#healing through story

[sagealphapapabear]

✨ “A Weekend in Logtown” From the Final Letters of Michael R. Alcott, 1939 (Revised & Restored for Modern Readers)

Note: All images in this post were rendered by ChatGPT, using text from the story that follows—an imagined world set in a time long before my own. A place I used to escape to in my mind, stripped of historical biases and other bullshit.

Born from the soft nostalgia of period piece such as Downton Abbey, then gently Americanized, this vision of 1910 imagines a time when all was well, everyone had a place to call home, and purpose was a given. A world where love was welcome, belonging was assumed, and time itself seemed to stand still.

In that world, artists captured such moments with reverence—as they always should have.

Afternoon Repose in the Walnut Grove, 1910

A study in trust and tender companionship—once privately commissioned, now publicly adored. Long thought lost to time, this image gently suggests what many once feared to name: that love, even forbidden love, was no less noble, no less worthy of art.

Believed to have been painted privately by an uncredited artist in 1910 and never publicly exhibited during the lifetimes of either subject, it was later rediscovered in a folio of uncatalogued personal effects in 1994. Today, it is regarded as one of the earliest known depictions of romantic intimacy between men of different cultures—rendered not in secrecy, but in joy.

🧭 Preface:

As I learn more about the intergenerational dynamics between Gay men my age in 2025—the so-called Daddy types—and the younger Gay men often dubbed Hunters—the more I’m reminded that this dynamic has played out across human history.

But no era screams sexually repressed quite like the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Gilded-to-Progressive Ages in America. Victorian-to-Edwardian Eras in England.

The year 1910 holds a peculiar fascination for me. It was the final golden breath before the world changed forever—before a single bullet, fired from one gun held by a singular man in Sarajevo four years later toppled monarchies that had endured for centuries.

And yet, even in those buttoned-up times, I’ve found subtle traces of familiar desires—of confirmed bachelors who hired handsome, clever personal assistants… young men who, after hours, may have assisted with matters decidedly more personal.

What follows is one such story. Or perhaps... it’s a memory that waited 100 years to be found.

📦 From the Box of Belongings

As we age, we sometimes outlive the people who made our hearts glow. But their belongings remain.

“M,” as I’ll call him, was a cherished companion from years past. Our paths diverged in the way friendships sometimes do: he moved north with a much older partner—a nobleman of fading Indian royalty—and I stayed rooted in Maryland.

When I learned of his passing, I made the trip to pay my respects. His partner—a gracious, quietly striking man with eyes like rain and a voice like low thunder—invited me to stay afterward.

He spoke of how often M had mentioned me—how our long-ago letters, essays, debates, and yes, bawdy stories had lit up their evenings. I shared one last tale that made the nobleman blush deep crimson—and laugh until he wept.

Before I departed, he handed me a gift: A box of M’s most treasured books. Gilt-edged, cloth-bound, many untouched except for admiration. Hidden among them? A few shockingly vivid volumes of Victorian erotica that made me rethink the way one might remove a velvet smoking jacket.

📜 Between the pages of one such volume, I found a silk-wrapped bundle. Inside it, a letter.

🖼️ Title: The Last Letter, 1939

✍️ Caption:

Painted in the autumn of 1939, this portrait captures Professor Michael R. Alcott in his final years at Asbury Village. Seated at his desk with his beloved cat beside him—an aloof but loyal companion known to visitors only as “Madame”—he types what is now believed to be his final letter to a former student.

A framed sepia-toned photo of Alcott and Prince Ravi Devaya rests on the desk, a quiet witness to a life of hidden beauty. Despite his age, Alcott was still known for embracing the newest technologies, dictating letters into a wire recorder and recently developing a fascination with radio swing music. He was reportedly smitten with a new instrumental titled “Moonlight Serenade”, which he described in one note as “a little like falling in love by candlelight on a screened porch.”

Though age has softened his form, the twinkle in his eyes remains. As one former colleague put it: “He was the kind of man who looked like he’d been handsome forever—and still was, if you caught the light just right.”

🖋️ A Weekend in Logtown

✍️ Final Letter of Michael R. Alcott 📍 Gaithersburg, Maryland – August 14, 1939

My dearest Prince Ravi,

Forgive me the indulgence of this final letter—written as summer bends toward autumn, and I find myself looking out over land that once knew us both.

