a toss-up between granite and marble but you remembered that your parents had decided on granite.

“It’s, uh, me. I’m sorry we haven’t... talked." You frowned, still unfamiliar with the idea of talking to your dead brother's headstone.

It was actually your idea, but if it weren't for Taehyung's reassurance – and car – you would have never actually made it here.

Part of you feared that this was a mistake, some useless waste of time, but the larger part of you knew this was something you needed to do. Something you should have done a long time ago.

"I’m sorry for a lot of things actually.” You began, fingers intertwining themselves.

Laid out in front of the tombstone were a bunch of wilting flowers, undoubtedly placed there by your mother. They were sad to look at and you knew that in just a few days they would be replaced with new ones, but you couldn't help but feel Jungkook would've liked them this way. Taehyung thought so too, noting it complimented Jungkook's fashion sense as a teenager.

“Blondie and I are together now. And before you freak out, you should know that I’ve always liked him. I sometimes kinda feel like you already knew that but yeah. I hope you’re okay with that because he makes me really happy." You found yourself smiling before continuing. "I hope you're happy and blasting Jimi Hendrix... wherever you are.”

Suddenly, you felt a wave of emotion roll over you, taking you by surprise. It wasn't any kind of overwhelming anger or sadness like you usually felt, but just a slow melancholy, the kind that brought tears to your eyes but still let you hold onto your breathing.

“I know being sappy was never really our thing but I just wanted to say... that I miss you. And I love you. I’m sorry I never told you that while you were still around.”

A few moments of silence ticked by, filled only by the occasional chirp of a nearby bird, sat somewhere in one of the trees in the cemetery.

Taehyung watched as your frame began to shake slightly, placing a hand on your shoulder as he kneed down beside you.

“You’re okay. You’re doing great.” He cooed, his presence along helping to calm you down.

You sniffed, wiping your cheek dry with the back of your sleeve.

“But yeah. I hope you don’t mind if I swing by more often to bug you with some more one-sided conversations. Gotta uphold my title as the annoying little sister, after all.”

Taehyung let out a chuckle from beside you and that was all the reassurance you needed.

“I guess I’ll see ya later, shrimp brain.” You concluded finally, letting out a breath as you pushed yourself off your knees and back onto your feet.

Taehyung followed suit, eyes fixated on his best friend's gravestone.

"You really think he knew we liked each other?" He mused lightly.

"Going by what my mom said when I told her we were dating, literally everyone knew we liked each other." You laughed bitterly.

"Everyone but us, I guess." The blond boy laughed.

The sun had shifted its way behind a passing cloud then, and you couldn’t help but miss the warm feeling of it against your skin.

"What a bummer." You sighed, looking down at your brother's final resting place.

Taehyung tucked a hand into his pocket, watching the way you were standing beside him silently. He had a feeling that your words weren't just in regards to you and him anymore.

You heard the grass crunch as Taehyung moved, walking to stand behind you.

“It's not all bad."

You raised an eyebrow, opening your mouth to ask what he meant when you felt the weight on his chin rest against your shoulder.

"We found each other in the end." He said softly, causing your chest to tighten.

Because you too knew that this wasn't just about the two of you. Because although you had lost your brother, every day that you spent with Taehyung made me feel closer to your brother than you had ever been. The two of you would exchange memories of him, some of which you didn't even remember and some of which felt unimportant back then, but now brought you comfort. Sure, neither of you had a full picture of who Jungkook really was, but the pieces he had left behind finally made sense now that the two of you could hold them up beside one another.

And as Taehyung wrapped his arms around you, you let yourself sink back into his chest, for once not worried about feeling small or vulnerable.

"Yeah." You agreed, cheeks warm. "I guess we did."

[ferylcheryl]

Cathedral

Chapter 1

CW Infant Death

Private Heather’s exposed brain glistens oxblood and rose in the dim light.

“It’s a pudding, basically,” explains Stanley.

“I would have said ‘cathedral’,” McDonald retorts mildly. “I suppose it depends on the man.” He glances at Stanley, that ineradicable teasing glint in his eye.

And how much he has endured, Stanley thinks to himself. After all, there had been a time that he, too, might have likened man’s brain to a cathedral. Actually, he would have reserved that particular metaphor for the body, for it was more apt: the ribcage curved over heart and lung like the kerfed ribs of St. Paul’s vaulting up over the nave. A lavish miracle of engineering, man and cathedral alike; the one’s form echoing the other. The brain, he might’ve likened more to a clock. No less intricate, far less ostentatious of a metaphor. Or a lightning storm. A nebula of tree roots. Not a pudding, at any rate—but now, that’s what he sees, and that’s how he calls it.

Anyway, he grudgingly likes McDonald. He comports himself with a cheery equanimity more befitting a cook or a seaman than a doctor, and Stanley’s own effort to model a mien more befitting go largely disregarded by both him and Goodsir (who is such a soft, scuttling thing he hardly warrants notice). But McDonald: there’s something of steel in the man, a kind of grit; perhaps the ability to face up to the horror of the brain exposed and scry in it a holiness—and to speak of it with gladness. There was a time they might have been fast friends.

He casts a sidewise glance at Goodsir, who is busy with flame and sealing wax. He’d asked to stay and watch McDonald cauterize the edges, asserted his will in that cringing way of his: how timid he is, yet he seems always in the way, somehow. His mere presence grates. Now, the eyes having been sealed—at Stanley’s request, Goodsir notes—and the cauters heated, Goodsir takes a moment to inspect the brain closely. It is the first living brain he’s seen, the skull shorn away with unnervingly surgical precision, and it is enough in itself. What he means is, man’s engine needs no metaphor to claim divinity: it is out of this labyrinth of pink hillocks and blood vessels as finely-forked and intricate as lightning that the whole of human history is sprung. Yet removed from the context of its vast scope of accomplishment, one might think of it as so much meat. Both men are correct, but neither grasps the full complexity of it.

Nor does Goodsir, in terms he could explain. But for a moment its full complexity is unfurled before him—like Bernini’s St. Theresa, this vision of the brain’s thousand manifestations, transfigurations, iterations pours down around him like shafts of gold: a cathedral, a pudding, a geode hatched open. A chorale of light, of impulse, of blueprints and ecstasies. The holy symmetry of the lobes, their earthen ugliness; by the will of the great animator a thousand cathedrals erected and puddings confected—metaphor is inconsequential in the blinding light of this revelation. Metaphor is language: this transcends.

