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powderblueblood · 7 months ago

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BEAUTIFUL!

ronnie ecker recounts the last first day of the worst of her life or i wanted to rewrite beautiful from heathers the musical, hellfire and ice version. warnings: first person narrative (ronnie's pov), swearing, era-typical misogyny, bullying and slurs, mention of eating disorders, everyone's a dick, everyone's kind of gay for lacy doevski. wc: 3.8k

September 1st, 1984.

First day of the end of your life. It’s hard not to get a little intro-outrospective.

If I was a diary keeping person, which I’m not because I don’t like to leave a paper trail outside my own goddamn academic brilliance, I’d write something like this.

Dear diary, I believe that I’m a good person–y’know, relatively speaking, if you don’t count that one time I bit that one kid for catcalling me. But, here we are! First day of senior year! And I look around at these kids I’ve known all my life and I ask myself–what happened?

We’re in the hallway, bottlenecking toward the cafeteria. It’s right around lunchtime, so everyone’s getting a real good look at everybody else, categorizing who they hate, who they hate more, who got boobs over the summer. God, do we ever stop slinging shit at each other, even when we think no one’s listening? There’s a constant cacophony in the hallways of Hawkins High.

Freak! Slut! Burnout! Bug-eyes! Poser! Lard-ass!

And no one does anything about it.

It’s pretty sad, considering where we came from.

We were so tiny, happy and shiny, playing tag and getting chased.

Freak! Slut! Loser! Shortbus!

Singing and clapping, laughing and napping, baking cookies, eating paste. Especially me. I was crazy for that shit.

Bull-dyke! Stuck-up! Hunchback!

Then we got bigger, that was the trigger, like the Huns invading Rome. “Shit, my bad!” That underclassman I just walked straight into looked terrified. And for good reason.

Welcome to my school, this ain’t no high school. This is the Thunderdome.

Trailer trash!

For the very first very last time, I crane my head around the swamped hall and try to recall where my new locker is. First star on the right, and I wiggle in my combination and dump my books inside. I take a second, shoving my head inside the cool metal darkness (voluntarily, for once) and mutter, “Hold your breath and count the days, we’re graduating soon–”

“–Christ. College will be paradise, if I’m not dead by June.”

I crane my neck out. Two lockers up from me, elegant fingers pull open an identical door to mine except hers, of course, already has a vanity mirror hung up inside. She checks her reflection, not like it ever needs checking. One of her faithful little redheads stands beside her, smacking bubblegum so loud it makes my ears pop.

“You are so melodramatic, it’s crazy.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing…”

It sucks how the chrysalis of adolescence has made most of us completely obnoxious. I try not to be a sucker for nostalgia, but I can’t help but remember how much easier this was in middle school. Waking up on a weekday didn’t have to be like living in a segment of Creepshow.

I know, I know, I know, life can be beautiful. No plastic Jesus on my dashboard (or… handlebars, I guess) but I pray, I pray for a better way. If we changed back then, we could change again…

Then I get a whole shoulder of dork, right to the face. Bubblegum snaps between snorts, I can see that he’s been shoved my way. Yeah, we could be beautiful…

“Ow!”

Just not today. “Hey, are you okay?”

This Jansport sporting asshole twists his face up right in mine. “Get away, nerd!” Jesus Christ.

The choir of angels go on–I’m just trying to make it to the cafeteria and grab a fucking chicken pot pie. I’m starving, and I could use a little less soundtrack.

Freak! Slut! Cripple! Homo! Homo! Homo!

But, listen. It’s not a total nightmare. There’s light at the end of the tunnel. Things will get better soon as my letter comes from Harvard, Duke or Brown–

–or, NYU, if we’re being really serious.

“Wake from this coma, take my diploma–” God. This chick’s voice seems to cut through the din of the hallway like a bell, “Then I can blow this town. Dream of ivy covered walls and smoky French cafes…”

“Sooo uber pretentious!”

“Watch it, freak!” I don’t even need to turn around to figure out who that’s directed at. But, I’m a little preoccupied with singing my own tune, here! Muscling through to the lunch line, grabbing a tray while I–

“–fight the urge to strike a match and set this dump ablaze. Hey, Ronnie!”

Dude, shut up! I swing around, trying to spot the owner of that very different, very familiar dulcet tone when some duckbill hat wearing dickwad upends my lunch tray. Dressed in Hawkins Tiger green and gold, this is one of many prize dickwads.

Bear with me, I’m trying to place him.

“Ooops.”

Andy Sweeney. Indiana’s worst point guard… “whose true talent lies in being a huge dick.”