Tonight, through the open window of my apartment at Asbury Retirement Village, the scent of late summer drifts in. The forests are mostly gone now. The dirt road we once walked is paved. Gaithersburg is growing into a small city, as the once sleepy main Road now is busy with traffic night and day. A concrete ribbon that slices through the land like a river of light and machines, all the way up to Frederick and beyond.

But I remember what it was. And I remember you.

That August weekend in 1910, you and I escaped the world. You called it Bumfuck, Egypt—a place so remote it felt like time had forgotten it. And for us, that was perfect.

August 13–15, 1910. Weather made to order. Warm sun by day, crisp air at night—made for sleeping under stars and waking with someone you cherished still in your arms.

From the archives of The Washington Herald, September 12, 1909 Left: Professor Michael R. Alcott, pictured with his Assistant, Prince Ravi Devaya, of the now-defunct St. Breckinridge University, Washington, D.C.

We told our colleagues it was a scholarly retreat—two men of letters, escaping the noise and heat of Washington to draft joint essays. We brought papers, journals, books we never touched.

We took lodging at a quiet farmhouse nestled along the southern perimeter of the Summit Hall Sod Farm, surrounded by old-growth trees and wide, wind-brushed fields. No neighbors. No prying eyes.

We said we came for research. But what we found was freedom.

You arrived from the train in your dove-gray suit, cravat loosened, your hair undone by the breeze. I met you at the fence—and we simply looked. For a long, wordless moment. The recognition between us was deep, ancient, sacred.

That first night we dined by lamplight, drank too much wine, and laughed like old conspirators. But it was the next afternoon—when we wandered northeast toward the Observatory ridge—that changed everything.

We took a narrow trail into the forest (still standing, though quieter now), toward a clearing just beyond a crooked row of walnut trees.

It was there—in that hush of gold and green—that I first kissed you.

A shaft of sun broke through the canopy, landing across your face like a benediction. You tilted your head, lips parted slightly, and I could no longer pretend to be just your mentor.

I kissed you. Boldly. Desperately. With twenty years of hunger that I’d kept buried beneath essays and waistcoats. You dropped your satchel. I dropped my guard.

And nothing in our world was ever the same again.

We made love in that clearing, Ravi. I write it plainly now, because I am old—and truth deserves dignity. It wasn’t frantic or forbidden. It was sacred. You held my face like a relic. I adored you like the last miracle on Earth.

The birds sang. The trees swayed. And the papers we brought as pretense scattered like leaves, never to be opened again.

What began as a working weekend became the most honest creation of our lives.

And now? I live not far from that very spot. The clearing is overgrown, but still warm. Still waiting. A local park that wasn’t there then, is within sight of the hillside where you first pressed me against that walnut tree and claimed me. I walk there when the weather is pleasant and it always reminds me of you and our time of bonding when we and the world were both younger and seemed a little more innocent.

Yes, I found our initials. Carved in Sanskrit, as only you would’ve dared. They’re high up now—nearly four stories—but still there.

If this letter reaches you, wherever you may be: Know that I loved you fully. And without shame.

And if you ever return to Maryland, walk that path. Let the sun touch your face as it did that day. You’ll know where to go. I am grateful we got the chance to really live--my god have we lived—and YOU made that possible for me. A gift I will treasure until I fade away to nothing but a whisper in the winds.

As my final wish, I ask only this: Mentor someone. Pass the light. Take a young man under your wing the way I once took you under mine. Protect the flame of his heart. Show him what we had—if only for a season, if only in a forest where no one watches.

Let that love ripple forward. And may it never be erased.

With everything I am, Michael R. Alcott The Sage Papa Alpha Bear Written August 13, 1939 – Asbury Village Retirement Home, Gaithersburg Maryland. 🕯️🌳✨

P.S. You know I made peace with my mortality long ago. I savored every moment life gave me—with you most of all. When your time comes, find me. I’ll be waiting in the clearing. Arms open. Still refusing to eat curry. But craving you—now and forever more.

📎 Author’s Note

The landmarks described above—the Observatory ridge, the walnut grove, the hidden trail—are real, however their names are all different now.

In fact, that very hillside is visible from our home. As if fate took a ribbon, tied it around this patch of earth, and whispered: “Here. This is where something once bloomed.”

And the clearing? It’s still there, albeit in slightly altered form, as the Summit Hall Sod Farm’s fields come quite close. But the trees we were under still stand—but like me and everything else not as young as they once were.

I’ve stood there. And it feels... warm. Hushed. Like a page folded in time, waiting to be read again.