But it only lasts a moment. He is used to it by now, these—what else can he call them but visions? It is like his mind’s eye is momentarily deluged with a sight not his own, and his intellect (which he recognizes with conditioned humility is not insubstantial) is left to sort it out. When he was a child he tried to share it with others, he discovered that he not only lacked the language but that others did not experience the same. *A capital imagination*, his mother had beamed to a friend once. *Unnatural,* the woman had retorted darkly. He was eight then and never spoke of it again. Not even when it took the form of instructive presentiment. At ten, idly plucking blackberries on a country ramble, he fancied he could taste—for all of him was given to these visions, brain and ear, touch and tongue—within each black-shining drupelet smaller ones, an infinitude of — what might he call them? The matter of all things parsed into smaller, invisible things. And the next week he learned of cells, discovering their name only after tasting them.

He raises his eyes and glances from Dr. Stanley to Dr. McDonald to Stanley again. And again he sees the darkness around Stanley’s head, a scrambled etch-work of black lines, like a child’s drawing of cloud. He drops his gaze. This he is accustomed to as well: a crown donned by the miserable. A few other men aboard wear it—Captain Crozier, for one; Lt. Irving for another. One learns to disregard it.

The room warms incrementally as Stanley leaves it. McDonald crosses behind him in the small space, grazing his hand along the small of Goodsir’s back as he does so. This he does often, and it is such a natural gesture for a man of such bonhomie that Goodsir has only recently begun sensing something more in so many seemingly incidental touches: a brush of fingertips as they exchange an instrument, the older man’s gaze lingering—kindly, but lingering nevertheless—a few seconds longer than necessary.

Perhaps he is imagining it. He hopes he is. Not just because he dreads disappointing McDonald with his eventual rebuff, but because he senses—again, it is nothing he can explain, nor does he see it the way he sees the naked brain before him, the low wooden beams of the sick bay, the anatomical drawings pinned to the wall—a weak, fluttering light, like the beat of moth wings, emanating from Stanley’s heart when McDonald is near. In close proximity, it flickers nearly steadily; it gutters and fades as McDonald moves away. Goodsir knows what it is, though he’s never experienced it firsthand: longing, affection. When shared between two lovers, it buoys him—an aimless sunniness, like one felt as a boy the morning of one’s birthday. But suppressed, as with Stanley’s feeling for McDonald (not even, Goodsir guesses, acknowledged by the sour-tempered veteran to himself) it is an agitation; one’s hands shake and all things, even breath, taste of ash and iron.

———

Stanley sits up in the dark, willing his breath to quiet. He can almost still feel her scant weight in his palms. A skeletal pink thing she was, grotesquely proportioned. All skull and looming eye, like an unfeathered chick. In the dream he bears her before him like an offering, walking down a sun-blown lane of cypresses, birds darting back and forth overhead. She’d come too early, and with her characteristic stoniness Mary had declared it useless to name her. But in his heart he called her Mercy. In the dream he knows without seeing—in that way that dreams manufacture context with no care whatsoever for waking reality—her face, luminous eyes and a prim mouth belying an adamant will. Not here but somewhere else she grows to be willowy and tart-tongued; she marries and bears children of her own. Not in this life but in another will she make him proud and glad. In this life, he wakes tasting ash and iron, his palms open as in supplication to a weight too phantom to quantify.

Goodsir, too, wakes. He does not sit bolt upright in bed but rather lies bleary-eyed, assembling the disparate elements of the dream. Not being his dream, per se, he is detached enough to hold it before his mind’s eye like an anatomical model, turn it this way and that. He does not know whose dream it is. He does know, however, that the dream lives of most of his fellows are dreadfully tedious, and so he’s grateful for this startling departure. Generally, men’s dreams are panting, damp, carnal messes: curves of flesh, gliding hands, blurts of soaked heat. He wakes embarrassed, his own body inert but exhausted. Or he’s seen the million fears any man can have transcribed into just a handful of symbols: the dream of the teeth falling out. The dream where you can neither scream nor run nor speak nor hear; you may as well be a girl’s doll. The childhood home distorted: these, at least, interest him vaguely, for it is a bit like travel. His own dreams? He doesn’t dream them. He sometimes wonders if someone else, someone like himself, does.

But in this dream he is standing at the end of an avenue of cypresses. At his feet, a neat dirt path, impeccably clean edged. A warm day but the breeze bears a chill and the smell of blood, and at the far horizon clouds curdle into smoke. Someone far away, arms held out before them, bearing something small in their cupped hands. The figure shimmers and twitches and he can make out nothing about it: male, female, what. He only knows that the clouds have turned to smoke, conflagration not far behind. It keeps coming and coming, never drawing closer—then it is there before him—first a shuddering dark slit in the horizon and then standing as close to him as only lovers stand. His face is a mass of scarlet and char, but he knows him, he knows him like he’d know his own face in a mirror, but now, upon waking cannot recall who it was.

Peculiar, that he should remember the rest so clearly, but not that crucial detail. Equally peculiar, he realizes, is that he is uncertain of the time; doesn’t know how long he’s slept. Now he’s wired awake in that way his body has of feeling tense and angry if he lies about, so up he gets, dresses in the weak light, and steps out into the dark. Most but the watch are sleeping: late, then, rather than early. He climbs stealthily onto the deck, startling Mr. Hickey, who by his crumpled posture and crabbish, ruddy expression—what Goodsir can see of it between his cap and his scarf, mostly those glittering inscrutable eyes and that outsized nose—was probably woken.

“Warn a man,” he grumbles.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Hickey, I didn’t mean to disturb you,” he says tartly, hunching his shoulders as he passes him.

“What are you doing up, eh? I’d give my left stone to be abed—“

“I thought you were,” Goodsir says, a bit unkindly perhaps—for he’s never done anything wrong that Goodsir’s aware of, but how he slouches about, the hungry way he is always listening, like a dog watching for a morsel from his master’s table. His proportions all out of sync: that round mouth big nose, all that muscle on a dwarfish little frame. Goodsir chastises himself: <i>he’s an inch on you</>, he reminds himself. <I>And the ladies probably fancy him a yard more for it.</I> Not that Goodsir cares for ladies. He’s simply rather put out that they don’t seem to care for him.

“You’re a funny kind of man,” Hickey tells him.

“I beg your pardon?”

Hickey grins. “You know things.”

