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bts-weverse-trans · 4 years

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201127 Weverse Magazine ‘BE’ Comeback Interview - Jungkook

Jung Kook: “I hope this feeling never fades” BTS BE comeback interview 2020.11.27

I had a chance to interview BTS before, when they debuted. During that interview, Jung Kook had one small habit; when I met him again a while later, he had corrected it. He makes a conscious effort to change himself. And after seven years, I met Jung Kook again.

You directed the music video for “Life Goes On,” BE’s title song. Jung Kook: I was really eager to direct the music video from the outset. My plan was to organize the synopsis, discuss it with the music video director I was working with, shoot and edit them, but we were short on time. So I worked on it while sharing ideas with the director. Originally there were a lot of scenes with lip synching in them, but we took some of them out and put in more scenes that conveyed the members’ emotions better. It wasn’t easy to combine scenes, but I think now I know more about how much of everything is needed when shooting a music video.

You had shot the Golden Closet Films and uploaded them to the BTS YouTube channel, and now you shot a music video. Jung Kook: Once we were on location, we had directions for everything we needed to shoot prepared in advance, so I took candid shots of the members here and there with a camera during the shoot. We were filming in a beautiful place so when they asked me to take pictures of them as they wanted to be presented, I did.

What kind of pictures did you take of yourself? Jung Kook: I was just, in them. (laughs) I’m not in the shot for the Golden Closet Films either. I kind of take a back seat. The director had to shoot my parts for the music video, since I couldn’t film myself, so I relaxed a bit. I tried to make the other members look really good when I recorded them. Since this was a BTS music video and not my own, I wanted to show what was happening with every member and the team, not just one individual’s thoughts. Each person who watches the video might feel different, but I wanted to show that we feel what other people feel, that we’re in the same situation.

You get your picture taken a lot, but you don’t pay much attention to the ones you’re in. Jung Kook: I never really liked having my picture taken. (laughs) And I’m usually with the others when we’re working, obviously, but it’s hard to take a camera and take selfies. So I take pictures and videos of the other members every chance I get.

Do you still find it difficult to have your picture taken? Jung Kook: I put my best face forward when it’s for something I have to do, like for photo books, but it’s still not easy. Videos are okay, though. And even though I’m not nervous at all when I sing in front of tens of thousands of people, if I have to sing or talk in front of a small group, I get super nervous. I never feel that way on stage, but maybe I have a hard time doing things that are a little bit awkward for me.

It seems like you draw a distinction between work you enjoy and work you find difficult. Jung Kook: Work related to music, like recording, composing, writing lyrics, filming music videos and things like that, are all fine. But anything outside of that is probably a challenge for me.

On BE, you each explained your feelings about work in the song “Dis-ease.” You must have experienced a cycle of enjoyable and difficult work over seven years, so how did you get through the hard times? Jung Kook: I actually understand my own problems well, so most of the time it’s okay. I can figure things out one at a time through experience instead of just looking for answers. I’m always growing and my personality changes, depending on my environment. I think I’ve learned to do things I used to find difficult by experiencing it little by little.

Speaking of growth, “Skit” was very memorable. You recorded it the day after “Dynamite” reached number one on the Billboard Hot 100 chart and you, who talked about what you did before you became trainees in “Skit” in your debut album,talked about being first place on the Billboard Hot 100 this time around. Jung Kook: When I was a trainee, I saw the older members rapping and thought, “Wow, they’re so cool!” But now, after having spent everyday together, I’ve forgotten about all that. (laughs) Sometimes I see the lyrics they wrote, see them dancing and hearing the things they say on stage, and think, “Oh, right. That is the kind of person they are. They’re a lot different now.” You know how you don’t feel it when you live with your family, but if you can’t see them for a long time, you miss them. You might even cry. We’re a real family. Like, legit! (laughs)

Your “legit family” (laughs) each put their own songs on BE and came up with units spontaneously. What was it like making the album that way? Jung Kook: We talked with the company over the outline of the album and organized our ideas together. That was our process for making songs. Then we’d listen to them together, and if we thought they weren’t great, we’d go back and work on them some more. The members would get together and say, “Hey, how about so and so do a unit song this time?” or, “What should it be about?” and share a lot of ideas that way.

How did the others respond to your song, “Stay”? Jung Kook: That song was originally meant to be on my mixtape. We planned to put a different song on the album, but after V heard it, he said, “This song that Jung Kook wrote is really good,” and then the other members all listened, said it was better than the other one, and somehow (laughs) “Stay” made it into the album. The message for the other song was also, “Even though we’re far apart, stay just where you are.” I wrote my song with the same theme so I loved that it was included in BE. At first, I wanted to talk about how we’re always together, using the English word “wherever.” I wanted to express how we’re always together no matter where we are, but Namjoon heard that and said “Stay” might be better. I liked his suggestion, so I changed it. He really helped me to organize my thoughts, since I’m not always good at writing everything I want to express.

One might go as far as to say the lyrics sound heartbreaking, but it’s arranged in EDM. Jung Kook: We imagined we were performing for the fans while we made it, jumping up and down with them.

It sounds like you really miss your fans. Jung Kook: This album really hit us in a different way, with this situation being what it is. Because the world is struggling with COVID-19, we have to keep our heads up and convey our messages to our fans.

What can your fans expect from you when you finally meet again? Jung Kook: There’s nothing specific, but when I watched our old performances, my facial expressions were awkward and my dance moves weren’t always perfect. I keep working to improve myself, so I hope when the fans see me, they think my performance is amazing and that my aura fills the stage.

Are you happy with how you look in your latest work? Jung Kook: I’m not 100% satisfied, no. When we did performances for “Dynamite” recently I kept seeing my imperfections.

Your acting in the intro to your “Dynamite” performance was really impressive. Even in COVID-19 times, you captured a feeling of liveliness and being cool, as though to explain what the song is all about. Jung Kook: Actually, on the first day of filming the music video, I was supposed to film my parts first, but I was so bad that it had to be pushed to the end of the shoot. So,I was a bit more relaxed when the camera rolled.

So that’s what you get when you’re relaxed! (laughs) Jung Kook: Yes, I relaxed, and something went “pop!” and “boom!” inside me, and then I did it however I wanted. (laughs)

It’s fascinating how someone who performs the way you do during stadium tours can feel nervous while filming and yet still do so well in it. Jung Kook: I can be a shy person. When people used to ask me to sing, I couldn’t always do it—like in front of adults or teachers. And I’m still a bit like that. If I start thinking, “Oh, I can’t do this,” then I really end up not being able to do it. Even when I could have done well.

Why do you think that is? Jung Kook: I feel the same way about my dancing and my singing, and I can’t compose a really amazing melody either. I feel like I’m always somewhere in the middle. But then I also think I have my own colors, so I like to quietly, slowly open up to people, and let them know what kind of person I am. Yeah, something like that. (laughs)

But, when you review your songs and performances objectively, you see all of your changes, don’t you? Jung Kook: There’s a lot of change. My voice has changed a lot; I grew taller and my frame and facial structure have changed, too. I could tell how awkward I looked at the beginning, but after a while, I think, “My gestures look better now, but I feel like my dance is too rigid.” And again after a while, “Now my dance is fine and my gestures are good, but I’m making awkward facial expressions.” And later, I say, “Now I got the facial expressions down, but, hmm, there’s no killer move.” (laughs) That’s how I slowly changed. And then my actions, thoughts, dreams, goals, what I value, what I want to do—all these things will change depending on the situation.

You had some changes in BE, too. Throughout “Life Goes On,” you lightly carry your voice and tone throughout the whole song, like they’re flowing. Jung Kook: Right. I think that’s very important. My general feeling was my voice should be woven into the song, rather than bringing out my individual voice. The lyrics say the world stopped, but I can’t keep on being sad, and life continues and flows on. I wanted to mix a little bit of my own colors into that complex, subtle sadness. I listened to how the other members recorded their parts for the song, and I sang while thinking about how I could do it in a way that it would all blend together well. I kept changing my voice exploring how to make it sound better, cleaner. I kept trying new things while I was recording, performing, and practicing.

When you look back after all that change, don’t you feel like you accomplished a lot? Jung Kook: I don’t really pay attention to things that have already happened. I think more about what it is I need right now, so I rarely think, “I got a lot better from how I used to be,” or, “I did a good job.”

You sound insatiable, in a good way. Jung Kook: Yes. This is how I want to keep living, and I hope this feeling never fades.

You’ve found immense success with BTS. What makes you want to keep doing more and keep improving yourself? Jung Kook: I want to show people who I am: how I talk, how I act, how I sing, and so on. And after that, I want to be acknowledged for doing what I like to do, and for people to see what an amazing guy I am. I want to do these things step by step. I want to be appreciated as Jung Kook, as the real me.

What do you think is the source of that energy—the energy to keep proving yourself, even though you’ve already achieved so much with BTS? Jung Kook: I think my heart’s telling me to. BTS was able to climb this high thanks to the group members, the company and our fans. But there’s always the question of whether I could receive that kind of recognition by myself, so I have this feeling of wanting to throw myself at some challenge alone. There’s a lot I want to do, and a lot I want to achieve.

By gradually improving yourself, what kind of person would you ideally want to become? Jung Kook: A person who’s crazy awesome in their field. (laughs) Those kinds of people look cool even when they do something different. I still have a long way to go. I feel like I could be more captivating and draw more out of people by improving any number of things, by trying hard to be confident about my singing, or the way I dance and perform. BTS is way more important and meaningful to me than I am to myself, so I’m not saying I want to do anything alone. But I hope I get to the point where I can perform alone for three or four hours in a venue full of people.

It’s clear that your job, music, is very important to you. Jung Kook: I must never let it go. That’s what I always think. I have to keep it close to me, even if I get bored, or I don’t want to hear it, or it feels like a hassle. I want to keep on making music. It may be a long ways down the road, but I want to prove myself with my music.

You said before that your MBTI is ISFP, so I looked it up. Obviously, MBTI can’t sum up a person perfectly, but it says ISFPs tend to be “curious artists.” Your answer reminds me of that. Jung Kook: That sounds about right. I looked up the personality traits for ISFP too, and it was interesting. (laughs)

Maybe that’s the reason you set your goals so high. You seem like you have high standards and want to keep growing. Jung Kook: It’s like a foggy mountain top. (laughs) I can’t even see it yet.

You’ve been climbing for seven years, staying curious. Is there anything you want to say to the people who have been watching you all this time? Jung Kook: Umm … Well, there are seven of us, and the seven of us keep running ahead. So it’s possible we could get tired, one by one, and drop out, right? But if more people join us, one by one, and run with us, we can support each other and pull each other up if someone falls down. That’s kind of how I feel. There are people who supported us from the beginning who have been watching us the whole time since, and because of them our follower count keeps going up, and they all keep us on track. So the only thing I can say is—thank you. We were nothing special, really (laughs) but they keep on liking us and supporting us, and the best way we can repay them is to give them our all through our music and our performances. They push me to work hard, even on things I find difficult. (laughs) I’m eternally grateful.

Just like in the last line of “Stay.” Jung Kook: “We are together.”

Trans © Weverse

#bangtan #jungkook #weverse #weverse magazine #be album #comeback interview #201127 #2020

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fyeah-bangtan7 · 4 years

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Jung Kook: “I hope this feeling never fades”

One might go as far as to say the lyrics sound heartbreaking, but it’s arranged in EDM. Jung Kook: We imagined we were performing for the fans while we made it, jumping up and down with them.

Are you happy with how you look in your latest work? Jung Kook: I’m not 100% satisfied, no. When we did performances for “Dynamite” recently I kept seeing my imperfections.

So that’s what you get when you’re relaxed! (laughs) Jung Kook: Yes, I relaxed, and something went “pop!” and “boom!” inside me, and then I did it however I wanted. (laughs)

You sound insatiable, in a good way. Jung Kook: Yes. This is how I want to keep living, and I hope this feeling never fades.

Maybe that’s the reason you set your goals so high. You seem like you have high standards and want to keep growing. Jung Kook: It’s like a foggy mountain top. (laughs) I can’t even see it yet.

Just like in the last line of “Stay.” Jung Kook: “We are together.”

#bangtan #jungkook #m:weverse magazine #o:interview #201127

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ophelialoveshandsomemen · 3 years

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Cristo y Tú vivís en mi corazón.

Capítulo Dos.( second chapter.)

Warnings: mentions of blood, wounds, seizures, medical procedures, self indulgent use of an ABBA song, Catholicism, maybe a swear or two. If you are under 18…please go to sleep instead and do not read my works!!!!

Medikua; is Basque for Doctor. Espagnole is French for Spaniard. I realize he’s not a spaniard but hispanic however she doesn’t know that and espagnole can sorta mean someone who speaks spanish if you will.

And yeah, I used an ABBA song. Guilty pleasure of mine and -Fernando- just shouts romance with El Catorce for me, so voila! Enjoy!

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

Medikua Hermenigilde Hortense, or Doc Hortense as he is more commonly known, is Isabeau's nearest neighbour from 6 and 3/4's of a mile away. A kind 88 year old man of Basque and French descent and the best medical man this side of the Atlantic, he came over to ask Isabeau if she could perhaps spare him an onion or two for his supper. Then promptly found her hunched over a strange, injured Hispanic man almost a km into her 'woods'. Luckily, he rode the donkey cart in. Making the delicate job of transporting said caballero back to the house much more stress free.

Isabeau sat on the floor of the cart, the ragged cotton quilt he keeps on his seat to fend off the cold now draped across her lap to cushion the patient's head. As his donkey walked the trail to her house, the doc turned his head towards the back. The stranger is still unconscious, and Isabeau gently brushes his hair from his forehead, with her right hand keeping steady pressure on his wounds.

That punctured lung is worrying him. Not because he doesn't have the equipment to treat such an injury. Of course he has the correct equipment, he is, after all, ex-military and he knows people, for God's sake. But because it's a punctured lung caused by a machine gunshot, something the good doctor can spot a mile away. Those are never pretty or easy to treat and almost always end fatally. How this young pup has stayed alive for this long is beyond him! Must be his guardian angel putting in much needed overtime...