If you’re discerning, you might feel it too. That whisper of something sacred… Older than the trees. Older than the names on the deeds. Left behind not in ink or stone, But in heat, in breath, in love.

If you knew where to look. 🫶🏽✨🐻‍❄️ If this story stirred something in you, you're not alone. We’ve always been here—loving, dreaming, writing each other back into history, each in our own ways.

[four4soaring]

Not all journeys begin with a map—some start with a memory, a forest trail, a feeling you can’t quite name. This wavy collage hints at the winding path through breaking and becoming, with whispers of what’s waiting on the other side.

This is for the seekers, the soul-builders, the ones learning to belong again.

The rough draft lives on YouTube—raw, real, and ready for you. Come listen, and let the story meet you where you are.

#iwant2CUsoar

[dykedvonte]

I think depictions of Anya being cruel to Curly or drawing out his suffering are artful and chilling but completely miss the point of the story and her character.

I'm not saying she doesn't deserve to have that "I told you so" moment with him but not in something callous or cold. Even if that is how it happened, she'd immediately feel guilty cause at that point she's not tormenting her tormenter or even the person truly at fault. She's doing something cathartic, similar to how Jimmy likely hits Curly to release rage he can't against the rest of the crew. She'd see herself as no different when she'd come back from the moment and see Curly cowering at her. She wants someone to take responsibility but how does being cruel to the defenseless help? Why would she want the power Jimmy has over her over Curly?

The idea of her extending someone else's pain is just so against the struggles she already faces and how she can't even bring herself to cause someone pain even to help them. Her very desire is to release herself from her own suffering and I doubt she'd even fine some sort of guilty release in being cruel to another.

[blizardstar]

Me when Ashton Greymoore is denied honorable and meaningful self-sacrifice, and now must face the reality that they MUST keep living after it’s All Over

[lotus-pear]

rewatched madoka magica again today bc i fucking hate myself and to absolutely no one’s surprise i went through all five stages of grief in a single evening

[lovecolibri]

Okay, but I am *obsessed* with these FaceTime calls because we have talked a lot about the Abby parallels/contrasts with Eddie leaving but still keeping in constant contact, but have we talked about the Shannon parallels/contrasts???

Like, we see a video call in Eddie begins where Shannon basically uses Chris to get Eddie on the call so she can pick a fight (forcing Chris into the middle of it) about something she KNOWS Eddie does not have the capacity to sit and discuss with her at the moment. Like, he's not at an office job dodging her calls and coming home late so they can't talk, he's literally in an active war zone and flying off to rescue injured soldiers and he is STILL trying to do the video call while being berated for being a bad dad and partner and feeling like a failure.

Contrast that with Buck being a calm, steady, reassuring presence every time Eddie reaches out, and affirms that Eddie can trust his instincts on what to do with his own son! He gives Eddie the support Eddie needs, and we don't see Eddie being forced into anything, or being caught at inconvenient times because they are communicating so clearly and talking whenever they can and working things out together!

It's just such a clear contrast to everything BOTH of them are used to from their previous partners and so full of love and support and having each other's backs like.....it's happening! It's happening on our screens before our eyes!

[enden-agolor]

today i have to offer the gay minecraft men. tomorrow? who knows…

[melonisopod]

Canto 2 sucked because Rodion would rather eat glass than show a moment of weakness or vulnerability especially that early on in the story.

[mukimokai]

hey you!!!

wanna hear one of my fic ideas for a canon rewrite that will absolutely shatter your heart????

yeah...

you've been warned..

.

TW!!!

dr//g ab*se, attempted su!c!de

⠀

alhaitham attempted to overdose after the argument with kaveh over their thesis.

.

they basically screamed each others throats off that day; they've argued over their differing ideals before but it was never this bad, and the fight eventually got a bit physical, and there was a lot of hairpulling, scratching, pulling each other up by the collar, because they weren't just arguing about the thesis anymore, they were mad at each other. until alhaitham pointed out kaveh's fatal flaw, how his altruism is going to fail him one day, and kaveh, who can't handle the truth, yanks at alhaithams hair again, telling him to fuck off, that he wishes he never met him, all through pained, angry tears. and then, he lets go and leaves, bolting out the front door and not even bothering to close it.

it was one of the first times in alhaitham's life that he had ever let his emotions get the better of him, and he watched kaveh run out of the door, panting and shaking, tears prickling the corners of his eyes out of pure, unadulterated frustration. and alhaitham realizes at this moment that he'd lost someone. again.