“Oh? And what kinds of things do I know?” He turns too quickly and looks Hickey too hard into the eye, sure the witchy vagaries of his brain are writ plain as ABC across his brow. (<I>not that he can read,</I> says Goodsir’s bitter half.)

But then Hickey cocks his head. “As the ship’s doctor, I mean. You must learn a great deal.”

“I’m not the ship’s doctor. Dr. Stanley is. I merely... assist,” he finishes lamely. The ladies must love that knowing grin of his.

At that moment, there’s a creak as Lt. Irving climbs onto deck. His eyes are hard. “Is Mr. Hickey ill, Mr. Goodsir?”

Hickey beams at him. “I’m right as rain, lieutenant. The doctor was having trouble sleeping, I expect, and thought a turn in the brisk air might do him good. Isn’t that so?”

Goodsir nods vaguely and makes to go back down. How funny it is to constantly receive these vague little pricks and pops of energy—like static electricity or near lightning. Like, he intuits now what he could not quite make clear before: first, that the collective fancies of all of London’s fairest would do Hickey not a whit of good, and second, that Irving knows it. By the time he settles back into his own bed, Goodsir’s fretful near unto tears. It’s much too much for one man, to bear scraps and fragments of all other men. He reads until the words blur and drift on the page, falls asleep, and blessedly does not dream.

[kiki-wiccan]

Once again, colour--observing each artwork closely, taking a few silent moments to admire the effort the wiccan had put into her work. His arm seemed to rest on her body, but there was a reluctance in the way he touched her. As if he were scared she’d break, that Stanislav didn’t quite know what to do with himself. He’d never been this close to...he still couldn’t bring himself to say it. A failed attempt at maintaining distance, keeping the illusion intact whilst ignoring the pressing matter that had haunted him their entire encounter.

        Though as he observed the artwork, Stanislav allowed himself to discard his fears. He remained as silent as ever, eyes searching the intricate details; even the smallest markings on the page in an effort to fully drink in who Kiki was. The world she saw, the things she made with her own hands--it was beautiful, completely foreign to his own aesthetics. When Kiki pointed to the garden, Stanislav’s eyes narrowed as he did his best to capture his own image of a much younger Kiki enjoying her childhood, engaging in her fondness of nature. It was...a pleasant thought, and a much needed one in stark to his own depressing mortal life. To think Kiki never had to go through the hardships he’d faced, it relieved him.

        Setting the artwork aside, his eyes glossed over the rendered figures of Kiki’s highschool friends. While they were beautifully drawn, his eyes rest upon Kiki. To think this was before all of those things had happened to her; he wished to ingrain the image in his head forever. Not that he saw her as ruin, broken--he would be a hypocrite, being as he was. His thumb brushed against the hem of Kiki’s pants, before he silently gave her the picture to put away.

        

        Seeing Kiki’s dreams drawn reminded him of their time in the hospital. Though the ideas were absurd, he had no dreams of his own to reflect upon unless they were cinematic reconstructions of past memories. 

        As Kiki’s demeanor transformed alongside the much darker works, as much as he hated the thought of his beloved--no, he couldn’t call her such a thing even if it were true--his face remained emotionally vacant as he attuned to the parts of Kiki’s mind that he hadn’t yet seen. Pills, poetic depression, self-harm...he said absolutely nothing. No words were needed right now, not yet. 

              When faced with the drawings of Kiki and her professor, Stanislav almost instinctively pulled Kiki closer to his much bigger, colder frame. His grip remained ever-so gentle, almost as if she were a fragile doll that he seemed afraid to roughen up, lest she would break apart into shards of glass. Searing the face of the professor into his mind, Stanislav made an attempt at hiding his contempt as he set the work aside. Evermore drawings came into view, drawings of the macabre and grotesque--and he found that through it all, perhaps he and Kiki were more alike than he’d realized. Perhaps that’s why Kiki, out of all the men and women he’d experienced a fleeting attraction too, had left an impression on him.

               Once the artwork had been shown, Stanislav sat in silence for a long moment, before he finally replied to Kiki.

         “No. Don’t destroy them.” Stanislav looked ahead, seeming to enter a state of mind far different from that of his usually calm self. His voice and body didn’t give it away, it ran much deeper, hidden within the context. “They are yours to keep. Memories, though unpleasant they may be...but they have brought you here. To destroy them would take away part of yourself, your evolution.” 

           Turning his head to look upon the wiccan, he placed a hand under her chin; looking at her face, into her hues. “I am not sure why I find myself so drawn to you, but know this...” The vampire found himself trailing his hand towards her neck, caressing the soft flesh with a cold palm. “I think I’ve come to understand that we are more alike than one would realize.” 

         He let out a quiet exhale from his nose. “You are dangerous for me, Kiki. And I to you--there’s no denying that. It’s simply in my nature. I’ve tried to maintain my distance, deny myself...but I accept you, whole. Mind, body, and soul.” 

       The vampire removed his hand from its gentle caress, removing his arm from her waist upon realizing what he’d said. His expression turned more somber, and he realized that he had indeed grown attached--and this was his moment of truth. The leap he never wanted to make.

            “Unfortunately, I...may have mislead you. I’ve lived for so long, and within me I bury many secrets...secrets that I’ll tell you, in due time...but there is one I cannot continue to hide, no. For I don’t wish to lie to you. Not now, not ever.” 

             His shoulders relaxed, and he couldn’t bring himself to look at the woman who’d made a claim in his heart. Could he bring himself to say it?

The entire time she was handing over the artwork that came from the darkest parts of her mind, she didn’t dare look at him. Part of her feared that she’d see judgement in her eyes, judgement that she wasn’t as strong as she tried to play off. She hated being seen as weak because back in her hometown that was the one word she’d use to describe herself. Weak, a victim, the complete opposite of what she strived to be. Maybe she was just afraid of the darker parts of her mind, she wanted to see the world through rose colored classes. For the most part she was able to do just that and she was optimistic against most odds. Trying to shut out anything negative, anything dark and pessimistic. She was showing Stan her the side of herself she found ugly and dull, how would he react?