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

Isabeau has officially gone into shock. Or a panic attack. In this situation there can't be much difference, one is just as useless as the other. She vaguely wonders if it's a result of falling out of the cherry tree or of finding a badly wounded, Hispanic man in her woods. Both, in all honesty.

She still cradles his head in her lap and is monitoring his breathing almost constantly.

'"Doc, his breathing is getting to be quite laboured. Can I do something?"

Doc hears the heavy worry saturating her tone. And makes the donkey pick up his pace.

" Alright, try hanging his legs off the end of the cart, get his blood to rush to his feet instead of into his lungs. And settle his back fully on your lap to elevate his heart level even more. But do it slowly, girl. Slow and steady."

He turned back his head many times as he ordered her to ensure she didn't accidently jostle the boy wrong. He had noticed her complexion become paler. "Breathe, Isabeau, breathe! I don't need the both of you passed out in a donkey cart on me. I'm far too old to deal with this all by myself."

She wordlessly nodded. Her returning nausea didn't thank her for it. She subconsciously and minutely tightened her grip around the caballero's shoulders, consequentially pressing his scalp further against her stomach, mildly alleviating her need to lose her guts. She could feel his shallow breath in the crook of her left arm, quick, wheezing in and outs with a few of the inhales resulting in short choking fits. By now, both her arms and her naked thighs made her appear to be a human incarnation of a battlefield, stained scarlet with the lifeblood of young men, ( or of one young man, in this instance).

His heartbeat, Isabeau could faintly feel thrumming in a rhythm too slow and unsteady for her comfort.

She began to sing. Softly. For her comfort. For his comfort. In order to forget the pain in her head from the fall. In hopes to ground the wounded man in her arms. To gently guide him back to the land of the living through his sense of hearing. Isabeau knows from both her studies in university and her own brief dabblings in mild hypnosis and lucid subconsciousness that a person who has lost consciousness, either from sleep, or pain, or loss of blood, can still register, deep in the recesses of their mind, sounds and voices and even full conversations. But they especially hear singing.

So, Isabeau sings.

The melody is the first that pops up in her brain, a song from one of the numerous cd's she keeps in her 2001 Ford f-250 King Ranch. An ABBA Gold cd, if she recalls correctly. She can't remember all the words, so instead she hums when her mind is blank of lyrics.

Can you hear the drums, Fernando? I remember long ago another starry night like this.

They hit a tiny bump in the road, not even enough to bother the steed pulling the cart, but more than enough to send a jolt of pain coursing through the caballero.

In the firelight, Fernando

The pain noticeable in the wince upon his face, causing the girl to expect him to awaken soon. However much she dreads to see the pain etched on his brow, at least he would show more sign of life than now. She continues to hum.

You were singing to yourself and softly strumming your guitar!

A thought briefly flitters across her mind. She wonders if he plays guitar? Or perhaps he sings? Maybe his voice is strong, loud and boisterous. Or is it smooth and deep? Or he dances? Perhaps none of these and he prefers to sits in the sidelines and enjoy the talents of others instead...

And I'm not afraid to say the roar of guns and cannons almost made me cry!

" Almost there cerisette, which door?" "Uh...the back garden door has no stairs and is the closest to my bedroom." "Oh, your bedroom huh!" "My bed's on the floor. Easier to care for him that way."

There was something in the air that night. The stars were bright, Fernando!

Her chorus much slower and more weary than the original.

They were shining down for you and me, for liberty, Fernando!

The doctor steers the cart off the driveway and towards the house.

Though we never thought that we could lose, there's no regret.

They round the last corner of the house, stopping a few feet away from the door, back end turned to the door.

If I had to do the same again, I would, my friend, Fernando!

******************************************************************************************* Three Hours Later....

Isabeau was exhausted.

They'd been barely successful in carrying the still unknown man into her bed before he slightly awoke, only for him to begin having seizures while she went away in her pickup to Doc's house, grabbing the direly needed equipment for the procedure. Mercifully, he'd only had two minor fits before Doc stabilized him enough to treat the wounds.

Which had taken nearly three hours.

She'd held his hand through most of it. But no one, including herself, could genuinely tell you if she'd done that for his comfort or her own...

She honestly can't recall much else.

She stood in the bathroom down the hall from her bedroom, furiously but tiredly scrubbing at the blood stubbornly caught beneath her fingernails, staining her hands, sticking to the plush hairs on her arms, seeped deep into the fabric of the old yellow plaid shirt she'd swapped her lacy 70's top for...

Her thoughts were disrupted by the good old doc gently placing his freshly washed hands upon her shoulder.

" Get some rest cerisette. The sun may still be awake but you shouldn't be. The caballero is safe now...and so are you. " He sighs. " I am going home for a few hours. Call me if you need me. But get some rest."

With that, Doc Hortense leaves the room. And yes, he did grab a proffered onion on the way.

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

She carefully pads across her own bedroom, silent as a Trappist monk, to not disturb her espagnole, as she's begun to call him in her mind. She decides against simply grabbing her sleep clothes and changing somewhere else. Instead she stays standing before her dresser, in full view of son espagnole if he were to awaken. Which he doesn't. She swaps her soiled plaid shirt and jeans shorts for a comfortable pair of well-worn navy flannel pants and a soft long sleeved beige cotton undershirt. No underpinnings either. Girl likes her freedom too much to subject herself to that.

Still a tad too wired up to fully rest, what with the time only being around 8:30 or so, Isabeau cautiously rummages through his minor belongings. Carelessly thrown to the side whilst his life was in danger, now she takes everything in her hands as if it's a precious object. She gingerly folds the white linen jacket, the torn beige button-up, the filthy knit cotton undershirt and the striped wool pants, putting them to the side to be washed later.

Next come the gun holsters and the bullet belts, made of beautifully well crafted leather, the stitching somehow immaculate. Without a doubt handmade. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Isabeau gets the barest nudge that there is no way in hell this was made within the last 50 years. They seem worn: however, they can't be older than a three or four years.

What intrigues her the most about the belts and the holsters, besides being nearly completely full, is the embroidered cross upon the pistol holster. No outlaw trusts that much in God, but no soldier dresses like this. Perhaps a revolutionary from Southern America way back...in...the...

She quickly makes the connection between the guns and the age of the leather and the medallion of La Virgen, the fact that he was shot by a machine gun, mass manufactured and distributed to many governments by Americans in the time she's thinking of.. She may be wrong, but an inkling tells her that she probably isn't. She walks hurriedly back to the bed, sits gently cross-legged on the side where she will rest and softly stares at her sleeping espagnole. Several minutes, or maybe hours, pass and then, she whispers, to the unconscious man, to the dark, to the angels, to God, to herself.

"There's a Cristero in my bed!"

________________________________________________________________

If you would like to be tagged let me know!

#el catorce #for greater glory #for greater glory fanfiction #victoriano 'el catorce' ramirez x ofc #Victoriano Ramirez #oscar isaac #character fandom #catholicism #tw; blood #tw; medical procedures #tw; mentions of seizures

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imaginesmai · 5 years

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Dating Peter Parker would include...

I’m sorry I’m not so active lately. I got the requests about Tony (I think there are four of them? two from accounts and two from anon)

- Peter Parker is a dork.

- Let’s start saying that.

- He had always had a crush on you. The beautiful girl in his class, with who he had talked with a few times because a project. Besides, you lived close to him, in the apartment block on the other side of the street. So you sometimes saw each other on the street, and made small conversation.

- The thing is, he didn’t ask you out. He hadn’t thought he had any chances with you, so he just dropped it and cried to Ned and May about it.

- But then, a highschool dance for valentine’s day came around.

- He wasn’t going to go, let’s be real; he didn’t have a date, Ned was going with Betty and Flash had been mocking him for the entire week.

- Sad boy was sitting at the end of the class, doodling on his notebook, when you approached him.

- It made his day that you talked to him; so when you asked if he wanted to go with you to the dance, he just broke.

- You took that as a bad sign, so you retracted and told him it was okay if he had someone.

- Peter didn’t get to say yes because he just froze and nodded to everything you said, so you left.

- That day Peter was as pale as ever. He spent the lunch time sitting on the same chair, looking ahead and thinking about nothing. He went home, told May about it and she actually smacked him with the newspaper.

- She made him walk to your apartment and correct himself.

- That was how he found himself talking to you through the window, explaining himself while both of you cried; you for sadness, and he for frustration.

- Finally, you went the dance together and the rest is history.

- Now.

- NOW.

- Dating Peter Parker is a rollercoaster.

- One moment you’re okay, taking a nap together while playing Wii, and the next you’re screaming because you throw a blue shell at him.

- He’s all about giving you unexpected roses, gifts or planning some weird dates that include random trips, horrible food and a lot of spiderman. And about starting arguments and fights over insecurities, stupid decisions and videogames.

- He loves kisses. And I’m not talking about ‘good-morning’ kiss, ‘night’ kiss or ‘see you later’. Not even about random kisses in the cheek or quick pecks on the nose when he passes by.

- No.

- Peter has the necessity of trying every available cute kiss on the market. From the first moment, you learn that he loves that type of kisses. The spidey kiss is not enough.

- For example, he will fight you in trying the lady and the tramp kiss while eating pasta in an Italian restaurant. Everyone looks at you weird, but he’ll be blushing and giggling for the whole dinner and it’s worthy.

- It’s hard to admit, but he knows every Disney lyric and choreography and sings along with the film once he is comfortable enough with you.

- Honestly, he’s a kid.

- He shows it when, in autumn, he takes you to walk around the park only to find the most hidden place, make a pile of leaves on the ground and throw yourself over it. He loves spending the time with you, laying there and watching the people walk while imagine their lives.

- Also, movie marathons with fortes every Saturday, that end up in a pillow fight and with no clothes in the end.

- Fun fact: holidays make him riled up.

- Like, the idea of creating a custom between the two of you, original and unique, keeps him awake at night. He starts planning Halloween one month before the vent.

- And he’s a freak. On the good side, of course.

- Peter can spend the whole night awake, you lying by his side sleeping, with the phone illuminating his face as he reads conspiracy theories and unsolved police files on BuzzFeed, only to wake you up when one is too scary or interesting.

- He has a lot of inside jokes with you, almost all of them too strange for anyone to understand; but you love him that way.

- His favourite thing to do on a Friday night is to watch soap operas from another county, without subtitles, and make up his own dialogue with you, with a bad accent.

- Healthy competition, too.

- Like, bet who can eat more ice-cream without brain-freeze. Or be quiet in a meeting with Tony where he’s asking questions. Talking about Tony, he’s so fed up with Peter and you that he schedule thirty minutes every week to cry about the decision of getting involved.

- Who can sleep longer, run faster or annoy Mr Harrington the most. Who can keep smiling through a sad movie. Or cry through a happy one.

- Days with Peter are always something new, you can’t never get bored.

- There is also a sweet part in him.

- He can’t sleep without you by his side when you finally make the relationship serious.

- He has a corner in his room filled with silly selfies or objects that mean something to you.

- There is a drawer with pads, make-up, panties, bras, pain-killers for the period, a brush, some hair bands, your favourite perfume and shampoo, and an extra charger for your phone in his wardrobe. That he updates every once in a while with things you might need or want.

- Every day, he makes his goal to tell you ‘love you’ in a different way. By giving you something, helping you to study, learning something new for you, or just sticking a paper to your locker.

- The thing is, Peter Parker is a boy with a mind of a kid who loves stepping on puddles but forced to become a superhero that swings you across NY.

- And you get to be the lucky person to spend the rest of your life with him.

Tom Holland taglist:

@delicately-important-trash

@lexxxistrips

@smilexcaptainx

@aikaterrina

Want to know more about me? Here is my Masterlist! Feedback is always appreciated!!

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1000-directions · 4 years

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rbb because it gave me a heart attack #trauma and also ughhHhhHhhhh bc mood

lolllllll people in marvel fandom do NOT understand how some of us suffer when they abbreviate their reverse big bang as rbb!!!

this was the original draft of my winterhawk reverse big bang where clint is a musician and bucky is a trust fund kid who ends up joining the army or something and they’re boyfriends and then they break up and eventually get back together and it’s told partly in flashbacks and it was just getting TOO complicated to write and felt joyless and was making me completely miserable, so i threw it out after 2500 words and wrote winterhawk punks in love instead, which was the correct choice.

i will never finish it, but here is what i’ve got in case anyone is interested:

There are a lot of different things Clint could have done with his life.

Well, no. That’s a bit of an exaggeration.

But there are several things Clint could have done with his life. Multiple things. More than one thing.

But he doesn’t think any of those other things would have ever made him as happy and crazy and pissed-off and satisfied as singing does.

Whenever anyone asks, he’s very careful to call himself a writer. A composer. A creator. A musician. Like the making of the thing is the part that motivates him. Like performing is just an afterthought. Like singing is just something he has to do so the music makes sense. Because he knows he’s not a great singer. He’s passable. He can keep a beat and hit all the notes in his limited range, and he gets just enough inflection and passion into the words to make people feel a thing, sometimes.

He’s good at the writing. He’s good at the deceptively simple arrangements. His voice is the least he has to offer, and he knows it, and it feels kind of foolish and indulgent to especially savor the part that he’s objectively the worst at. But Christ, he loves doing it, and he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

The two of them had ditched work early, saving up all their smoke breaks until it was suddenly 2:40, and the manager had no choice but to cut them loose. And even though they had permission, it felt like getting away with something, and Clint twisted his fingers into Bucky’s grasp as they ran down the sidewalk together. Clint darted recklessly into the intersection, and Bucky jerked him back at the last second as a truck came barrelling past, honking furiously at the two of them. And it was so close to being bad, but it was fine, fine, fine, and Clint laughed as Bucky shook his head, and Clint linked his arms around Bucky’s neck and kissed him right there in the middle of the street.

They were twenty, and they were in love. And nothing was serious but that.