oh yes, alhaitham's all alone again!! no one cares about him anymore!! he'd just lost the last person in the world who gave a damn!! silly alhaitham!! all because you're you. because you had to open your mouth again. because you had to say something. all you wanted was to help, but nobody understands that. nobody ever will. to them, you're just a cold, calculated, arrogant, cocky, bastard. and look what you've done now.

the thought breaks him, and he crumbles to the ground in what can only be described as a meltdown, a very violent one. vases are shattered, kitchen wear chucked across the room, books thrown around carelessly, all while he screams curses into the air, directed at no one, maybe at Kusanali, maybe at Celestia, who knows, but he screams anyway, bordering on babbles as he stumbles to his room, dizzy and distressed and grabs the bottle of prescription drugs (working on what kind of drug currently). It's not full, it's almost empty actually, only about 10 tablets at the bottom, but alhaitham, hands shaking, laughs incredulously at himself, and eats all of them.

or at least: tries to...

the commotion he'd made upset his neighbours. initially, they were storming over to his house with the Matra beside them to have him taken care of but upon arrival, they were horrified. The matra with them practically tackled alhaitham, making him spit out the 3 pills he had in his mouth when they found him in his room; he had already taken 5. they dragged him to the bimarstan as fast as he could, the neighbours following in terror and worry.

alhaitham was saved that day and the memory still haunts him. he was so clouded with emotion he'd lost all sense of what he was doing and just felt, and it scared him how his own feelings took control of him. At that point, alhaitham only closed up even further, basically forcing on his poker face and shoving down his feelings because he never wanted to feel so vulnerable again. he doesn't want to feel. it hurts to feel. strong feelings only bring pain. more pain than alhaitham could bear.

so alhaitham chose to hide this story, he never told anyone about it, not even a single detail. but kaveh, who moved back in eventually and now lived with alhaitham for about a year since their argument, was tidying up when he found a bottle of pills under alhaitham's bed, it was practically empty, only 2 pills remained.

concerned, he questions alhaitham about it later and it was the first time he'd seen alhaitham genuinely look scared. when kaveh explained he'd found it under his bed, alhaitham snatched away the bottle and disposed of it in the trash, cursing himself for not having found it last year when the incident happened and couldn't believe it had been there the whole time.

kaveh isn't an idiot, he pieced it together the moment he saw alhaitham's reaction. he just stands there, completely speechless and horrified. all he can say is "when..?"

and alhaitham, for the first time since their school years, responds in a shaky, miserable voice, "a year ago."

and kaveh is stunned, just staring at alhaitham, who seemed so unreachable when he moved in, suddenly looking so heartbreakingly vulnerable.

he doesn't say anything.

kaveh just hugs him, buries alhaitham's face into his shoulder and hugs him. and he swears he can hear soft, weak sounds coming from the scribe, and he swears the fabric over his shoulders became damp, but he doesn't say anything.

he just holds him.

i'm sorry. come at my throat all you'd like.

⠀

⠀

⠀

[kikinoir777]

Gaslight Glow

Your charisma ignited something within me— warmth and safety, something I'd never had. Love, I called it. But nothing lasts forever, not even a polished facade. You had me there— your glow a lie, a mask, a deceptive cloak. A flicker of cloaked anger creeping in with every word of disdain, fear taking hold in my mind. Each whispered doubt echoed louder, twisting the truth I once knew. Your words are barbed wire, tangling in my mind, leaving scars not even I can see. Unseen wounds whisper in the dark, shaping silhouettes into doubts. The mirror reflects a cloaked figure, cracks weaving lies through its fractured face. When I reach out, the mirror shatters into murmurs, each shard holding a different truth. Ghastly visions waver, dancing in the reflections of each broken fragment. Effortless whispers drift through my reflection, reshaping my reality. My soul’s light glimmers, about to dim. You’ve tried to snuff it out, deepening the darkness I fought so hard to crawl out of. But my soul’s light refuses to fade, flickering defiantly against the darkness you cast. But I endure— hope rising within me, evoking courage amidst your malevolent phantoms. I emerge from that darkness. I pick up a shard of that broken mirror. My soul shines through, radiating strength and resilience. Your influence begins to wither. Clarity deepens, truth taking root. I reclaim my narrative— verity anchoring the foundation I fought for. I stand unbroken, a warrior, shattering your facade and reclaiming truth.