She only dared to look over when his voice broke the silence that lingered over them. She couldn’t help but smile at his words, he was right. As much as she hated everything she’d drawn from that dark time they were a part of her. “You’re right....” she gasped softly as she felt his hand gently lift her chin up. She stared into his eyes looking for any signs of judgement, but there was none to be found. Her heart beat speeding up as his hand traveled down to her neck. Hearing him say they were similar, that he accepted her, all of her. Warmth spread throughout her body and she realized that these feelings, were very different than the ones with her professor. Could it be love? There were no other words that she could seem to find that would explain how she felt. Frowning as he pulled away from her, his touch still lingering like a ghost on her skin. Brows furrowing as she listened to him reveal that he was about to tell her something important, something he’d likely kept locked away. Her complete focus was on him, whatever he was about to tell her she knew wouldn’t sway the way she felt.

[mutualhighmaintenancemachin-blog]

I need a fix cus I'm going down

Made the mistake of appraising myself sufficiently healthy to attend a bonfire with normal decent tax-payer type folks. Stood up too fast in my chair and blacked out completely, hit my head on concrete. When I came to i had no earthly fucking memory of having driven to the bonfire, nor could i really recall the names of the three concerned hipsters perched over my limp doughy abscessed jaundiced shit heap of a body. Told them it was a problem with blood sugar, i had forgotten to imbibe my afternoon orange juice! Translation-haven’t slept in four days, taking in roughly two hundred calories a day all in ginger ale. Meth heads opt to sustain themselves on a diet of paranoid resentment in lieu of proteins and grains. The cook gets super spun and lectures us like we’re babes about the dark leftist forces presently waging war on the masculinity of the white man-for one thing, he's convinced that jews run the porn industry and that fucking pornhub is riddled with overtures both overt and subliminal intended to brainwash white guys into identifying as weak and feminine and to associate men of color with heroism and strength. He also believes that soy causes gender dysphoria. All of these batshit crazy delusions act like stars in the broad constellation of the cooks worst dystopian fears-a workforce with no room left for traditionally male-centered leadership characteristics dominated from top-down by a host of future ladies who make their trade in creative collaboration, rather than fear and theft of other peoples ideas. Without a need for a provider, our nazi-bespectacled methamphetamine cook envisions a new sexual economy in which women will jettison their attachments to the family structure in favor of like, industrialism, i guess, and men will have no other resort but a desperate turn to cross-dressing and dick-taking and i guess maybe stitching scarves. It was at this point that i was really tempted to tell the cook something he needs to hear-if you really believe that large shadow societies are orchestrating history just cus they want to make you some dudes boyfriend, its probably cus part of you wants to be. I get that, sucking dick is a blast. if you’re terrified that you can’t compete in a post-modern job market, it might just be because you aren’t. There’s no place left for cowboys or outlaws or methcooks cus those professions only make sense in the context of an insanely violent frontier. You feel obsolete and useless because you are, but make no mistake, that hurt has nothing to do with the world everything to do with your soul being severely malnourished. I know cus mine is too! Real moral christian courage is showing up to your crucifixion with a smile on your face ready to graciously thank the romans for every nail they put through your wrist. You feel empty because your a paranoid fascist meth cook, i feel bad cus I'm a junkie. We are bad. The nazi pilots who blitzed france in two sleepless, speed-fueled nights probably felt fucking fantastic, as if they were aloft on the trade winds of history itself and their momentum across europe must have seemed like proof enough of the moral righteousness of the german cause. But then the morning comes and the meth wears off and your skin smells like piss and your back aches and you can’t stop grinding your jaw and the first wave of survivors begin to trickle out from the camps and presumably in that moment a few nazis had the epiphany-that the very same starved beaten traumatized jewish women and men and children they had aspired to extinguish from human memory were now going to tell the story of what had happened. Power loses, grace is its own kingdom, etc etc. Furthermore those german officers who managed to transition back to civilian life and start families must have experienced a very strange new parental dynamic-can you imagine a family at a dinner table and the proud head of household instructs his small son to finish his vegetables and after pausing to mull it over for a few moments his son turns to him and says Father having thought about it a great deal i don’t think ill be following your instructions-after all you were only following instructions yourself when you helped to engineer the greatest cruelty in human history! To which ostensibly the father mumbles to clear his throat and asks his wife to pass the potato salad. Not even to invoke the possibility that the Fuhrer himself Mr. Adolph Hitler probably died surrounded by a swarm of shadow people, fucking hilarious just the thought, him yelling in that distinctive manic patois of his that he’s the leader and the abeyance of his will is sacrosanct blah blah blah while the little invisible mites under his pale skin shift and swell and scratch and the shadow people dancing around his peripheral vision taunting and cajoling and ridiculing him and the absurdity of his final solution and because he didn’t know speed the way we now know speed he probably didn’t know anything about the shadow people at all from his perspective they might just as well have been the ghosts of his victims come to taunt and ridicule him in his lowest hour pointing and laughing and daring him to pull the trigger!   

The same entitlement motivates the mass shooter who imagines a world full of seven billion perfect strangers as an attack on his rightful pursuit of happiness. No one will sleep with him and he can’t make sense of his place in a world built on fucking so he begins to indulge in fantasies of coercion, revenging himself on the very public space he so craved Now if our hypothetical douchebag had any pretense of self-awareness he might have looked into the possibility of adopting several dogs, and in turn coming to see his life as a story about caring unconditionally for animals. That’s a helluva life-Saint Francis got into the catholic hall of fame for doing not a whole lot more. Or perhaps he could adjust his expectations of intimacy in consideration of the countless plain-to middling-to ugly folks who are forced to come to terms with the truth early on that all of our bodies are grotesque and hideously deformed billboard advertisements for our big beautiful impossibly dense souls-come see a kernel of divine inspiration made self-aware, shimmering in the glory of creation,  just two exits past the tits and chin and ankles and all the rest of our faulty parts. 