It was a hot summer at the shore, and they were living in a shitty beach house with three other friends. They spent their mornings and afternoons scooping ice cream at a popular local shop that was more famous than good. And then at night, they’d go drinking at the scummier bars that were a little more lax on carding, or they’d build a bonfire on the beach and drink Yuenglings purchased with Clint’s really good fake ID. And inevitably, someone would have an acoustic guitar, and someone would start shouting out requests, and they’d get drunker and noisier as the night went on.

And then Clint would grab Bucky’s hand with a mischievous glint in his eyes, and they’d strip down to nothing and run into the ocean in the dark, screaming down the moon. And then they’d huddle together in one towel, letting the fire dry their hair until it was curly and crispy. And then they’d all stomp out the fire and gather up the red Solo cups, and Bucky and Clint would push their two futons together into one rickety big bed, and they would fall asleep in each others’ arms, salty and sandy and worn out.

Bucky woke up early most days to go for a run. He was in the Army Reserves, and he had to stay in shape, and Clint certainly wasn’t complaining about what the workouts did for his boyfriend’s physique. Clint was starting at technical school in the fall, studying to be an audio mixer. Things would be changing soon, but not just then.

That summer, time was lazy and endless. Bucky would come back from his run and lay his sweaty body down on top of Clint’s, kissing him awake, and they’d rub off against each other until they both came. Or they’d dart away from their friends in the middle of dinner, running up to their room and barely getting the door locked before Clint was shoving down Bucky’s pants to get his mouth on his cock.

And some nights, they were painstakingly tender, just kissing for what felt like hours before they even took their clothes off. Bucky liked things a little rough, and Clint liked things a little sweet, and they’d found something in the middle that was perfect for both of them.

“Just fucking hold me down and make me feel it, Clint,” Bucky would say sometimes, and Clint would kiss his jaw and tug his hair a little and fuck into him harder until Bucky was crying out beneath him.

It was their first summer, and everything was perfect.

At thirty, Clint is starting to fall into the sorts of routines that a younger version of himself would have detested.

Even worse...he kinda likes it.

But there’s just something soothing and comforting about knowing what’s ahead. Sure, it’s romantic to think about being a starving artist, but the reality of it wasn’t so sexy. Turns out that if you don’t work, you don’t get paid. And sometimes in the music industry, you don’t get paid even when you do work. So Clint works his ass off. All the time. He’s still riding a bubble, and he’s gonna ride the hell out of it until it breaks.

He wakes up, and he makes coffee. He fills his travel mug, and he and Lucky take a lazy walk through the park. Clint listens to the birds chirp, and he slurps his coffee, and he hides behind his sunglasses and doesn’t make eye contact with any of his well-meaning neighbors. Too early for that shit.

He goes back home, and Lucky inevitably fucks off somewhere to nap while Clint stretches. He’d tried meditation, but he can’t bear being quite that alone with his own thoughts. He can be alone with his body, though. He runs through his muscle groups, mindfully and thoughtfully working out the best way to stretch his sternocleidomastoid or his serratus anterior. He likes how he feels afterwards, all loose and wiggly, and it puts him in a good frame of mind for a morning listening session.

He has a second cup of coffee in his sunroom while he listens to the playback from the previous day. He combs through voicenotes and reads old journals, idly recalling stories about himself. He doesn’t create anything just yet. He listens with an open mind. And then he listens a second time, and he absorbs, and he makes notes about what he likes or how something could be different.

And then he sets a timer for forty minutes while he has lunch in front of the TV, and he fucks around on his email for a bit, and sometimes if he eats real fast he jerks off. And sometimes if he’s been seeing someone, he texts them, catches up, makes plans for later. Sometimes he plays video games. Sometimes he remembers to water his plants.

(Mostly, he jerks off.)

And then it’s back to work in the afternoon. More coffee. More listening, but this time with editing, rerecording, rewriting. He creates new voicenotes. He jots down new lyrics. He thinks about things he wants to talk about someday that he’s not ready to talk about now.

And then in the late afternoon, he ventures out of the house again. He goes to a cafe, or he grabs some more coffee, or he goes to the bank or the grocery store or the mall. And he exists among people, the way his therapist told him to. And he smiles at three strangers, and he overhears people’s conversations, and he reminds himself that there is an entire universe outside his head, just like there’s an entire universe inside of it.

And then he goes home, makes dinner, jerks off, swaps his coffee for whiskey, waits until he gets really, really tired, and then…

Then he fucking sings.

They got the band name from one of the weird, macabre love poems that Clint was always painstakingly copying down into his notebooks, trying to record the bits of weird beauty he saw in the world that mirrored the strangeness he sensed inside of himself. He felt less alone to see strangeness in others.

My darling, I will love you until the winter hawk cleans my bones And in her desperation, she will discover that my flesh only tastes of you

“It’s so gross,” Bucky had said with a curious sort of awe, and Clint felt so vulnerable in the silence that followed, because it was gross, but it was important to him.

Clint wanted to be so fucking in love that it chewed him up. He wanted love to shred him with her talons. And he could imagine himself getting there with Bucky. He thought they could be epic. He was still holding back some secret parts of himself, but if he let those go, he thought he could love Bucky so hard that it consumed him and he finally, finally lost himself.

And Bucky kept staring at the words scrawled in Clint’s notebook, traced his fingertip over the blue ink, following the same pattern Clint’s pen had taken as he’d lovingly copied down the words. And there was a furrow in his brow as he read and reread, and just as Clint thought he might explode from the anticipation, Bucky looked up at him with a small smile.

“I get it, I think,” he said slowly. “The desperation, I mean.”

“Yeah?” Clint wasn’t sure he was even breathing anymore, he was so close to losing it.

“The way a predator becomes a scavenger,” Bucky said thoughtfully, and there it was, that nerdy side of Bucky that Clint loved so fiercely. “Taking the scraps if that’s the only choice you have. Being just...so hungry.” He ran his thumb over Clint’s wrist, and Clint shivered.

“Hungry how?” he managed to croak out.

“Feel like I could just eat you up sometimes,” Bucky murmured. “When I first met you, I didn’t think you even liked me at all.”

“I did, though,” Clint protested weakly. “I was crazy about you from that first time I saw you.”

“I didn’t know it,” Bucky said. “Didn’t even know if I really liked boys or not, but I wanted you, and it felt like….” He frowned and looked at his thumb slowing arcing over Clint’s skin. “Felt like it didn’t even matter if you liked me back. Just me liking you was so much. And I would have eaten any scrap of anything you gave me, baby.”

“And now?” Clint asked, and his heart was an out-of-control metronome.

“Same thing now,” Bucky said, chewing on his lip. “Any bit of you I could have. I’d eat up all you gave me and I’d starve for more before I wanted a single damn bite of anyone else.”

“I love you,” Clint had whispered then, the first time he’d said those words out loud to anyone.

“I love you, too,” Bucky had replied, a hopeful smile breaking across his face and scrunching up his eyes, and Clint was so terrified and relieved and happy that he could barely stand it.

They pushed their mouths together and tried to kiss, but neither of them could stop grinning long enough to make it work.

Clint goes to therapy once a month. He takes his Lexapro every night. He has a notebook full of therapy homework, and he makes lists of his accomplishments and his failures, and when he goes to therapy, he shows up with an agenda. He is working to fix multiple parts of his life. He makes progress in different areas, a step on one path, a leap on another, a little stumble here. He’s an amoeba, and his pseudopods creep towards his goals, engulfing and consuming one after the other, slow and steady.

Get a dog? Check.

Learn how to cook healthy(ish) meals? Check.

Spend more time outside? Check.

Stop being so hateful towards myself? Check(ish).

Learn how to have sex with someone without falling in love with him? Check.

Learn how to have sex with someone without immediately thinking of Bucky afterwards?

Well.

It’s a work in progress.

Something flashbacky about being deaf

Clint’s newest album is called Mono Songs for a Stereo World, and all he’s finished so far is the title and the concept.

He connected with Tony Stark at SxSW last year and drunkenly talked his ear off about his idea to create songs for people with hearing conditions, mixed specifically to accommodate their abilities. He’d woken up the next morning with a raging hangover and a three minute voicemail from Tony describing the prototype software he’d slapped together. And now they’re...not exactly partners, but Clint comes up with ideas, and Tony turns them into reality.

And now Clint has all the technology he needs to create a fully customizable digital album. Fans will be directed to a website that tests their hearing, determines what wavelengths they can detect at which volumes, and then Tony’s tech will generate a downloadable version of Clint’s album that sits perfectly within their range of hearing. It works flawlessly. They’re probably not going to make much money off of it, but Clint’s been working his whole life towards something like this, and he can’t believe how close he finally is.

So all he needs to do is, like. Find some inspiration somewhere and write ten to twelve songs and then record all of them and mix them once and then feed them into Tony’s algorithm and re-mix the songs and then do maybe 40 test mixes on each one.

Simple, really.

It was easy for the two of them to form a band. Clint was always writing his weird poetry, and Bucky loved it. Loved the sound of his voice wrapping around the shapes of his words. And Bucky was good enough with a guitar, and it was just one more way for them to be together. It just made sense.

They called the band Winterhawk, and sure, Clint probably always took it a little more seriously than Bucky did, but that was Clint. He threw himself into everything like that back then, reckless and headstrong and passionate and unafraid. He loved Bucky so much, and he loved the band so much, and Bucky loved him and the band, too. Maybe just a little less, but still plenty enough for Clint.

Summer ended, and they found a reasonably priced studio apartment in the city. Bucky paid most of the rent, but he had a trust fund he was still working his way through before his parents disinherited him, plus he made great tips bartending.

wip title game

#asks #me me me #winterhawk #i'm writing a thing #bigbrotherlouis

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mothmanhamlet · 5 years

Text

A Few Angsty Haikus

Analogical, 2584 words, high school au, fluffffffff, I don’t think there are any warnings to speak of.

Roman gets Virgil to use his services to ask out his crush. Bad poetry ensues.

Roman Prince was many things. He was a jock, a self proclaimed “Matchmaking God”, and the biggest theater nerd Virgil had ever known. Most importantly, Roman would be dead if he didn’t stop begging Virgil in the next 30 seconds.

“Come onnnnnn, please,” Roman begged. They were pinning flyers for Roman’s new “business” idea to the corkboard outside of their math class. Or rather, Roman was pinning flyers, Virgil was just there for moral support. Moral support apparently included attempts at making him Roman’s first customer.

“No,” Virgil said, crossing his arms and leaning on the wall.

“Listen, it benefits both of us! I need my services to get out into the world and you happen to be the perfect candidate!” Roman reasoned, moving his hands a concerning amount for someone who was holding sharp objects.

The services in question were a complicated list of steps Roman called a “confession session”. The idea was that someone filled out the application and Roman would plan out an elaborate display of something that he promised would be spectacularly romantic.

“No. Absolutely not.” Virgil didn’t even bother looking at Roman, his eyes were too busy scanning around the hallway. School ended not even two minutes ago, so there were still people there. He looked to see who could see him, who could see the poster. Pitifully, Logan was still there, Virgil’s super-genius crush. If Logan saw that poster, his opinion of Virgil would immediately drop. He was too good for that kind of thing.

Roman, sadly, caught Virgil looking just a little too long at Logan and got a brilliant idea. “Well I say you should get a second opinion. Oh Lo-”

Virgil’s hand practically flew to Roman’s mouth, nearly tackling him in the process. Logan, thankfully, didn’t move an inch.

“Do it and you’re dead,” Virgil whispered through gritted teeth. Against his palm, Virgil heard a muffled noise that sounded something like “But can you stop me?”. He looked back at Logan, who was still trying to fit three books and a globe into his already full backpack, and then at Roman, who was looking at Virgil with his eyebrows raised as if to say, “Your move”. At least if he let Roman do this, the embarrassment would be delayed.

“I’ll say yes if you don’t yell when I remove my hand.” Roman nodded and Virgil released his grip on his face, slight red marks where he had pressed rather aggressively. Roman pulled out his phone and started typing.

“I’m emailing you a link to the website. Fill out the form so I can make it spectacular!” Roman said, all too cheery for someone who had to blackmail him into doing it. Virgil just rolled his eyes and started walking down the hallway, trying to shake the small bits of attention that their (rather loud) conversation had gained.

****

Virgil sat down on the purple bean bag chair in his cluttered room and reached for his computer. It was a light grey color and covered in various stickers, his headphones a permanent fixture in its side. He clicked on the link and was immediately redirected to a flashy red and gold website that used hearts like they were commas and used clip art that probably hadn’t seen the light of day since the 90’s. Roman was creative, but sometimes his execution was subpar and unfortunately this was one of those times. Virgil leaned back and read over the questions.

1. What is your prospective boyfriend/girlfriend/datemate’s favorite love song?

2. What type of flower best encapsulates their personality?

3. Balloons, streamers, confetti, or all?

The rest of the questions followed suit in a similar fashion, and there were a lot. Maybe 30 or so until Virgil got to the end of the application.

“Who the hell has a favorite kind of sprinkle?” Virgil muttered to himself, trying to work through the questions. Even more surprising than how specific the questions were, was that Virgil actually knew most of the answers. He had never really bought into the whole pining-after-someone-he’d-never-met thing (pretending he even had a choice in the matter), so obviously he had to fall for his lab partner/project partner/person he sat next to in every class. Apparently the teachers thought it was funny to pair up the kid named “Sanders” and the one named “Saunders”. It was that, or just some alphabetization. Either way, it meant they had spent a lot of time together in their first three years of high school. Logan was distant at first, but after a while they opened up to each other. Which was a little weird because Virgil was pretty much the world’s worst lab partner, always assuming so strongly what would happen and planning to mess up, which in turn tended to mess them up. Now they seemed to talk about anything and everything, Virgil’s speaking ability permitted. Logan loved tea and Sherlock and classic literature (Victorianism not Romanticism) and jam and being right and debates and space. He really loved space. Whenever anyone brought up space his eyes lit up and it practically made Virgil’s heart do backflips. He was just glad one of the questions wasn’t “what do you like about them?” because Virgil could have written an essay. What was there, however, was far worse.