[the-worms-in-your-bones]

thinking about alien bodies but with 15 instead of 8, because for eight he doesn't know what's coming, all of this is in the future for him, but fifteen has already lived through the time war (and yeah this is the war in heaven not the time war, but i still think this works either way) and is finally at a point where he's okay again, where the tragedy and horror of the war aren't an open wound. but suddenly he's back at the beginning, he's stumbled upon his own past where he shouldn't really be and where he can do nothing to change what he knows is coming, so he just has to participate in the events, follow the script, even though he knows what's to come and how much destruction and death it will cause, and all this starts to tear open the scars he thought were finally healed over

[anazageek]

Their love isn’t just a story—it’s an emotion that consumes us, uplifts us, and makes us believe in the beauty of unspoken connections.

[demonmoonsupreme]

Wait? So you’re telling me that my fix-it-fics for Gelboys are going to be about them not getting together ???

[themintman]

Jack: “It’s pride month, Nurm. You know what that means.”

Nurm (in Villic): “What? You want me to make like gay maps or something? Huh? What?”

Idk I just felt like this was them- I love the husbands ever

YEAH THATS THEM LMAOOO

You are an actual genius

[the-berries-and-the-plums]

birch trees is such a sweet song, and the innocent, youthful tone makes me think susan’s romanticism—her need to experience life as a story—comes from a much younger, more vulnerable part of her. rolling up birch tree bark like a cigar and using it to whistle a birdsong isn’t just poetic flourish; it’s play, like something a grandparent might teach a young child. susan, distant from her grandmama growing up, perhaps never got to have that kind of childhood experience. now, she is free to provide that joy and magic of play to herself. even common annoyances, like getting gravel in your shoe, are rewritten as moments of magic and whimsy, personifying the gravel as “nibbling on your toes.” in happy/crazy, she expresses how much she loves the freedom to “laugh and play and sing and swing,” now that “the world is away”,—not just an embrace of joy, but a reclamation of something lost.

i think that her need to be part of a grand, whimsical story (real af btw) probably comes from childhood. her ability to effortlessly access this childlike wonder, to see magic in the everyday, to shape her life into a storybook fable—this has probably always been how she protects herself from uncertainty, both moral and existential (“nonfiction is harder than fiction”). narrativizing isn’t just how she makes sense of things; it’s how she holds onto that younger self who still feels safest in the immersive, magical embrace of a good story, shielding her from being swallowed by grief and uncertainty. it’s also probably why she became a novelist, drawn as she was to the allure of storytelling. the tragedy is that in doing so, she also walls herself off from real connection. because to let life happen outside the boundaries of a controlled story is to risk pain, to risk being a character instead of the author—reacting instead of deciding, swept along instead of shaping. but stories are meant to be shared; they are fundamentally about connection. for susan, they often become a fortress (a clochán?) rather than a bridge.

this part of her is terrified of losing control of her own story, which is why she chooses to divorce julian rather than follow him, even though she has no real reason for staying in new york. if she moves for julian, she’s neither the author nor the main character of the story anymore; she’s a secondary character in his. for someone whose sense of self is so deeply tied to authorship, this isn’t just a practical or emotional dilemma—it’s a fundamental threat to her identity. for this part of her, co-creating a story with julian—one of their move, rather than his move—is not even an option; there must be a singular, undisputed truth.

but this part of her isn’t inherently wrong, or regressive, or unhealthy. we can see that this part isn’t just about protection; it’s deeply creative and generative. it’s what allows her to find joy and pleasure, even in the middle of the trauma of a global pandemic, to feel connected to her grandmama in a way she was never able to before. the cause of her pain and tormented rumination isn’t this part of her—it’s the way she pushes it away, pathologizes it (“trying to trace the tumor,” “the demon inside of me”), demands justification for it (“why am i like this?”), shames it (“i know that i shouldn’t be happy”).

maybe if susan can “dance” with this part of herself (her ‘wolf’), she can help it to become “unstuck” from its rigid habits, to recognize that now, as an adult, she has other strategies she can rely on, and to invite it to take on a new role. maybe then it can stop carrying the burden of hypervigilance, of being a ‘firefighter’ tasked with extinguishing “the bubble of panic inside” whenever uncertainty rears its head. perhaps it could trust that it’s safe to let go a bit and do what it really longs to: to honor the wonder and magic in the everyday, to help susan tell her story on her own terms, to fuel her creativity rather than control her life.