Now a discerning reader(however unlikely you’d be to find one in an audience consisting of absolutely fucking nobody lol) might have already begun to detect a certain heady strain of hypocrisy in this authors conclusion. Because while I'm not much of anything the one thing i certainly am is a self-destructive drug addict. So maybe its one thing for me to make fun of the cook for his wrath-filled flu-stricken infants tantrum of a way of viewing the world, assigning to his solipsism a generation-hopping solidarity with his nazi forefathers who came before and identifying in his politics the germinal seed of fascisms future, a politics so personal and self-contained that every divorce will be debated as if it were a stand in for larger cultural decay, every morning hangover a portent of spiritual decline, the vitals of the stock market remeasured and reassessed each time someone finds on the sidewalk a loose dollar bill. Political assemblies with real largesse exclusively devoted to trolling the instagram of a nebraskan man named doug’s now ex-wife  for pictures of her maui vacation with husband number two drinking mojitos on a beach with sand bleached white as bone and both of them grinning with surgical precision an opulent almost confrontational kind of public grinning Doug couldn't recall that bitch ever having felt for him and the kids off playing in the surf and well how could any concerned and conscientious citizen fail to see the basic threat to democracy that whole scene represents? Donald Trump is probably the loneliest man in the world. He’s never met another person. He spends his time wandering the halls of his head checking for reoccurrences of his own reflection, a lifetime spent pathologically re-telling the same story about how he came to be the most powerful person in the world, so that by the time he really became who he had always pretended to be, the most influential figure in the free world, he had long-since bought into his own fraud to such a great extent that even the real thing couldn’t compare. Only a selfishness and self-centeredness as grandiloquent as his could explain the mindset of the modern mass shooter and the micro-politics informing him. He confuses his head for the world and then becomes enraged when it won’t do as he wishes, cursing the rain for its cold lash against his shoulder where he’d rather there have rested warm summer glow, furious at the thought of all the people he would never meet in far-off places he would never see who never paid him any attention whatsoever. Playing peek-a-boo a little bit of cheating peer through chubby fingers arrayed like a geisha’s fan and for the first time see that objects don’t disappear without our gaze to ontologically anchor them to earth. What a hurt. Now it might be technically correct that my addiction does to my loving family what the selfishness of the mass shooter does to public space. It intrudes like an alien thing and turns the air chilly in our childhood home and it transforms the medicine cabinet into a contested territory in need of defensive fortification and now that Cassies marriage has crashed on the rocks of addiction nobody could blame her if she never allowed another addict to darken her doorstep again and there was the sight of Jan opening my trucks passenger side door and a few rigs fell out onto the floor and all the spoons in the house have one side burnt-and-bruised like a black-eye you say you got from falling down a flight of stairs despite body language that says something entirely else why is it we don’t have a single spoon in the house what ghost spends all night punching the walls full of holes 

recently went to an Alanon meeting to sneak a glimpse of how the other half lives...this lady said my addiction is to loving my addict. Bawled rivers out from red raw-rubbed rubber eyes and said my addiction is to my addict Not her person or qualifier or partner but her addict. Syntax almost seeming to suggest that something about the existential plight of the addict gets her intoxicated dizzy on pain. It’s quaint though cus that sort of sentiment is for fucking rookies-guarantee you no ones crying over me like a romantic. Not anymore. My thing these days is of a distinctly more shakespearian strand of tragedy, with wittgenstein and derrida’s influences also undeniable. I’m sick now in a way where people stop crying and praying you’ll find God and change and decide instead it’d be easier to just cross the street. Schizophrenics lost in a chorus meant only just for them, apocalyptic street preachers who stand on soap boxes while reeking of shit and give voice to visions of an America not our own, an alternate dimension where european arrival at the shores of the new world stalled out somewhere halfway across the pacific ocean on a wave so tall it scraped the heavens and America grew up a nation of nomads who set their watches to the rumbling migration of herds of buffalo and not even the highest priest could dream of a more beautiful idea than that of motion, movement without cease, the only acceptable fixed still frozen property being the burial mounds where the dead went after all their motion had gone-if they could view us on the other side of the looking glass stolen away in our own personal homes they would almost certainly come to the conclusion that this place where we live is just the land of the dead, a negative photograph of everything vital and good. Who would i be to disagree though, right? 

The point is anyway that some alchemical reaction of A. Mental illness and B. Amphetamine abuse has more or less stranded me in words. Verbs and nouns and adjectives and adverbs in place of sky and grass. What Fredric Jameson called the prison house of language. Where derrida’s difference goes to play for eternity, never quite meaning what it had meant to say. What shook wittgenstein speechless. The president’s rhetoric so hollow that you can almost see him suffering a kind of dementia or spiritual torpor that results from the badness of his faith. Chewing and chomping consonants and sounds till they all are made to mush and shearing syllable after syllable off the network of signification until all that’s left is one satellite pinging a distress call hello is anyone there off of its own side. It’s own side like Adam plucked Eve from his rib and said put on this dress-after they ate the fruit and God cast him/her out to walk the world alone reportedly God said have fun all alone you worthless slut. Imagine trumps final state of the union-i am very sick, i have been alone for as long as I can remember, i wish i hadn’t lied so often, i wish i had occasionally told the truth, i would trade all of it to have known just one person. 

Anyways, barring that miracle of political theater, the body gets sick and dissolves while the spirit is lost in words. I’d like to die in a bathroom stall in haughville with a rig stuck in my arm and the words I'm sorry stuck at the tip of my tongue and God decides to show some compassion and makes me a deal says you were never much good to people didn’t believe in a thing but you sure could do some impressive vomiting up of nonsense words and so what ill do is your soul will dissolve and turn into ink and for the rest of eternity you’ll be a naughty joke or a half-scribbled doggerel scrawled on the wall of a piss-soaked bathroom stall in the ghetto or you could say call this number here for a good time and don’t forget to ask for large marge and nobody’d ever suspect you were trapped in there or maybe a joke like this favorite of mine about my son it goes something like Jesus Christ was a God-awful carpenter, couldn’t pull a nail to save his own life. Christ was a God-awful, couldn’t pull a nail to save his own life. Couldn't pull a nail. Christ was God-awful. Couldn’t nail his own couldn’t save a carpenter terrible couldn’t pull god-awful a terrible carpenter he couldn’t pull a nail to save his own life. I can’t pull this nail to save my own life. It’s right there sticking out of my wrist, but for whatever reason I just can’t find the right words to pull it out he was a carpenter who couldn’t pull a nail even if his life depended on it couldn't save his own life he couldn't-

For a good time call this number 1-555-555-5555 and don’t forget to ask for-

[nofomoartworld]

Hyperallergic: Against a Feathered Headdress: A Tale of Two Performance Festivals and Native American Voices

Emily Johnson (Yup’ik) leading Umyuangvigkaq, a PS122 Long Table and durational Sewing Bee event at the Ace Hotel on January 8 (all photos by Maria Baranova, courtesy PS122, unless indicated otherwise)

Two simultaneous performance events on January 8 revealed the gulf that still exists between certain New York art institutions in their approach to genuine collaboration and the failure to be accountable to indigenous concerns. While MoMA PS1 struggled to respond to controversy over the use of a faux-Sioux headdress by choreographer Latifa Laâbissi in her 2006 work Self Portrait Camouflage — in which the artist performs nude while wearing the headdress — across town the Yup’ik choreographer Emily Johnson created a space that centered indigenous voices and values to teach the very lessons that the PS1 curatorial team and Laâbissi could have used. Johnson’s Umyuangvigkaq, or “place to gather ideas,” a Long Table discussion and durational Sewing Bee that was part of Performance Space 122’s Coil Festival, modeled sovereign practice and a respect for local cultural protocol. Meanwhile, at the PS1 performance, which was part of the American Realness festival, the artistic right to transgression was pitted against Native American beliefs and values in a false opposition.