27. Write 10-20 poems about them.

Now Virgil was an emo nightmare of a person, but he did deviate from the trend in one key factor: He couldn’t write poems. No angsty sonnets for him, no haikus about suffering, no half-baked attempts to write his own songs. Nothing.

Virgil got up from his comfortable chair and started sifting through boxes on the floor, looking for something he’d rather forget. Underneath one particularly dusty pile of biology notes, he found what he’d been looking for, a beat up composition notebook that had served as his 6th grade English notebook. He flipped through the pages, stopping when he finally found the page labeled “poetry rules”. How he remembered this page, he had no idea, but was at least partially thankful for it.

Haikus: 3 lines. 5 syllables, 7 syllables, 5 syllables. Doesn’t have to rhyme.

Well that seemed easy enough.

****

Your eyes look really nice

Magnified by your glasses

Blue as the ocean

Your hair looks fluffy

I want to touch it sometimes

So soft and shiny

****

Logan anticipated a lot of things. He anticipated his AP World History teacher to say something dull or ignorant during class. He anticipated the way his earl grey would taste every morning, bitter with hints of citrus. He even, on occasion, anticipated the perpetrator in his mystery novels, attempting to figure it out before the detective did. What Logan did not anticipate was two of his friends running towards him before he could enter school for the day.

“Logan, something absolutely delightful happened inside,” Dolos said, dressed in a peculiar combination of a suit and rubber gloves. Remus nodded vigorously next to him, munching on what seemed to be frosting in an empty deodorant bottle.

“There’s something inside your locker Nerdy Wolverine!” Remus said, making an attempt at teasing out his own curiosity while simultaneously applying a neon green fake mustache to his upper lip.

“Remus, if it is rats again, I am really not interested, especially after last time-” Logan began, thinking back to the year they had decided to share a locker.

“Of course. Because we totally put it in there,” Dolos interrupted, rolling his eyes.

“I personally think it’s a jar full of angry hornets that’s set to break when you open your locker, releasing into the school and stinging everyone but Dolos says that’s “unrealistic” because he’s no fun,” Remus said, waving his hands around to simulate a hornet infestation.

“But if you didn’t put anything there, how do you know there is something in there to begin with?” Logan asked.

“There was a sign on your locker,” Dolos said, gesturing to the door, “But don’t worry, it’s super tasteful.” With that, the two walked off, snickering. Despite the fact that school started in 20 minutes, they walked away from school.

Logan arrived at his locker, not knowing what exactly to prepare for. What he found, was his locker covered in dark blue paper hearts, “There’s a surprise inside” written on them. It was more distinctive than he would have liked, but it certainly wasn’t the worst thing he could have come across. The hearts managed not to cover his lock, so he could easily open his locker, however what was on the inside proved the hearts correct, for it was definitely a surprise.

His locker was covered along the walls, flowers, candy, and streamers occupying any blank space along the sides. In the back of his locker, there was blue poster paper with words Logan didn’t bother to read. On the small shelf he had in his locker, he found sugar cookies in the pattern of the Microsoft logo, littered with little blue sprinkles.

The most interesting thing however, was on the side of the door. Around twenty pieces of paper folded into little red paper hearts stuck with string onto the inside of his locker door. What was even more intriguing was the fact that there seemed to be words written on them. Carefully, he plucked one of them and unfolded it.

You smile so bright

Your laugh makes me want to cry

But in a good way

Ok, so it wasn’t a great poem, but nevertheless Logan thought it had a particular quaint authenticity to it. He pulled them off, one by one, careful not to rip them. In every heart, he found a haiku of similar quality and theme. Virgil would probably enjoy them, and for a moment Logan considered giving him something like this. Virgil seemed to have a certain affection for particularly bad poetry, and Logan had an affection for Virgil. Besides, it seemed that some of the poems were just lyrics from some of Virgil’s favorite songs, something about falling boys and chemistry.

When he had finished reading through the poems, Logan decided to have a better look at the poster in the back of his locker. Looking at the giant words on the paper answered some of his questions, but caused even more. Logan, I like you a lot. Go out with me? - Virgil.

It made sense, that this whole display was a confession of sorts, however what didn’t make sense was the fact that it wasn’t, well, Virgil. Virgil was a little bit extra sometimes, but from what Logan knew of him, he was far too nervous to do something like this. And if it was Virgil, then where was he? Unless he had run off somewhere-

Virgil had definitely run off somewhere. He looked at his watch. He had fifteen minutes till class started, which was probably enough time to find him.

****

Virgil was, for lack of a better phrase, freaking the hell out. He got to school really early, early enough to intercept Logan, who got to school like half an hour before he really needed to. The night before, he realized he couldn’t go through with the showy confession. Logan would probably hate it and then maybe hate him, which would of course happen after Logan rejected him so then Logan would stop talking to him because Virgil embarrassed him with it and then Roman would hate him because it didn’t work and then his life would fall apart. So instead he decided to get to school early enough to intercept Logan and confess to him before he could see the giant confession, then explain what had happened when he got rejected and got it so Logan was never surprised with whatever Roman planned. He would wait in the empty classroom Logan spent study hall in (he worked out an arrangement with the science teachers) and wait for Logan, who usually came there before his locker. He felt like such a stalker knowing that, when in reality he just asked Logan’s friend Dolos.

Which would have worked out great, except Virgil couldn’t stop freaking out. He was just staring at the clock, anxiously waiting for him to come in, all the while mentally running through every worst case scenario. He had around 13 minutes before school started, which meant Logan had to be there. It would be any minute before-

“Hello?”

Logan was there, dressed formally as always, hair slicked back with a polo shirt and tie. Virgil was there too, but he was sitting on a table, staring at the clock above the door.

“Hi Logan,” Virgil said as calmly as he could, which happened to be not calmly at all. “I have, uh, something for you.”

Virgil reached behind him for the card he had made. He painted a swirly blue sky with Logan’s favorite constellation on it. Hopefully he would like it more than the giant display.

“It’s very nice looking,” Logan commented, looking at the front. “It even has Vega on it, my favorite.”

Logan probably didn’t even know what was going on. Virgil thought he was amazing, but even he had to admit Logan was clinically oblivious. Logan opened up the card, looking a little confused and surprised. But not angry or disappointed. So that was a step in the right direction.

Logan flipped around the card to show him the inside. Logan, would you like to maybe go out with me? “Yes? Assuming you are asking what it seems you are asking, I would love to go out with you.”

What?

Virgil wasn’t sure if he was happy or confused or surprised, the emotions blending in the pit of his stomach. But he said yes. Logan said yes.

“Y-yes? Are you sure?”

“Yes Virgil, I’m certain.”

Virgil let out a breath. He was in a calmer place and honestly a little light-headed. Logan sat next to him on the table, looking like he wasn’t going anywhere.

“Ok. In that case, be careful when you visit your locker. There’s something in there that’s a little, uh, extra,” Virgil said, trying to be as vague as possible. Logan’s face scrunched up in confusion.

“If you’re talking about the confession you made, I have already seen it. I apologize if I ruined any surprises.”

“You- But- You saw it? And you don’t hate me now?” Virgil asked, it a bit of a frenzy.

“No, not at all. I particularly liked the poems.”

Virgil was surprised. Flabbergasted. Betrayed. He could no longer tell if he wanted to punch or hug Roman. Maybe both.

“It was actually Roman’s idea, but I’m glad you don’t hate me,” Virgil said, wringing his hands and looking at Logan. “I also don’t have too much planned for the actual, um, date. I kind of assumed you’d say no.”

“You do like jumping to conclusions. Fortunately, I am prepared. There’s a new documentary on one of Jupiter’s moons, Callisto, and it will be playing Friday at seven thirty. Does that sound enjoyable?”

Virgil simply nodded with a smile.

“Perfect, I will pick you up at seven. It is, as they say, a date.” Logan said, surprisingly well prepared for someone who didn’t know he would be asked out. Both of them slid off the table, standing back on the ground. Just as Logan began to leave, Virgil reached out and tentatively caught his hand. Logan’s eyebrows raised for a moment, then turned more relaxed.

Slowly and happily, the two walked out together, hand in hand.

#analogical #fluff #high school au #sanders sides #sanders side fic #virgil sanders #logan sanders #roman sanders #remus is there but just for like five seconds

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monstaxvibes · 6 years

Text

Monsta X as the “SEVEN DEADLY SINS” 💀

Based on their comeback teasers and photos, I’ve pinpointed what “Sin” each member of Monsta X represents along with the “Virtue” opposition. This is just my opinion and theory which probably won’t be accurate lol Enjoy!

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Changkyun as Envy:

“Envy is an emotion which ‘occurs when a person lacks another's superior quality, achievement, or possession and either desires it or wishes that the other lacked it’."

I.M easily compares himself to others. But we know Changkyun as someome who is very grateful for where he is today and grateful for the people who support him. The virtue that is opposite of the sin Envy is Gratitude. But he has the problem of being a bit envious of others. For example, take his lyrics from Jealousy. Yes the song is about being jealous but I can’t help but feel the little sting of his lyrics during his rap. (English Translations)

“I got it, the last out of the seven. Think these guys are better than me?”

“Wow, to each their own misunderstanding. What’s so fun about teasing me?”

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Jooheon as Pride:

Oh boy here we go.

“Pride is an inwardly directed emotion that carries two antithetical meanings. With a negative connotation pride refers to a foolishly and irrationally corrupt sense of one's personal value, status or accomplishments...”

Pretty much ya boy is full of himself. In the Monsta X concepts, Jooheon seems to always plays a “character” that is very prideful. His first ever famous rap that was from Trespass was

“I’m different from those pretty boys over there. Excuse me, excuse my charisma. I’m gonna be rude and enter your heart. My love knows no manners, excuse my charisma!”

But wait, MONBEBE’s know that Jooheon is not really like that at all. He is a sweetheart who always shows Humility (Virtue opposite of Pride). He is supportive and often comforts them member extremely well. We also know that sometimes, Honey is sometimes very self conscious (BUT BABY WHY? YOU ARE SO HANDSOME AND TALENTED AND WOWOW). And the only way to rid those insecurities is to replace them with his badass persona that we’ve all learned to adore.

For more supporting lyrics, please refer to Jooheon’s whole song “Should I Do.” Or the whole mixtape in general. He is spewing pride and I’m here for it 🙌🏼

(Can you tell that he’s my bias......)

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Hyungwon as Sloth:

“Sloth is one of the seven capital sins. It is the most difficult sin to define, and to credit as sin, since it refers to a peculiar jumble of notions, dating from antiquity and including mental, spiritual, pathological, and physical states. One definition is: a habitual disinclination to exertion... The word ‘sloth’ is a translation of the Latin term acedia and means ‘without care’.”

Hyungwon is definitely Sloth (also Pride but for this lets just say Sloth). He’s tired and lazy and sleepy. He is known as laid back and care free. He doesn’t talk much and is a considered a “meme”. But in reality, Hyungwon is one of the most Diligent (Virtue opposite of Sloth) members. He is talented and extremely hard working when it comes to his position as a dancer and singer. But he still loves to indulge in his sleep and that’s something he can’t rid himself of.

(It’s okay Wonnie, i am on the same boat. Sleepyheads unite!!!)

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Kihyun as Wrath:

“Wrath or Anger is an intense expression of emotion. It involves a strong uncomfortable and hostile response to a perceived provocation, hurt or threat. Anger can occur when a person feels their personal boundaries are being or are about to be violated. Some have a learned tendency to react to anger through retaliation as a way of coping.”

Kihyun is known as eomma. He’s motherly and is always kind. Always looking out for the members and has amazing Patience(Virtue opposite of Wrath). But sometimes, he just gets angry and annoyed and can’t handle someone making the same mistake constantly. He reminds me of the phrase “Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.” That patience of his runs thin when you keep hitting the same nerve. He practically pulls his hair out when it comes to the members and things being unclean (poor babe, thats a tough life). He most likely feels that he loses his cool a little too often and too easily which is something he might be working on.

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Minhyuk as Greed:

“Greed, or avarice, is an inordinate or insatiable longing for material gain, be it food, money, status, or power. As a secular psychological concept, greed is an inordinate desire to acquire or possess more than one needs. The degree of inordinance is related to the inability to control the reformulation of ‘wants’ once desired ‘needs’ are eliminated. Erich Fromm described greed as ‘a bottomless pit which exhausts the person in an endless effort to satisfy the need without ever reaching satisfaction.’ It is typically used to criticize those who seek excessive material wealth, although it may apply to the need to feel more excessively moral, social, or otherwise better than someone else.”

Minhyuk is known as the sunshine. Always giving, generous and caring. Charity/Generosity is the virtue that is opposite of the sin Greed and we all know this boy is the definition of a generous person. Always loving and giving so much to his members and his fans. But he has a side to him that is greedy and just wants all of the love and attention. He is the type to lowkey want you to compliment him back if he compliments you. All the love he exerts is what he wants shown back to him. Maybe he is also greedy when it comes to success of Monsta X. He wants them to be on the top and to be the best, his inner greed just wanting more and more.

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Wonho as Lust:

DON’T @ ME BUT YOU KNOW THIS IS CORRECT.

“Lust is a psychological force producing intense wanting for an object, or circumstance fulfilling the emotion. Lust can take any form such as the lust for sexuality, money or power.”

Okay okay hear me out. Monbebe’s know him for his Chastity (Virtue opposite of Lust). He is a fluff who is pure and sweet. He couldn’t hurt a fly without crying. He just loves monbebe so much UGH GET YOU A MAN WHO STANS YOU JUST AS MUCH AS YOU STAN HIM WOW. But his role in Monsta X is to be the sexy one and to reveal his body. He has to rip off his shirt and make those ladies s w o o n. But I feel like nowadays, he can’t help but enjoy it. Oh boy he LOVES it. I feel like that one time thing became a mandatory act for every performance. It turned from “Oh Wonho, maybe show the fans some skin” to “Crap Wonho went rogue. MAYDAY MAYDAY WE GOTTA STOCK UP ON HIS SHIRTS.” (just give the man some pasties dammit or the shirt is coming OFF)

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Shownu as Gluttony:

I feel like people mistake Gluttony as only something based on an over abundance of food. But it can also mean the “over-indulgence and over-consumption of food, drink, or wealth items.”