Objections to Self Portrait Camouflage, a solo performance by Laâbissi, a French-born choreographer whose parents immigrated from Morocco, were first raised by Rosy Simas, a Seneca dancer and choreographer, in December. Simas saw promotional images of Laâbissi’s performance online and was outraged that a fake piece of regalia held sacred by the Lakota, Dakota, and Nakota peoples (collectively known as the Sioux Nations) was being appropriated. In a public letter posted to Facebook she described it as a sacrilegious and “aggressive act of hate speech.” Her letter outlined the traumatic effect of the disregard for Native culture in Laâbissi’s use of the feathered headdress (currently a focus of critiques of cultural appropriation), a particularly charged symbol in light of its cultural relevance to the peoples of the Standing Rock Sioux Reservation and the ongoing struggles against the Dakota Access Pipeline there. Laâbissi’s performance claims to evoke the imperialist custom of exhibiting indigenous people at World’s Fairs and conjure the silent aggressions at the heart of immigrant experiences through tropes of caricature and the grotesque. But the appropriation of headdresses and “playing Indian” in an American context are long-running acts of aggression that, as Simas pointed out in her letter, contributed to systematic genocide and indigenous erasure.

While Natives and non-Natives decried Laâbissi’s lack of sensitivity and foresight, Ben Snapp Pryor of American Realness immediately reached out to Simas and began an extensive dialogue. The result was a public response and apology, and American Realness withdrawing its support of the performance. The offending promotional image was taken down from banner ads and Pryor removed the performance from the festival program entirely. American Realness committed to hosting a panel discussion, “Native American Realness,” which took place at ISSUE Project Room on January 7, the day before Laâbissi’s performance at PS1. Rosy Simas and Christopher K. Morgan, a Native Hawaiian choreographer, joined Sara Nash of the New England Foundation for the Arts to discuss cultural appropriation, Redface, and other forms of colonial racism in artistic practice. The panelists took the opportunity to make indigenous values present. For example, the discussion was done in a circle, began with a Native Hawaiian prayer, and participants expressed their lineage when speaking. Morgan told Hyperallergic that he hoped the panel would be like a “drop in the pond that is rippling outward” to the spectrum of non-Native members of the performance community who hadn’t considered such issues up until that point.

Rosy Simas (Seneca) leading discussion at “Native American Realness,” organized by American Realness at ISSUE Project Room on January 7 (photo by Ian Douglas, courtesy American Realness)

However, PS1’s response to the concerns of the Native arts community was unapologetic. A week after Simas published her letter, she spoke with Chief Curator Peter Eleey and Jenny Schlenzka, Associate Curator and the organizer of Laâbissi’s performance. After several phone meetings a Skype conversation was arranged between Simas and Laâbissi, observed by the PS1 curatorial staff, so the artist could hear the concerns over her use of sacred regalia. Simas described the conversation as difficult and ugly. It was clear to her that Laâbissi believed that if she could explain her work, Simas would understand and grant her permission to use the headdress (which Simas, as a Seneca woman, could not give). The dialogue between the two ended with Simas telling Laâbissi that continuing to wear the headdress was a colonial act, which Laâbissi insisted she, as a woman of Moroccan heritage, could not commit. “She could not see that acts of disrespect and oppression can occur even when coming from another colonial context of oppression,” Simas told Hyperallergic.

While PS1changed the promo image from Laâbissi in the headdress to an empty podium draped with a French flag, the conversation largely ended there. Simas began to raise money to fly herself and Dakota elders and educators to New York to address and protest the performance. American Realness and PS1 both contributed some funding, and Simas was able to bring Dakota/Lakota elder Janice Bad Moccasin and Dakota educator Ramona Kitto Stately to attend the weekend’s events. The organizers and artist were silent on whether there would be any change to the performance with respect to the headdress, so a group of Native scholars, artists, and choreographers — many of them in town for for the concurrent Association of Performing Arts Presenters conference — joined Simas to attend Self Portrait Camouflage.

Laâbissi’s performance was a source of surprise, relief, and, eventually, disappointment. She began the piece wearing the headdress and then, for the first time in a decade of performing the work, removed it within the first few minutes of the performance and placed it on the floor in front of the audience. Her body language was suggestive of offering and respect in doing so. It was a clear response to the criticisms she had received, and Laâbissi performed the rest of the work only wearing a red headband that had been underneath the headdress.

The removal of the headdress, though, demonstrated even more the lapse in research and consultation that had gone into the performance. During the ensuing Q&A (a recording of which PS1 provided to Hyperallergic), Janice Bad Moccasin stood to speak to traditional Dakota beliefs and Northern Plains customs. The feathered headdress, fake or not, she explained,  is a very sacred and restricted item to be worn only by men in the Northern Plains tribes. Such a right is earned feather by feather, as each feather represents a great deed. Bad Moccasin acknowledged her respect for the work of the artist and commended her for putting the headdress down. But she explained that it was understood in her customs that once Laâbissi had put the headdress down, by letting it touch the ground, she could not pick it back up. “What we learn is that an eagle feather is so important it cannot touch the ground. If it touches the ground it is a fallen warrior, and you may never pick it up again,” Ramona Kitto Stately told Laâbissi. “It’s important that you don’t use that headdress. It hurts my people. It demeans my people. Please leave that fallen warrior. There is a song that is many years old in order to pick it up and use it in a good way. Please don’t use that.” Such an offense could easily have been avoided had any Plains Indian person ever been consulted in the dramaturgy.