Shownu is most like the definition of the virtue, Temperance (Virtue opposite of Gluttony).

“Temperance is defined as moderation or voluntary self-restraint. It is typically described in terms of what an individual voluntarily refrains from doing. This includes restraint from retaliation in the form of non-violence and forgiveness, restraint from arrogance in the form of humility and modesty, restraint from excesses such as splurging now in the form of prudence, and restraint from excessive anger or craving for something in the form of calmness and self-control.”

We know Shownu for his leadership and amazing self control. He is the Papa-Bear. Extremely supportive and a pretty chill person. But Shownu isn’t perfect despite people expecting him to be. He is human, he makes mistakes. Gluttony can go hand-in-hand with Greed in this situation. He wants Monsta X to succeed more and to be the best. I feel like Gluttony can go hand-in-hand with all of the sins, which Shownu might all have. Envious of other members due to his small popularity compared to them. Prideful of his talent and body and nature. Little pieces of each sin but at the same time, he has every aspect of all of the virtues as well. A balance between good and evil. Hence why he is the leader. He understands all of the “bad” parts of each member but he also knows all of the good parts too and respects them.

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(Gif credit to Admin Mon)

-admin bbe

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glamrockmonarch · 6 years

Text

Domestic ace!Deaky Headcanons #3

Part 1 | Part 2

A/N: so I might get the timeline a bit wrong but oh well… I love this couple, hopefully, I won’t get carried away (but I think I will), enjoy!

Edit: I went back and edit. I will, however (and I had already planned this, so nobody feel stuff, thanks!), be posting a one-shot about having kids with Deaky.

So, we’ve established that you are an animal lover, more specifically a cat lover; so when you move in together and leave your apartment you are sad to have to spend nights alone while Deaky is away on band duty.

You adopt a kitten much to John’s displeasure, he would have preferred a puppy, but you found cats to be more appealing and in need of less care than dogs.

You name her Bean, a name that Freddie strongly disapproves of.

“What kind of name it that?” He argues the first time he sees her.

You have moved in with John a few weeks before and the boys helped with your stuff but now it is the first time they have all been to your apartment since then.

Bean was walking around the men’s legs in an attempt at figuring out which one of them was most likely to feed her something yummy.

“Bean is a perfectly good name! And she likes it too!” You said, going to pick her up, which she allowed with a meow.

Deaky rolled his eyes as you brought the cat to Roger, who simply dragged his hand over the kitten’s head, making her purr.

“What can I say? I’ve always known my way around a p-“

“Don’t.” You warn him and take your kitten with you as Rog sticks his tongue out half laughing.

Deaky ends up loving your pet.

He wakes up first most mornings and plays with her while making breakfast. Sometimes when he is sitting down crunching numbers Bean rubs herself on his legs and meows at him until he pays attention to her.

You love your kitten, always letting her sleep in bed with you and sitting to watch the tv at night together. She loves to throw herself on either yours or John’s belly and nap on top of you.

When Deaky’s away on tour you find it hard to fall asleep, but with Bean purring by your side you manage to.

Although Bean is an angel, which is odd for cats, she does have a flaw which seems to bother Deaky more than it should. She won’t eat cat food. You don’t want to admit it, but you ran out of cat food once while John was stuck in rehearsals and you opened a can of tuna for her. Ever since, Bean won’t eat dry cat food.

“I don’t get it!” Deaky complains some mornings. “She doesn’t like it anymore! Why doesn’t she like it?” He brings a hand full of cat food up to Bean’s nose and watches her turn away, leaving him lying face down on the floor in defeat.

You have been so busy with moving in and training your cat that you forget your anniversary is coming up!

This happened before you even introduced him to your family.

It’s the first year you’ve spent together as an official couple, so even though you have little time to prepare something for Deaky, you find a way to make it special.

On your first anniversary, you prepare a wonderful dinner, you make John’s favorite dish and bake a cake with both of your names on it, you play your favorite record and “out in the street” starts blasting through John’s homemade speakers.

When Deaky comes through the door you have changed into a cute dress he had given you as a birthday present - a piece of good advice from Freddie, - you love that dress and wear it whenever you miss your boyfriend.

He smiles at the music and follows the smell of delicious food into your small kitchen. He finds you dancing in front of the stove.

Seeing you like this makes his heart swell; he is almost incredibly and disgustingly happy with the life he has since he met you and you got together.

You turn and go to wrap your arms around his middle as he does the same, both of you stare into each other’s eyes until he finally breaks the silence.

“Happy anniversary, Y/N!” He kisses your nose and you giggle.

“Happy anniversary, Deaky.” You push his hair away from his face.

The two of you eat dinner and talk about the things you hope to do together in the future.

It’s clear that you and Deaky will be getting married soon.

Your gift to John is a ring, the one you give him has a big stone, it barely fits his pinky finger.

“I’m sorry,” you start to apologize and he shakes his head, “I didn’t know what size to get you!”

“It’s perfect!” He gives you an enormous grin, “this way I can wear it when I play! Thank you, love!”

John had to be creative because he had already spent some money on an engagement ring he planned on giving you soon, of course, savings were aimed at wedding related stuff.

John gives you something you were not expecting, he takes your hand and pulls you toward the living room to play a record you did not recognize. He finds a spot he wanted to play and then lets the needle run through the track.

You smile at the upbeat music, an acoustic guitar being the first thing you hear, and then the lyrics, “don’t you misfire, fill me up with the desire to carry on”, you sway to the song and laugh at Deaky’s joyful expression.

“What’s this song?” You smile up at him, unable to ignore Freddie’s voice.

“It’s my song!” His eyes shrunken from the size of his smile, and he corrects himself, “your song…” he admits sheepishly, “I wrote it for you.

”You turn to the record player and notice the song is already coming to an end. Jumping you grab John’s hand and kiss his knuckles with affection. “I love it, thank you!!”

You change the record one more time and go back to Deaky, the two of you start dancing and laughing, staring at each other until a slow song comes up and you dance with his forehead pressed against yours, both of you enjoying the moment in the comfortable company of the person you love. Once the song ends, replaced by a faster one, the two of you stay like that.

You are married before your second anniversary.

The first big trip you make is to Spain, you keep it simple, split the bills - seeing as you work as well and have some savings-, and spend your summer vacation there together as a couple.

Although things are far from okay with your family, you do go back home on your parents’ birthdays and during the holidays to at least wish them a Merry Christmas every year, you don’t bring Deaky with you to avoid fighting.

The visits to your family stop a little before you try to have a baby with Deaky, the relationship with your mother is too tense and both of you consider it to be beyond repair so Deaky insists you still have his family to turn to whenever you might need them.

John always takes you out for Valentine’s Day, you walk around the city for a bit and then go into a café, or some years you watch a movie instead. You spend the afternoon together and in the evening, you play a game of scrabble while sitting on your bed. The whole day is usually like this, both of you clear your schedules for it.

Christmas used to be a lazy day for you. In the morning you stay in bed for an extra hour and eat homemade cookies for breakfast. In the evening you go out to visit John’s parents and having dinner with them before heading home.

Although of course after a year of being married and with the arrival of your first child, which then you topped with a second and third, and then impressed Roger by filling up a house with a fabulous 4 children, your holiday season got hectic.

“You are pregnant?” Roger had observed and examined your body shamelessly when you broke the news to Deaky’s bandmates the first time. “How?”

Deaky giggled turning to you while holding your hand in his sweaty one.

Freddie hit Roger in the back of the head.

“We’re adopting, you silly boy!” You told Rog, squeezing your husband’s hand.

“Wonderful news, darling!” Freddie had kissed your cheeks and held you in a warm and familiar embrace, he winked at you too, whispering “I’m happy for you. Congratulations!”

Brian was still holding your eldest and giving her a quick lesson on what space was, but he held you with a single arm and congratulated you.

Deaky has been worried about you since the disastrous first time you tried to get intimate. You had ended up pulling away from him, almost shaking, he hated seeing you like that so you stopped and didn’t try again for weeks, but the next time it had been him who stopped the whole thing aware of your discomfort.

You have been too anxious, sort of stuck in your head, so when Deaky comes home with a pamphlet about adoption you struggle not to have a breakdown. In a way, you felt disappointed with yourself for not being able to have kids of your own, but you were so relieved to know that Deaky didn’t mind as long as you were okay and sure of the decision you are making.

“We’re making this decision together,” he promises, “I think this is our best option, but if you disagree…”

“No!” You interrupt your husband, “I want to do it! I just...are you sure you don’t mind that they won’t be... ours?”

“Oh, but they will be!” Deaky holds your hands in his, young as he is, he is always finding the right words to say “we will raise them right, give them the best we can! Love them the same, teach them all we know! How would that be any different with a child we conceive?”

You cry, but not because you feel guilty or anxious or mad. You cry because Deaky’s words are encouraging, heartfelt and honest.

So all four of your little ones are adopted, happy and proud.

After Emma came along, you would cook dinner with Deaky and one of you would be holding your baby girl in your arms, but after the second baby things got tricky.

Throughout the years you trusted Freddie to be your confidant with delicate topics you did not feel comfortable dumping on Deaky, one big example of this were the many conversations you had with the singer when Deaky asked you if you would consider trying to have children.

Freddie was always supportive of your choices, but he also made you see things from the most objective point of view.

You now put up a small wooden bench in front of the counter so your little ones can reach up and help you make cookies in the morning.

While you bake and cook dinner with Emma and Stevie, both 5 and 3 years old; Deaky plays with your youngest in the living room. Joey and Harvey are only 6 years old, and a shocking 9 months old - when you adopted Harvey he had been barely a few months old, -supposedly given up for adoption by an underage mother- making him the youngest kid you have received in your home.

You hold a small Christmas party at your house every year, the boys come with their partners and the house seems to be impossibly loud.

You are the only ones with children at the moment, although you can sense that this will change soon from the way Dominique holds Harvey.

You cannot help but feel as if you are destined to be surrounded by men all your life; Emma is your only daughter.

When the men come over your children go wild, Freddie is playful and has a nice way around them, surprisingly so does Roger.

You all sit in the living room before dinner. You drink hot cocoa with Emma and Stevie, same as John, Brian, and Chrissie. Roger, Dominique, Mary, and Freddie have a glass of wine. Your children eat cookies and you sit next to Deaky, while he lets Emma and Joey sit on his lap. You have put Harvey to sleep and watch Stevie sit in between Roger and Dominique with Bean on his lap, questioning him about what he does in the band.

“And is that important?” your son asks, making Dominique giggle at Roger’s horrified expression.

“Of course!” Roger sounds almost offended.

The guys only ever say it to John but they all think you and John have a wonderful thing going with your already large family.

Freddie does constantly let you know how much he admires you two for overcoming so much to build a home from scratch. Knowing how badly you struggled with who you are when you were younger he looks up to you and Deaky for being strong and confident and always being there for each other.

For the actual Christmas dinner, you have the whole family sit together in your dining room and watch Deaky joke around with his kids. After eating you have a traditional gift exchange with the children, a perfect opportunity for John to snap pictures.

At the end of the night you’re knackered but go to bed with smiles on your faces in hopes you will be able to see some more joy in your little ones’ faces the next morning.

Deaky thanks you every year at around Christmas for the home you built him.

You always reassure him that it has been built by both of you and he insists he hasn’t done as much.

“But you made this a home, from day one. From the second you walked through the door…”

“I think you mean Bean, she’s the real hero here…” you joke, to which John rolls his eyes.

“I mean it. You make us a family, always bring us together” he pauses, both of you laying face to face in bed. “I love you.”

Every year it feels like it’s the first time you’ve heard him say all of this.

“And I love you.”

Back when it had been only the two of you; after coming home with a full stomach courtesy of John’s parents, he would pull you into a hug and you used to fall asleep with your head on his chest, wishing each other a Happy Christmas.

I had to include some babies - it’s where my head goes when you mention Christmas (I’m sorry?), ahhh, I still hope you enjoy this one!!

Requests are still open!

#ace!john deacon #ace!reader #ace!deaky #requested #edit #queen headcanons #queen imagines #queen fanfiction #queen #headcanons #brian may #roger taylor #john deacon #queen fandom #queen band #requests are open

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endlesstalesofwonder · 6 years

Text

I See You (Through the Dark)

I got inspired by something I found over on Pinterest about being able to see the beauty in everything around them except for in themselves.

This is for those who want a little feel-good fic.

“Here.”

Alec stopped mid-stride at the entrance of Orchard Park. He took a quick look around, then moved the two of them over to the bench near the fence. It was perfectly angled under the tree where the sunlight broke through in small rays of heaven. This time of year warranted a change of colors within the leaves, and the entire park seemed to be made of gold. The light, the leaves… Everything was perfect.

The breeze picked up and blew a single leaf into Alec’s lap. It was between the stage of soft and crispy. Alec picked it up and set it in Magnus’ hands. His eyes were closed as he took in all the information that he relayed to him. A small smile pulled at the corner of his lips, and Alec knew he was right.

“Tell me more.”

There were dogs running around with their owners in tow, some throwing balls back and forth as they walked. Several kids were chasing one another in a small game of tag. Their cries of joy could easily be heard across the large plain of grass. It widened the smile on Magnus’ face.

Alec continued to note the way that the wind was blowing and its effect on the leaves. Some fell and glinted like flecks of gold while others resembled fire. The sky started to change colors soon after. The pale blue turned pink and purple, some gentle shades of red, before plummeting into dark purples and blues. It was beautiful. Alec could watch the sunset for hours.

When there was no excuse to stay any longer, Alec stood. “C’mon. Let’s get you home.”