Discussion at Umyuangvigkaq, a PS122 Long Table and durational Sewing Bee event at the Ace Hotel on January 8

Despite Bad Moccasin’s and Stately’s pleas, Laâbissi, speaking through a translator, said that she couldn’t commit to not wearing the headdress again. When asked if she had been aware of the problematic nature of the choice to use the headdress when she performed Self Portrait in 2014 at Chez Bushwick, she admitted that she had been. Though she claims she didn’t wear the headdress with the intent of triggering violence, Laâbissi retreated to asking whether art has the right to transgression. The transgressions in her performance that are specific to her experience — including being a nude Arab woman and stuffing the French flag into her mouth, which is illegal in France — were thus equated, problematically, with transgressions against a historically oppressed culture and people.

Christopher K. Morgan attended the performance, and during the Q&A he described the conflict he felt about the work. On the one hand, his Western, liberal arts-educated self bristled at the idea of any potential censorship of individual expression. On the other, deeply inscribed in his blood is his indigenous self’s respect for community and sacred symbols. That tension, which Morgan later described as emblematic of a colonial subject’s experience, needs to be critically interrogated in light of the complex political context Laâbissi entered the work into. Transgression cannot be a responsible defense to a lack of research and consideration, particularly from an artist of international renown with major institutional support. “I would hate to see an artist not want to be extreme,” Morgan said, “but at the same time, the depth of research, respect for community, the objects that you are appropriating from, and how you do that is really critical, especially when it is a people who so rarely get to see their own work in their institutions, if at all. It becomes a facsimile of those people.”

It was not made clear why the headdress needed to be part of the piece’s artistic transgression. In discussion with Laâbissi after her performance, Carole Maccotta — an Assistant Professor of Foreign Languages and Literature at Long Island University specializing, appropriately, in colonial literature and cultural appropriation — could only point to the beautiful aesthetic effect of the headdress. Laâbissi declined to make any statement to Hyperallergic, preferring to let the work speak for itself. However, she noted the centrality of the headdress to the performance in an interview in the Fall 2016 issue of Movement Research Performance Journal:

This dimension of indigeneity is central … . The [headdress] itself is a synecdoche: a part, representing the whole of something broader — indigeneity in this case. Indeed, I am not speaking to the experience of American Indians nor am I trying to draw analogies or equivalences between the experiences of American Indians and those who were subject to French colonial rule. Rather, it is a way of entering into a discursive field, a way of entering into a limited field equipped with visual tropes that are, themselves, loaded with meaning.

But even from an aesthetic point of view that considers the headdress as a visual trope rather than as a culturally specific sacred object, one must consider how the whole range of visual and historical associations impacts the broader audience and interacts with a local context.

There are deeply loaded meanings of the headdress that Laâbissi’s performance and shallow engagement efforts ignore. It is at once an appropriated costume at summer camps and music festivals and a sign of contemporary indigenous resistance in North Dakota; it is a representation of the noble savage and warrior brave topoi that fascinated Europeans and the costume of the commercial endeavors that the likes of George Catlin and Buffalo Bill Cody ran as they toured indigenous bodies around the world. The headdress is part of a history of the display of Others that long precedes and postdates the Human Zoos and Universal Exposition displays to which Laâbissi refers. Most tellingly, the headdress proved so hurtful in the context of the PS1 performance because, as Laâbissi’s chosen representation of indigeneity, it stood for what is so often the very inability of indigenous peoples to represent themselves. The lack of awareness of indigenous contemporary experience in a context normally denied to Native artists (that of a high-profile and well-funded international performance festival in a similarly well-heeled art museum) was represented by a facsimile of a sacred object, a mere copy.

“Native American Realness” discussion with Rosy Simas (Seneca), Christopher K. Morgan (Native Hawaiian), and Sara Nash, organized by American Realness at ISSUE Project Room on January 7 (photo by Ian Douglas, courtesy American Realness)

The reinforcement of such institutional exclusion is nothing new, said Rulan Tangen, a Santa Fe-based Métis choreographer who attended Laâbissi’s performance and then led a Decolonizing Workshop for A Blade of Grass on January 12. “Indigenous people never seem to be invited to the table,” she told Hyperallergic, “it is erasure by absence and intellectual exclusion.” Such a need for genuine collaboration and inclusion will become all the more urgent for Jenny Schlenzka next month when she leaves PS1, where she curated the performance program, to become Executive Artistic Director at PS122. While Schlenzka expressed a deep and humble gratitude to Simas, Bad Moccasin, and Kitto Stately for sharing their knowledge and concerns, neither she nor PS1 offered any apology for the use of the headdress, which presumably will continue in Laâbissi’s future performances. At the post-performance Q&A, Schlenzka admitted that it was a great shortcoming to not see the problematic nature of the use of the headdress.

However, in a statement sent to Hyperallergic subsequently, she defended Laâbissi’s performance as “a stark and highly personal solo performance that draws attention to the aggressions that lie at the heart of the colonial gaze. The questions it raises are important and complex. … I am [grateful] to Latifa for the sensitivity with which she engaged these concerns and incorporated them within her performance.” Whether such a defensive stance will affect Schlenzka’s work at PS122 remains to be seen as she takes over a program that has recently made efforts to engage indigenous artists and communities. Outgoing artistic director Vallejo Gantner and his organization have been in a generative dialogue with Emily Johnson and the Lenape Center for the past year to build acknowledgements of indigenous rights and territories into PS122’s programming. Meanwhile, Simas and other indigenous attendees were left dissatisfied by Laâbissi’s attempts to explain away her use of the headdress and her characterization of the protest and discussion as just a beautiful learning moment. Tangen added: “It is frustrating to see the publicity and notoriety this artist gets for a platform that exploits indigenous images.”

Ironically, it was at the event put on by the organization she is about to take over that Schlenzka and others could have learned what it means to truly listen to and engage with indigenous voices, beliefs, and protocols. Emily Johnson’s Umyuangvigkaq, a free event that took place in the Ace Hotel’s Liberty Hall, created an indigenous space that resulted in a positive discussion of Native and Aboriginal worldviews as they intersect with contemporary art and culture. While difficult moments and points of conflict and tension arose over the course of the six-hour program, the Long Table format proved conducive to shared open dialogue and powerful moments of realization. It was a stark contrast to the hierarchical panel talk-back format used at PS1. A leadership council of indigenous provocateurs led the circle discussion at the Ace Hotel, while the audience was invited to contribute to Johnson’s “Sewing Bee,” an ongoing experiment in public engagement. The patches produced in the group sewing effort are to be part of a 4,000-square-foot quilt used in an all-night outdoor performance later this year titled “Then a Cunning Voice and a Night We Spend Gazing at Stars,” which will combine community action and personal expression through the individual messages written on each patch, storytelling, and First Nations knowledge forms.