Their next outing was two days later. They were strolling around Fifth Street when Magnus told him to stop. “Here.”

Alec settled them against the brick wall of Russo’s Sandwich Shop.

There were still light clouds scattered across the sky after their small rain shower that had snuck in during the late hours of the night. Alec recalled waking up to the soft sound of the patter on his terrace. There was evidence of rainfall on the street as well - puddles big and small. Some were large enough for swimming, he noted.

Magnus chuckled. His eyes were closed again. He had once told him it enhanced whatever he was telling him.

There was also the faint glow of sunlight on the apartments, duplexes, and small shops around the street. The reflections and sun glares made it seem like there were stars during the day. Across the street, there was a terrace with several potted plants - all cacti - of different sizes and shapes. The room next to it had their windows wide open with a woman vacuum-dancing the flat and the Backstreet Boys blaring from the stereo.

“Is she a good dancer?” Magnus asked. He liked the finer details.

Alec shrugged, then corrected himself by continuing. He supposed that she was a good enough of a dancer - especially when he compared her moves to his own. He would look like a fish out of water vacuum-dancing like her. He could tell, however, that she was far too into the music. She kept pausing to dance or shout the lyrics rather than continue cleaning, which became a problem when she bumped into the same side-table twice. There was no more dancing for her that afternoon.

Magnus stifled a laugh. “Is she pretty?”

Alec scrunched his nose. He knew for a fact Magnus was pulling his leg. He knew he had no particular interest in women, in any sense, and still wanted the gay man’s opinion of description. The woman looked the type to be a heartbreaker - the kind to keep you on the edge of awareness and make you forget who you are and where you are all in the same moment. But there was still a seed of surprise in her, and clearly her ideas of entertainment. Alec would sum it up with a solid, I guess.

“Shame,” Magnus sighed, then opened his eyes. He ran a hand through his hair, pushing a few strands around before they settled back down on his forehead. Alec brushed them out of the way. “Thank you. Lunch?”

Alec agreed. Whatever Magnus wanted.

It had been nearly a week since their lunch date - which was not a real date in any sense of the word - and Alec was craving - more like wanting very, very, very badly - to spend time with Magnus. Alec went next door to get the finely dressed man when the rain decided to make an appearance and ruin any chance he had to spend the afternoon with him.

Magnus opened the door and let him in nonetheless. “Do you mind? Spending the day inside?”

Never. Any time with Magnus was already well-spent regardless of where they were. They could be stranded or surrounded by spiders - or maybe no spiders in particular, just as a strictly professional example - and Alec would enjoy his company.

Magnus poured them some drinks. It was nothing special, just some soda he had stashed in the fridge. He carefully slid the glass across the coffee table as they settled by the couch.

Alec knew it was coming long before he started drinking when Magnus said, “Here.”

They had never done it in his apartment before. They liked to keep it outside where it was unpredictable and everything changed day to day. Reading the inside of where he lived was walking a very thin line that Alec hoped to not cross. He grounded himself nonetheless.

There was something very comfortable about the arrangement of the room. It was very simple - very Magnus. Alec took pride in noting that he very much liked it.

Magnus urged him to continue.

The bookshelves that lined the entire wall perpendicular to the balcony was well-loved. There was some dust on other sections, showing that there was less attention in these areas of literature - Patterson, Orwell, and Roth. Then there was the center section that was organized completely different that the rest. While the others were organized alphabetically by the author’s last name, this section was by color, and without any dust to say they weren’t tenderly loved and cared after. Shakespeare, Christie, and Evanovich were among them.

“They’re classic,” Magnus objected.

Alec continued without the encouragement. The balcony was the best part of the entire flat, Alec had to be honest. The kitchen was very nice and up to date with every fixture and design, but he was never able to get control over the stove after one of his college incidents. He appreciated the room from afar. The balcony, however, was not like that. It beckoned Alec forward. The drapes that framed the large double, glass doors would billow with the easy breeze like a long-waited breath from someone above. The view from the building looked down over the river and towards the horizon of never-ending condos and businesses. It was also perfect to watch the sun rise and set over the large radio tower towards the south end. The gray hue that came with the rain did nothing to hinder the treasure of this apartment.

“You always have a way with words, Alexander.”

Alexander. Magnus always had a way with the saying of his name. It ignited his bones with this intense spark that made him feel like he could do anything. If he could listen to any word on repeat from Magnus’ lips it would be his name.

“So tell me about you.”

Alec loosed a tight breath from his chest. They had done this once before at a time where they weren’t as close or as friendly as they were now. He kept his descriptions short and clipped. He hesitated.

He didn't know where to start. There was nothing that struck him as the first thing to start talking about. He decided to start from head to toe. He got his dark hair from his grandfather, but his eyes from his great-grandmother on his father’s side. They reminded him of green tea that had been sitting out for too long and mixed with coffee grounds. He had a scar on his eyebrow from when his youngest brother took a tumble and he dove to stop him from hitting the corner of the countertop. It made his face asymmetrical and the topic of every discussion with distant relatives. He noted a few birth marks on his shoulders and the large one on his neck that attracted more people staring than asking questions. He’d prefer an interrogation rather than the looks he got from people on the street or at his job.

He moved down his body, and all the while Magnus was quiet. There was nothing on his face that would indicate that he approved of his description, nor deny it. He was completely stoic.

By the time he finished, he was out of breath but felt indescribably lighter. He massaged his thumb hard into the center of his palm as he awaited a reply - anything - from Magnus.

The first thing he got was a swipe of his thumb across his bottom lip. Then, a response, “Just like the first time, Alexander.”

His heart dropped. There was no other way that he knew to describe himself except for being concise and quick.

“It’s ironic, really. I don’t need my sight to see that you, Alexander, are undeniably and irrevocably beautiful.”

Alec opened his mouth to object, to say anything, but nothing came out of his lips. It was just a pained whine, and Magnus was there holding his hands.

“Calluses from working too hard, you say. I see a hardworking man who is dedicated and motivated to get further in life - don’t argue with me, you know it’s true deep down.”

Alec did.

“Broad shoulders for a bulky figure. Excuse me, but, bullshit. If anything, it makes you a protector - hell, a superhero. Just the perfect size for me, I say.”

Alec would be his superhero in a heartbeat. He gulped.

“Birthmarks and scars… They show your story, Alec. Your life. Your journey. Don’t let anyone take that away from you. Plus…” Magnus dragged his thumb through his split eyebrow. “The scar is sexy. Makes you rugged.”

Alec all but melted into the couch. He pressed into the palm of his hand without really thinking about it. The warmth was what he needed. “I-I’ve never seen myself as beautiful.”

“Darling.” I know, was heard without having to be said. Alec didn’t know he was crying until Magnus was wiping away a stray tear. “You have always been beautiful to me. Always will.”

Alec eased further into Magnus’ warmth, nearly tumbling off the couch to get as close as possible. Magnus laughed when his lap suddenly became full with the rugged, dark-haired man. “Are we still on for tomorrow?”

“Rain or shine, Magnus. Rain or shine.”

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shirtysleeves · 6 years

Text

Constellation No. 35

There is a third consideration we have to deal with in connection with the general character of lyric poetry. It is the nature of the general stage of human development and culture from which the isolated poem originates.

In this respect, too, the Lyric occupies a position which is to be contrasted with Epic poetry. In other words, while we regarded as necessary for the full bloom of the true Epos a phase in the nation's growth which was, speaking generally, undeveloped, at least in the sense that it had not ripened in the prosaic acceptance of its actual life, the times which favour most of all lyrical composition are those which already are in possession of a more or less fixed organization of social condition. It is in such a period that the individual seeks a reflection of his intimate personal life in contrast to this outer world, creating from it and within its limits an independent whole of emotion and idea. For in the Lyric it is not, we repeat, the objective solidarity and individual action, but the individual person as self-conscious life which supplies both content and form. This, however, must not be understood in such a way as though the individual, in order to express himself in lyrical form, must perforce disjoin himself from every connection with national interests and the opinions, and with rigid and exclusive severity remain as he stands.

On the contrary, with such an abstract self-subsistency we should only have left us for content the wholly contingent and particular passion, the mere caprice of concupiscence and affection, false idiosyncrasies and distorted originality would have unlimited opportunities. Genuine lyrical poetry, like all other poetry, has no doubt to express the content of the human heart in its truth. Yet none the less, regarded as the content of the Lyric, what is most a matter of fact and substantial must appear absorbed in personal feeling, vision, imagination, and thought. And, in the second place, the question here is not so much simply expression of the personal inner life, is not so much concerned with a primary and direct statement in the epic fashion, what the facts are, as with an expression of the poetical nature in a manner both artistically fruitful and wholly different from chance and ordinary modes. It follows that the Lyric requires, precisely on account of the fact that the concentrated life of the heart unfolds itself in manifold feelings and comprehensive views, and the individual is conscious of the poetry of his most intimate life as nested in a world that is already more prosaically organized—an artistic culture already secured, which must assert itself as the flower and independent product of the individual's natural endowment thus trained to a perfect result. For these reasons the Lyric is not limited to particular epochs of the spiritual development of a people, but is the rich blossom of the most varied. To an exceptional degree is it favoured in more recent times, in which everybody is entitled to have and express his own views and emotions.

G.W.F. Hegel, Vorlesungen über die Ästhetik [The Philosophy of Fine Art] (1820-1829), translated by F.P.B. Osmaston (London: G. Bell and Sons, 1920), Vol. IV, pp. 206-207.

What rock does preach, and what its detractors refer to as narcissism, is more properly called solipsism. Rock asserts that everything the senses apprehend is properly part of self, and the object of selfhood is to reach full growth, when self becomes synonymous with the universe. This solipsism is the opposite of Freud's or [Christopher] Lasch's narcissism. Narcissus at poolside is locked forever in annihilating self-admiration-"bang bang." The rocker's cry, on the other hand, is the solipsistic motto, "You Gotta Move." Solipsism is the invariable mental disposition of the vulgar pantheist, because in solipsism there is no transcendent anything, only infinite me.

Solipsism has always annoyed philosophers because it is irrefutable. Each time you produce evidence of an objective reality exterior to me, I reply that the evidence only exists as my own sensation. The universe is only what I feel. The philosophers have objected that if solipsism were true, then language itself would be meaningless, because language assumes objective, durable relationships transcending the mere selfhood of any one speaker, whereas solipsism implies that all language is just another way of saying "me me me," or as Whitman has it, language is just another symbol in the "universal hieroglyphic" each of whose symbols translates as "I." If every statement is just another expression of one thing-that is, myself-then language for the solipsist is infinite but pointless because it has no objective validity. But, the philosopher points out, even as it makes this contention, solipsism assumes the objective validity of language, for otherwise solipsism's own argument would be meaningless, and therefore solipsism refutes itself.

Solipsism's reply to this is obvious, and the rocker makes it:

Sha dada da / Sha da da da da / Yip yip yip yip/Yip yip yip yip / Mum mum mum mum /Mum mum mum mum.

The Silhouettes' 1958 hit "Get a Job" is the classic example of rock's love of nonsense syllables. The vulgar rocker takes his solipsism to its limit and rejoices in the conclusion that language is meaningless. He doesn't care if his words make objective sense and in fact is pleased when they don't. Words, say the Police in the song where they explicate the Silhouettes' lyric, "De Do Do Do, De DaDa Da"-words are

only chits I've left unsigned / From the banks of chaos in my mind.

The primal chaos of the brain is infinite, but as soon as this chaos is reduced to verbal order, it loses its wholeness and becomes a tool for tyrants:

Poets, priests, and politicians / Have words to thank for their positions-- / Words that scream for your submission.

The tyrants of language use words to create refined, transcendent laws which they impose on the wholesome chaos of the mind:

When their eloquence escapes you, / Their logic ties you up and rapes you.

Rock in its vulgarity wants no part of eloquence or logic, both of which are devices used by transcendence to limit the pantheist's infinite universe. In "Eskimo Blue Day" the Jefferson Airplane make the same point:

Redwoods talk to me, / Say it plainly, the human name / Doesn't mean shit to a tree.

Names themselves are meaningless impositions on the wholeness of nature and to be rid of them, the Airplane says, is "animal gain for me.” Mark E. Smith of the Fall, whose lyrics dispense with the logic of ordinary speech, calls one of their albums Perverted by Language.

"Do de de de, do da da da," say the Police. Because they are incapable of making any transcendent sense, nonsense syllables are the most honest form of language. They cannot be pressed into the service of logical systems, religious hierarchies, or totalitarian platforms. All they can do is express the wholesome feeling that is the "chaos of my mind":

Their innocence may pull me through / They're meaningless, all that's true.

That is, because they're meaningless, nonsense syllables stand for all that can be said with truth. Rock's critics often condemn it for being inarticulate. Rock itself esteems inarticulation as a virtue. The rocker acts on Wittgenstein’s observation that what the solipsist means is quite correct; only it cannot be said, but makes itself manifest."

Critics like Lasch blame narcissism for what they perceive to be the cultural poverty of modern culture. According to Lasch, the narcissist, "lacking any real intellectual engagement with the world," has little capacity to appreciate the blessings of culture. What this charge amounts to is the objection that popular culture in its vulgar solipsism has no time for the transcendent logic by which refined culture used to sustain itself. Pop culture denies any transcendent values outside of self by which we can make sense of the universe, and this denial is the essence of vulgarity and the not-too-latent reason why critics of the old order are anxious to label solipsism as narcissistic neurosis and ship it off to Bedlam.

In rock, the solipsism of the Romantic German philosopher Fichte acquires vulgar life, and the world has as much or as little to fear from rock as it would from the adoption of the morality outlined in The Science of Knowledge. In that book, Fichte asserted a completely subjective pantheism in which the self alone constitutes the universe, and yet Fichte stresses the moral propriety of his self-centered universe. Whitman's critics accuse him of advocating a pantheism of moral disorder but Whitman in word and deed is a model of kindness, decency, and toleration. There is no reason to think that rock's vulgar solipsism lacks the moral rectitude of its Romantic predecessors, and every reason to suspect that the charges of immorality made against it arise from the threat rock poses to the systems of transcendent objectivity espoused by its accusers.