Quilt patches sewn for Emily Johnson/Catalyst Dance’s “Then a Cunning Voice and A Night We Spend Gazing at Stars” as part of Umyuangvigkaq

In addition to Johnson, discussion leaders for Umyuangvigkaq included Sm Łoodm ‘Nüüsm (Dr. Mique’l Dangeli, Tsimshian), Lee-Ann Tjunypa Bucksin (Narungga/Wirangu/Wotjobaluk), Karyn Recollet (Cree), and Vicki Van Hout (Dutch/Wiradjuri), and topics ranged from indigenizing the future to research as ceremony. A set of rules structured the conversations. Firstly, a sign by the door declared that, by entering the space, one was acknowledging that one was on Mannahatta in Lenapehoking (Lenape homeland). “This is an Indigenous led conversation and process,” the sign continued, and “you are here to be an active part of the discussion and change and in so you will listen more than you speak.” To that end, only those sitting in the immediate inner circle of the Long Table could speak, while those on the periphery were asked to listen. Participants were free to move in and out of the inner circle as they chose, self-determining their form of engagement. At the end of every session, Johnson gave any Lenape and indigenous people present the opportunity for the last word, and the resulting dynamic was a fluid conversation with a constantly shifting set of voices.

Perhaps the most essential lesson of Umyuangvigkaq was in the first session, “This is Lenapehoking,” an acknowledgement of the indigenous hosting and welcoming protocols that still exist in Lenapehoking, the Lenape homeland of which Manahatta is a part, and all indigenous territories. Hadrien Coumans and Joe Baker of the Lenape Center called in to provide a welcome to their territory and to acknowledge their guests. Mique’l Dangeli responded by gifting the group with a song in her language and the spreading of eagle down, a symbol of welcome and friendship. “What is your responsibility when you are welcomed?” she asked the group, “How can you bring a critical consciousness to what it means to be a guest?” The first step, she and Tjunypa Buckskin emphasized, is realizing that one is a guest in indigenous land wherever one goes. To acknowledge that in the host’s language — Lenapehoking — is essential, as is not asking for a welcome but rather asking what the people need and want as an acknowledgement. Dangeli noted that, as an indigenous person, she embodies and therefore brings her own protocol with her wherever she goes, as demonstrated by her spreading of eagle down.

“We are so often visitors even when we go home,” Recollet noted, drawing on her own experience as an urban Cree woman. In an exceptional moment of learning, an eleven-year old girl summed up what so few grasp in the face of New York City’s conventional characterization as an open-access blank slate of opportunity. “The land does not belong to me,” she said to the group while sewing a patch for Johnson’s quilt, “but I am its. I belong to the land, to New York.” That response echoed Recollet’s primary provocation of the day, which was to ask attendees to counter colonialism with a radical “decolonial love.” How can love be a reorientation that leads to a decolonizing process? How, she and Johnson asked the indigenous participants in the room, can we make colonial pain part of love, and thus love the internalized ruptures of the indigenous self?

The importance of finding love in the relationship to land and ceremony emerged from Johnson’s provocation “My Dad Gives Blueberries to Caribou He Hunts: Indigenous Process and Research as Ceremony.” Johnson told the story of the first time she witnessed her father hunt a caribou and ritually feed it blueberries at its moment of passing. The event, she reflected, was an important personal realization of the links between survival, providing, and ritual. “How can we bundle for the future?” Recollet asked, referring to sacred medicine bundles. Dangeli responded that indigenous people have always done just that — changed and adapted. “Whatever comes next,” Dangeli said, “will continue to be indigenous, will be the future.”

That Johnson’s event overlapped with Laâbissi’s performance was unfortunate, because it forced many of Johnson and Simas’s colleagues to choose between an inclusive dialogue and the need to provide witness to and support against a traumatic offense. “As indigenous people we couldn’t even have the luxury of sharing the Umyuangvigkaq space where Indigenous worldview was central,” Tangen said, “because some of us had to go deal with what shouldn’t be happening in the first place — allowing one of the most vulnerable populations in our country to be hurt by such artistic entitlement to creative license to appropriate. It felt like a missed opportunity for MoMA PS1 to share space and collaborate.”

Johnson herself had engaged in dialogue with Pryor and Schlenzka in tandem with Simas. She expressed to them that she felt Laâbissi’s event should be cancelled, but she also did not want to detract from the positive message of her own event. Nonetheless, she told Hyperallergic, perhaps the weekend provided a somehow meaningful and beautiful synchronicity. “Why was it that our event,” she asked, “created intentionally to confront invisibility, to focus on (and to bring to light for some) the continuation of Indigenous aesthetic, invention, ceremony, [to consider] research and process as ceremony, and building true ally-ship — was happening on the same day as this other performance, seemingly at odds with every single intention of Umyuangvigkaq?”

Quilting for Emily Johnson/Catalyst Dance’s “Then a Cunning Voice and A Night We Spend Gazing at Stars” as part of Umyuangvigkaq (photo by Maria Baranova, courtesy PS122)

Several of MoMA’s performance curators were in attendance for Umyuangvigkaq, possibly signaling a coming reckoning with previously marginalized artists and subjects. Yet the weekend’s events made clear the need for New York art institutions to take up the call for decolonial love and critical acknowledgement of their duties as guests on indigenous territory. So many Native artists and activists work in New York who could have quickly taught PS1 these lessons, and there is no longer any excuse for keeping indigenous people off the staff and excluded from the programming of major cultural organizations.

Whether Laâbissi has learned that there does not need to be a false opposition between transgressive artistic freedom and an acknowledgement of indigenous values, beliefs, and ongoing political struggles will be seen this week. She is scheduled to perform Self Portrait Camouflage again in Paris on January 19 and 20. But Johnson is hopeful. “I want the discussion to spark change on our stages and in our world,” she said. “I want it to be a place where Indigenous voice, work, deep research, and emotion is heard; I want it to generate an understanding previously incomprehensible to non-Native people; I want it to create relationships with present bodies; and I want it to be a place where healing can be and start. I hope we continue.”

The post Against a Feathered Headdress: A Tale of Two Performance Festivals and Native American Voices appeared first on Hyperallergic.

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