Robert Pattison, The Triumph of Vulgarity: Rock Music in the Mirror of Romanticism (New York: Oxford University Press, 1987), pp. 180-183.

#G.W.F. Hegel #Robert Pattison #The Triumph of Vulgarity #Solipsism #The Philosophy of Fine Art #History of Subjectivity #Rock Music #J.G. Fichte #Romanticism #Idealism #Walt Whitman #Mark E. Smith #Ludwig Wittgenstein

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seulgisolomon-blog · 7 years

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Dilemma of Multifandom: Does the MAMA Filter Out Fake Fans From Real Fans?

Disclaimer: There is a fair amount of generalization in this post, so please bear with me. I will try to keep it as objective as possible, but I don’t think it’s possible to write something of this nature without generalizing at least a tiny bit. I used Arabic numerals for small numbers to prove my point more clearly. I didn’t proofread much, so please forgive my grammar xD

If you are an international fan who have been around the K-Pop world for a long time, I think you will know about Korean fans’ view on being “multifandom.” Of course, the degree of unacceptability will vary within individuals. However, most hardcore Korean fans (those who religiously vote, stream, purchase, etc.) will consider any jahbduk (multifandom: stanning multiple groups) as fake fans. Here’s why.

Korean fans believe they feed their artists. You know, like a father or a mother supporting his or her offsprings. I do not think that is being too farfetched, considering album and concert ticket sales are probably an artist’s top sources of income. They have great pride in the process of growing up together, building the fan-star relationship, and sharing the honor of their artist’s success.

Now, building upon the idea, imagine you are the chief of a clan, working hard to support everyone in it. But let’s say you decided it would be nice to be the chief for two or more clans. Your resources are limited, and you have to figure out a way to distribute them. You say you love each of your clans equally. But can you show that by distributing your care evenly? And even if you manage the seemingly impossible feat, are you really doing what is best for each of your families?

Take MAMA voting for example. Let’s say you support three boy groups, Group A, Group B, and Group C. You are limited to 10 votes per IP address a day (correct me if I’m wrong). You would be giving only 3~4 votes to each for Artist of the Year if you want to split. Let’s say you vote for Group A 4 times. This leaves 3 votes for Group B and C each. You harmed Group B and C’s chance of winning by voting less for them. Looking at it from the point of view of Group A supporters, you could have gave Group A 6 extra votes per day, but you didn’t. Fans who only support Group A will consider you a third of a fan. But since you wasted 3 votes each for Group B and C, you technically only helped Group A to gain 1 vote, making you one tenth of a fan. Wow, a triple whammy. Can you really call yourself a real fan of any of the three teams?

Sure you can. Well, depending on your definition of a fan. You did vote for them, which shows you do care about them. But is that really all a fan needs to do? Koreans don’t think so. As Jessi once said, your three faves aren’t on the same team. This is a competition. There is only one Artist of the Year, and only that group will get covered in the main article on Naver as the winner of the glorious category. Let’s say Group A won. Who knows, maybe Group C could have won if 10,000 “multifandomers” like yourself did not waste their votes on the other two teams. “How disloyal of you,” say Korean supporters of Group C.

So are all international fans who are “multifandom” disloyal? No. Disloyal is hardly the right term. In fact, most international fans are not loyal to one specific group, so how can they be disloyal? Not only do international fans not hold the same responsibilities as Korean fans do, they do not need to. I am not trying to be rude or generalize (I sincerely apologize if you are offended). It’s the truth. Before i-fans are fans of a group, they are listeners of K-Pop. Koreans don’t listen to K-Pop. They simply listen to… music. Korean fans appreciate other artists as casual consumers. They listen to their songs, watch their music videos, and sometimes check out their live performances, even. They respect their hard work and craft. But doesn’t that pretty much sound like what a fan would do and think?

Yes and no. Koreans don’t really need to be a fan of an artist to listen to his or her music. Just easy, passive listening. However, international listeners will place themselves in the fan category if they are doing all of the things listed in the previous paragraph. It is easier for international listeners to form special connections with the artists they listen to. That’s inevitable because the path they take to discover a group and to like its songs is much more active, adventurous, and significant than that of Korean listeners. It requires i-fans to step out of their comfort zone, learn new Korean names, read romanized and translated lyrics to sing along to and comprehend the song, find the fan subbing channels, etc. With such efforts, it is understandable why international listeners feel the number of fandoms they are in reflects their knowledge and experience in the K-Pop world. Many i-fans join K-Pop because of the tight-knit communities. It’s always nice to be welcomed by a group of people. It’s almost like a cool thing to be part of more fandoms.

So it all comes down to this. Koreans are already exposed to all different sorts of Korean music. They were born to it. It requires something really special for them to be drawn by one specific artist. Almost like destiny. Once they become fans, they have an intimate relationship with their artists. They watch them perform more than five days of the week during promotions, raise money to buy them gifts, attend their fan meetings and fan signs, and so on. They cry together, laugh together, dream together, and develop together. Unfortunately, international fans do not have such opportunity. For international fans, every K-Pop star is a representative of the genre. Each and every group that delivers great quality K-POP to them is precious. Koreans think the same, too. They appreciate the many singers who present great music. It’s just they don’t call that “stanning.” They reserve that term for the very special one and only. Because the term is used very frequently, almost synonymously as “appreciating,” Korean fans, in a way, misunderstand international fans for being “disloyal” and liking “whatever’s good and new.” International fans can also have the one and only true group they will stay loyal to, but restraining themselves to one artist will severely limit their K-Pop experience. It only makes sense for them to explore and be into multiple groups.

With that said, don’t be sad or angry when you see groups like Red Velvet not doing well for Daesang-tier awards, such as Song of the Year. Almost everyone likes Red Flavor and Red Velvet is probably on almost everyone’s “multifandom” list. But when it comes to voting, multifandom doesn’t exist, just like how it doesn’t exist in the dictionary. When they have to choose one, they will choose the Group A in their hearts. The question is… What do we call them? Fake fans? Casual fans? Not fans at all? Does it even make sense for a fan to be “casual?” I would say the answer is “cannot be determined, nor should anyone try to determine.” I think it’s more important for K-fans and i-fans to understand their differences when it comes to their ideas of “fandom” and that neither is superior to the other. Any type of positive attention to the group is a good thing. It’s during the award seasons when the divide between fully dedicated fans and “casual” fans is exacerbated, due to the drastic take-all or nothing nature of voting. The situation will be mitigated once the stupid awards are over.

Personally, I am thankful for all the international fans who listen to and follow K-Pop, especially i-ReVeluvs. They are the ones making the genre more dynamic and diverse. I know many ReVeluvs who try their best to get involved in activities such as streaming on Melon and voting on music show programs, which are not easy to do overseas. Korean fans are surely aware of that and are very thankful.

But what if Group A and Group B are competing for first place on Music Bank? Who will you vote for? :)

#opinion #kpop #mama #fan #stan #multifandom #vote

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roryswriting · 7 years

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MATCHED - ch. 1

A/N: originally published on wattpad (@/mrprecedent) word count: 1067 summary: a different take on the usual musician x damaged soul fanfics you may have read

warnings: substance abuse, strong language, mental health issues

three or four. dan had already had three or four drinks. it was evident in the way his shoulders had loosened, his pupils were blown, the way he ran his fingers through his hair without his usual meticulous care. his tie was loosened and its end sat crumpled on the table as he hunched over the counter.

it was a local bar; small but well loved. the room smelled of cigarettes and bad decisions and the dim lighting allowed dan the luxury of unspoken anonymity. it was a place he frequented often, partly for the atmosphere, largely for the booze.

“can i have another one, josh?” he said with a slight pout on his lips as he looked with perfect innocence into his glass, once full of an unknown liquor. it had tasted like coffee and all he knew was he needed more. the bartender, josh garrison, as dan had found out through his frequent trips such as this one, was wiping the counter with an old rag and a face reeking of disinterest. however, josh, like many, wasn’t immune to dan’s charms, and as dan looked up at him with big brown eyes under his long eyelashes, even going as far as to smile a little, josh was quick to fix him another drink with a promise that dan would someday prove to be the death of him.

dan nursed this drink, rather than devouring it as he had done with the drinks previous. he, after all, knew how to hold his liquor, despite what his appearance may allude to, and knew how to keep that delightful buzz in the morning, rather than a head-splitting hangover. he wasn’t in university anymore. dan was well trained in the art of keeping consciously distracted.

there was a comfortable grumble in the room; a mix between the clinking of glasses, sporadic bursts of laughter from the booths on the opposite wall, the general noise of conversation between the patrons. the bar-stools on each side of dan stood empty. he smiled grimly into his drink. thinking back on his day, he took another swig.

a low hum emitted from the speakers on the small stage as a boy too tall and lanky for his own good plugged his guitar into an amp. dan didn’t pay much attention to the local musicians who, like dan, frequented the bar. he had already had his fill of musicians. the slow, deliberate strums and plucks echoed through the room, playing a haunting melody not dissimilar to the one hanging over dan. the lyrics were clearly sang, yet dan didn’t hear any of them. he didn’t want to hear any of them. he took out the correct amount of money, sat it under the edge of his half-empty glass and sauntered out of the bar, oblivious to the set of blue eyes following him from the stage.

***

“you’ve been drinking again,”

“yeah,” dan replied. there was no reason to argue something so obvious. besides, lying to drew wasn’t something he did often, and it was always done out of necessity. this wasn’t necessary to hide.

“why do you do this to yourself, dan?” drew asked, setting his mug down on dan’s kitchen counter. from his place in the doorway, dan took off his coat and tie, hooking them near the door and toeing his shoes off. he set them neatly next to his other pairs of shoes.

“you know why. avoiding the subject isn’t a magic cure for making things better,”

“neither is wallowing in it,” drew fired back, keeping his tone level.

that was one of the things that made dan and drew such good friends; drew was never quick to emotions. at no point in their nine years of friendship had drew ever ignored dan, and there were very few times when dan had ever heard drew yell. it was even rarer for the yelling to be directed at dan. this could be put down to drew’s diagnoses of bipolar disorder and SPD. dan, however, as a man of a hot temper and a passive anger condition, was not above such expressions of emotion.

dan brushed off drew’s comment, rather sat on the couch and asked, “what were you even doing in my apartment before i came in?”

“jonas,” drew said simply, with a small smile and a faraway look in his eyes.

“oh,” dan replied lamely, “jonas,”

the room fell silent. drew leaned against the counter, staring into his tea as the fog steamed up his thick glasses. dan sat staring at his lap.

if dan were anyone else, he may have rhetorically asked a ‘has it really been a year?’ as a gesture of sympathy, but dan wasn’t one for unnecessary questions that would cause unnecessary conversation. drew didn’t need customer-service brand of sympathy right now. he dealt with his emotions in ways that many didn’t understand. even dan didn’t pretend to understand. however, he be damned if he didn’t be a good friend and let drew cope in his own way.

“you know, it’s funny. i thought i’d be hysterical today. i had it all planned out in my head that i’d finally cry today. that for once in my life, i’d fucking cry,” he chuckled as if the topic was only merely amusing, but dan knew that was probably the extent to his introspective unique brand of sadness. “it’s strange. i didn’t feel for him more than i did for the rest of my family. objectively, i realize that this was something that some people never get over. it’s almost as if someone told me it had been a year since a distant relative died, not like a brother did.”

dan nodded. that’s all he knew would be appropriate in this situation.

“do you want to visit him?” dan asked quietly. neither of them were looking at each other. they didn’t need to. neither of them saw eye contact as reassuring or necessary.

drew thought for a second, “no. i don’t really feel like that’d mean anything to anyone, well, except for my parents, but fuck them, y'know,”

“you can stay the night, if you need to,” dan offered.

“i know,” drew looked up, cracking a side smile. he paused, chuckling under his breath, “when did this intervention about your substance abuse start to focus on me and my far-reaching apathy?”

dan just smiled.

#matched #chapter one #mc1 #phan #phanfiction #my work

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brazilianchronicles · 4 years

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The Best Bob Dylan Lyric

The lyrics for Bob Dylan’s song “The Times They Are a-Changing” are being sold for 2.2 million dollars. Not the lyrics themselves obviously, what’s being sold is the original handwritten lyrics, on a piece of paper, and if that’s sold for the price that’s being asked for it will beat the previous record of 2 million dollars for original handwritten lyrics. Can you guess what song or even what artist that has the current record? I’ll tell you later.

The lyrics on that paper were written by a very young Bob Dylan, but it’s a song that should have been written by someone very old and wise, who knows his way around life. The lyrics are quite possibly one of the best ever written and, also, they get to be one of the most impactful and important lyrics to have ever been sung by anyone, ever. But our friend Dylan has written so much and so many good lyrics that I find it hard to say which of them are the best he has ever written, but I’ll try to give my amateur opinion.

I’ll start with the obvious, “Blowin’ In The Wind”:

“How many ears must one person have

Before he can hear people cry?”

Very direct at times, he just tells you what he means, and, in this case, he asked a rhetorical question right? I mean, we only need one. But by asking the question he implies that we aren’t hearing them, so we might need more than two, because if we did hear people cry, we would do something about it right? But I love how he ends the verses with not a question but telling us that the answer is blowing in the wind, what that answer is he doesn’t tell you, so we get to listen to the wind and come up with our own. Master songwriter from a young age, perhaps that is his best song, maybe his best lyrics, but not for me.

The first time I heard this song and payed attention to the lyrics I was quite shocked, in my head, there were love songs, and songs that didn’t talk about love at all, but what I was hearing there was not a love song at all, it was exactly the opposite, Bob was singing “Don’t Think Twice It’s Alright” and I couldn’t wrap my head around how he seemed to dislike the person he was breaking up with, just listen to this:

“I ain’t sayin’ you treated me unkind

You could have done better but I don’t mind

You just kinda wasted my precious time

But don’t think twice, it’s alright”

What a revelation that was to younger me. That’s how he ends the song, it’s a rough break up for a relationship that really didn’t work out, it’s got harsh feelings and no “we broke up, but I still love her”. Those used to be my favorite Dylan lyrics, they opened up my mind and showed me another side of things, but not anymore.

Rolling Stone magazine says this is the best song ever, period. It’s also the song that the lyrics were sold for 2 million dollars, its “Like a Rolling Stone”, did you guess it right? The song, at the time it was released, was huge in many ways, the electric guitar and the length and the everything, but really it was because it was a Bob Dylan song, he wasn’t the folk hero Bob Dylan anymore, he was a rock and roll Bob Dylan now, which angered a lot of people, to the point of him being called Judas at the Newport Folk festival back in ’65. That was when it was clear that rock and roll was here to stay, for a few good years at least, and that was the song that solidified it. A good pick for the best song ever, but the name of the song and the magazine that gave it the award makes you think doesn’t it?

But anyway, the lyric out of this song that I like the most is… Just kidding I can’t really choose, in the context of this song all of the lyrics “rank” the same for me, they’re all really special, they all have meaning, and they are all structured really intelligently. Go read the lyrics and see how the rhymes are structured, it’s very cool what Bob Dylan does here, and his choice of words is also very cool, you can see he has started to move towards more abstract lyrics, but that was already true for the album before this one, but the rule holds here too. And no, those are not my favorite lyrics by Bobby.

This one is from his next album; can you guess it? If you said “Visions of Johanna” you are correct. It is after all, one of the three best songs on the album, the other two being “I Want You” and “Just Like a Woman” but this objective list changes according to my mood. The lyric is very straight forward but it always makes me happy whenever I hear it:

“But Mona Lisa musta had the highway blues

You can tell by the way she smiles”

Mona Lisa couldn’t have had the highway blues; those weren’t a thing at the time Leonardo Da Vinci was painting her. But I love how he says she does. I love how he so easily fits the modern concept of the highway blues, which I don’t even know what it is really, but I do get it, with something as old as Mona Lisa and her smile. That lyric is really intelligent, but it’s still not my favorite.

After this album, Bobby was at the height of his fame, he was doing concerts left and right, getting called Judas and everybody wanted a piece of him. And then when it seemed like he might have died from all his fame and fast going life, as had happened to many rock stars, he got into a motorcycle accident. Or did he?

“Just then a bolt of lighting

Struck the courthouse out of shape

And while everybody knelt to pray

The drifter did escape”

You’d have to listen to the whole song to get the picture, but that’s the most important part of it, and also my favorite. The song ends with our main character, the drifter, escaping because of pure luck, if the bolt of lightning hadn’t struck the courthouse, he would’ve been sentenced to something we don’t know exactly what. That’s called a deus ex machina by the way, when the main character finds his way out of a sticky situation by pure chance or luck.

What happened to our drifter is very similar to what happened to our favorite singer-songwriter. An unexpected occurrence saved their lives. The lightning bolt and the motorcycle. And what was Bob’s motorcycle called? Just kidding I have no idea. But that was the time he was being crucified for “abandoning” folk music. The hints are there, but you never know. These lyrics are good on their own, but when you factor in who wrote them, they turn into something else, but still not my favorite.

The album Rumors is really fucking good. But what’s better is that the first line of the first song tells you what the whole album is going to be about. And it’s the same story for Bob Dylan’s Blood on the Tracks:

“Early one mornin’ the sun was shinin’

I was layin’ in bed

Wondrin’ if she changed at all

If her hair was still red”

The first two lines are normal, but the next two show you that the first thing this character thinks of is of this woman he once had. That’s the entire tone of the album right there. The album was released two years before his divorce with Sarah Dylan. Bob swears this album has nothing to do with his divorce, but I don’t know about that cowboy. The whole album is sad, and it’s all about breakups. Again he is putting all the hints in front of you, you just have to choose if you believe them or not. These lyrics carry a lot of weight with them because of what they mean to the album, and this is also one of the first songs that made me fall in love with Dylan, especially the live version in 1975, go listen to it, it’s just a shame that he cuts a verse from it, but even still it’s not my favorite lyric by him.I could go on and on. I really could but let me tell you what my favorite lyrics are that Bob has ever written since this is getting long. But really trust me when I say there are more songs I wanted to talk about.

This album was really important for him, it was his first album where he started to move to folk rock, and it opens up like a punch in your face with “Subterranean Homesick Blues”. Do you know what album it is already? It’s Bringing it All Back Home. It has an electric side and an acoustic side, side one and side two, respectively. So now you want to go to side one and listen to the first three songs as a warmup and now you’re in the fourth song, it’s called “Love Minus Zero / No Limit”, I’ve read that you’re supposed to read that as “love minus zero over no limit” but I read it as “love minus zero (pause) no limit”. I like it better that way. And now pay attention, not that there is much to pay attention to, it’s just three chords and there is no cool riff. Bob Dylan starts singing with that controversial voice of his early in the song. I used to hate it, literally hate it, used to think how anyone could like this dude with his stupid voice. But now I wouldn’t have anyone else sing this song, or any of his songs. Bob Dylan covers are nice, but the originals will always have a magic touch to them.

Oh yeah, the lyrics. Well, I’ll be honest, it’s hard to choose what my favorite of this song are. But I think I know, we’ll get there, first things first, the opening:

“My love, she speaks like silence

Without ideals or violence

She doesn’t have to say she is faithful

Yet she is true, like ice, like fire”

The first line tells you it’s not a straightforward love song. What does it mean to speak like silence? Maybe I’m dumb but I don’t know. What does it mean to be true like ice, like fire? Again, I don’t know. But I like that I don’t know, I can interpret these lyrics as many times as I want and get different things each time. Let’s keep going, the next set of lyrics I want you to pay attention to are these ones: “Some speak of the future

My love she speaks softly

She knows there is no success like failure

And that failure is no success at all”

Amazing once again. The first two lines are easy to understand, they’re nice lyrics with some play on words, and then the next half is really clever. Failure, by definition, is no success at all, but we learn so much when we fail, I used to have a teacher that always said the winning was the worst, because you don’t learn anything, to him there is no success like failure, and I agree. Those two lines are clever, Bob was truly a master at writing.

The whole song is noteworthy and the entirety of it is surreal and abstract, which is, as I have said, a theme is many songs he would later write, and this song has references to the Biblical Book of Daniel and also to Edgar Alan Poe’s poem “The Raven” which leads me to my favorite lyrics by Bobby: “My love is like some raven

At my window with a broken wing”

There it is. The last two lines of the song. Simple, yet complex. References another work as we have talked about and I don’t really know what to make of it. If you ask me what that line means, I don’t know. But I do have a hunch of what it means to me. But I’m not sure of that even. Are we to take it as his love is like the raven from Poe’s poem? A poem about loss that is generally sad? Or is it to mean that Dylan will take care of his lover and her broken wing? I have no clue. But I do know, that’s my favorite Bob Dylan lyric, next we’ll just have to find my favorite Dylan song.

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anneedmonds · 5 years

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Life Update: Linen Changes and Losing My Sh*t

This could be interesting; I’ve given myself forty-five minutes to write my monthly life update and I’m writing it, perhaps unwisely, from bed. Because it’s bloody freezing isn’t it? And we have now entered the month of May, which means that it is now illegal to turn the heating on. In this house, anyway. So I am wearing two cardigans and have scurried upstairs to put my legs under the duvet, which is why I have broken my self-imposed rule of never writing from bed.

It just feels wrong, writing from bed. Like I’m doing fake work. Mind you, I can’t eat or drink in bed either – unless it’s a hotel bed. I think it’s because the thought of having to change the bedding if I spill something is so utterly horrifying to me; it’s bad enough having to wrestle with the mattress cover and the fitted sheet and the duvet cover on the designated linen-change day, I’m not going to risk putting myself in the position where an additional change is necessary. No hot drink is worth that. Changing the duvet alone takes about eight days and that’s once you’ve worked out which way around it goes. Snapping the fitted sheet back on requires the strength and dexterity of twelve world class athletes and don’t even get me started on the complexities of the mattress protector. The only part of linen changing that I find remotely compatible with my skillset is the pillow cases, so I take my time with those and hope that Mr AMR will do the rest.

Anyway, life update: I have forty-five minutes because I am determined to be reading my Kindle and ready for sleep by 11pm and I want to fit a quick bath in before then too. I’ve been taking nightly baths with loads of epsom salts and they’ve been completely knocking me out! It’s brilliant! The deep sleeps coupled with my new exercise regime (I try to do two exercise classes a week, one pilates and one barre class) mean that I’m feeling significantly better than I did at the start of the year. Slightly less stressed (I’m developing something of a c’est la vie sort of attitude towards petty things that are out of my control) and definitely physically fitter, although I must admit that I type this with my belly lying across my lap like a weird, smooth, boneless pet.

It’s actually quite amazing that I think I’m less stressed because when I analyse my actions over the last week, I’ve blown my top at least five times. All with the kids. Can someone please advise on how it’s possible to deal with two simultaneous toddler/small child breakdowns and not completely lose their sh*t? Honestly, when one of them is screaming about an apple not being the right sort of apple and the other is using a chair to climb up into the sink that is filled with dirty pans and sharp knives, and then the doorbell goes and the dog barks and also a work email pops up asking if you’ve remembered the 4pm deadline for the post that needs to be with a client for approval and then the first child starts crying because they are hungry and they really, really need the correct type of apple, peeled and chopped into seven chunks, HOW IS IT POSSIBLE NOT TO COMPLETELY LOSE THE PLOT?

Other battles we’ve had this week; the requests for what amounts to a continuous supply of snacks. Even if they eat loads at mealtimes, they want crackers with peanut butter. Fruit. Not any fruit, just the sort of fruit that’s pricier than gold leaf – blueberries, raspberries, mango. They want slices of ham, small pieces of cheese – “just a tiny piece Mummy!” – and I stand at the cupboard like a big bird feeding morsels to my baby birds, their heads tilted upwards and mouths open, squawking loudly between drops.

Bless them.

How, also, is it possible to feel such gigantic swings of emotion? Elation one moment, when you get a spontaneous cuddle, or there’s a genuine heartfelt laugh at something, and deep despair the next, when you realise that the shadow on the carpet is, in fact, an entire beaker of spilt milk and that both children have been dancing in it whilst you’ve been on the phone to the electricity company.

Angelica (three years and nine months old) has a new hobby: rhyming. She can sing a made-up song for well over half an hour with lyrics made from utter nonsense, but each line ends with perfect rhymes. She’s like a tiny modern Shakespeare – she even adopts a strange, thespian sort of voice to deliver her poetic musings. I don’t know where she’s witnessed this, because she hasn’t yet been to a theatre, but it’s uncanny – she sounds like she’s been on tour with the RSC. Though I have to say that I listen with my heart in my mouth when she gets to certain sounds – “the wizard he likes ducks, in forests he does mucks, and I like doing lucks, and I don’t give two -“

So she likes rhyming, and she also likes throwing herself around in really dramatic power-move sorts of dances. Sometimes at the same time. I’ve had to hide the microphone. Although that’s mainly because Ted (two years and three months old) gets it in his little chubby grip and screams into it with his entire mouth wrapped around the top. It’s excruciating – like nails down a blackboard.

“LOOK MAMA!” he says, now. “LOOK, DADA!” At everything – cars, trees, birds. Objects that have been in the house since the day we moved, that suddenly become a great source of interest, as though they’ve just appeared from a different dimension. “SAUR, MAMA!” he says, pointing at the dinosaur head on his bedroom wall. “BOOKS, MAMA!” “DRAWER, MAMA!”

We’re still safety-pinning Ted into his sleeping bag – forget the pin at your own peril, because you will go up an hour later to find him still awake, naked bottom in the air, mattress soaked in wee and his clothes, nappy and sleeping bag completely dry and neatly cast aside on the floor at the foot of the cot.

Ted’s favourite object of the month: books. Any and all. Angelica’s favourite thing: the kitchen timer. Actually they both love the kitchen timer and they’re always going off with it and twisting the dial to set the alarm. It puts my nerves on edge, I tell you – always dinging at some random moment so that I’m half-expecting a pan of pasta to boil over or a cake to burn in the AGA. (Don’t make me laugh: I’ve never baked a cake in the AGA. I can’t remember the last time I baked a cake full stop!)

It has been an excellent month for non-bribed cuddles – Angelica has thrown herself around me a number of times and not just when I’ve been playing (under duress) the Prince from Cinderella. My most hated role. I even prefer being the evil stepmother. My favourite role of all is being the patient in the doctor’s surgery, because I get to lie down – although you have to be careful when Ted is the doctor because he hits you with the wooden hammer really hard. Clonk! on the knee. Clonk! on the ribcage. Clonk! on the top of your head.

It’s actually quite terrifying when Ted plays the GP – waddling over with his little red bag of tricks. “Teeth!” he says, so that he can check your teeth with the plastic mirror. It’s amazing I have any teeth still in place, the force with which he rips the mirror back out. And he’s a menace with the injection – good God! The look on his face when he administers the shot. Pure sadism.

Ted is the master of cuddles, despite also being a very convincing psychopathic doctor. The way he drapes himself around my shoulders and asks to be carried down the stairs utterly melts me. I still think of him as a baby, but it’s a coping strategy if I’m entirely honest; it’s hard to accept that your babies are no longer babies and then that’s it. When you have babies, you think that they will be like that forever and – although it’s a bloody good job they’re not babies forever – it’s a shock when you realise that you’ll never be needed in the same sort of way again.

Ho hum, moving on – my bath awaits and I have the latest Shardlake book (book seven!) waiting for me on my Kindle. A salt soak, a ten minute snoozy read and I’m off to the land of nod. I wish you all a wonderful bank holiday weekend if you’re in the UK – and a very happy birthday to Rach, my right hand woman and wonderful friend. I’m pretty sure Angelica’s rhyming obsession is your fault, Rach…

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