Did I mention before about that lack of filter between my brain and my mouth? I patch it up pretty good most of the time, but sometimes…

“What did you say to me, skank?” Andy demands of me all darkly and shit. It’s scary. Even if I’ve got a foot and a half on him.

“Aaah!” I recoil, looking at his flexing fists, “Nothing.”

I back up from him, way way up, leaving my mess of a lunch tray on the ground. Even though that makes me feel shitty–when did I become the guy who left stuff for the already harangued janitorial staff to clean up?

We were kind before; we can be kind once more…

Head down. Stalk through. Find the Hellfire table. But, not before someone chucks me lightly on the arm.

“Agh!” I holler before I register him. I am totally on edge. “Hey, Eddie.”

“Hey,” he grins in a sardonic way that says I cannot believe we’re putting ourselves through this again.

Eddie Munson. My best friend since pre-pube. The closest thing I’ll ever have to a brother, unless Granny finally lets me get that gecko I’ve always wanted. I’m almost eighteen, for Chrissake, I should be allowed.

Anyway, Eddie rocks. We know this. Look at him.

“We still on for movie night?” he asks.

I beam. Our first day of school comedown tradition. “Shit yeah, you’re on Jiffy Pop detail.”

Eddie’s got a little pep in his step and it jangles his wallet chain. Dude can’t help but attract attention– almost all of it unwanted. “I rented Evil Dead.”

“Hohoho, again? Wait, don’t you have it memorized by now?”

“What can I say?” Before I can even warn him, Eddie’s backstepping straight into– “I’m a sucker for a gory ending.”

“Eddie Munson, king of the trailer park! What, you didn’t qualify for free lunches this year?”

A hand comes down hard on the age-old tin lunchbox Eddie’s carrying. The clatter it makes against the lino makes me want to cover my ears and hide, especially when I see Eddie’s face. Total resignation. It’s humiliating.

This guy?

Tommy Hagan. He’s the smartest guy on the basketball team, which is kind of like being the tallest dwarf.

“Too goddamn easy, man!” he guffaws, and I would try to figure out what farm animal he most resembles, but apparently I’m too busy–

“Hey! Pick that up! Right now!” –being the hero.

“I’m sorry, are you actually talking to me?” Tommy also tries to tower over me, but I’ve got a decent number of inches on him too.

My cheeks blaze.

“Yes, I am. I wanna know what gives you the right to pick on my friend. You’re a high school has-been waiting to happen. Tell me, Tommy, do you actually have a personality outside of sticking your nose right up Steve Harrington’s ass?”

Tommy gets closer and closer. So close that I can see the nose hair move as he huffs through his freckly nostrils. His finger points right between my eyebrows.

“… you have a zit right there.”

Cue rapturous laughter from the peanut gallery.

Dear diary…

Why do they hate me? Why don’t I fight back? Why do I act like such a creep? Why won’t he date me? Why did I hit him? Why do I cry myself to sleep?

Somebody hug me! Somebody fix me! Somebody save me!

Send me a sign, God! Give me some hope here! Something to live for!

The doors of the cafeteria burst open and Tommy’s attention is thankfully wrenched away from me. Everyone’s attention is wrenched away from me. Because we’ve all been waiting for this.

They enter the caf in a solid formation, so solid that people part for them. Some gazing, some gawping, some glaring. The name calling ceases, the bullying pauses.

This is the royal court. They float above it all.

Tina Burton, head cheerleader. Her dad is loaded. He sells engagement rings.

Heather Holloway, runs the yearbook. Badly. No discernible personality, but her mom did pay for implants.

Even the lessers are notorious. Carol Perkins has been having sex since, like, seventh grade. Cass Finnigan’s been pretending to save it for Jesus but giving a backdoor key to whoever buys her peach schnapps. Nicole Summers invented three new slurs last year alone.

And finally, Lacy Doevski.

The Almighty.

She is a mythic bitch.

These girls, they’re solid Teflon. Never bothered. Never harassed–

“I would give anything to be like that.”

And I know I don’t sit in that thought alone. Glancing around the tables, the coagulation of cliques, I can hear the desire coming from my classmates.

I’d like to be their boyfriend. If I sat at their table, guys would notice me. I’d like them to be nicer.

“What’s the over-under on one of those harpies getting kidnapped, taken to some abandoned warehouse to be photographed naked and left for the rats?” Eddie mutters into my ear as we slam ourselves down at our regular table.

I roll my freakin’ eyes. “I told you that your Barb Holland theory was insane.”

Eddie shrugs, flipping open his recovered lunchbox. “Just sayin’... They never found a body. Anyway, my money's on the ice queen. If everything they're sayin' about her dad is true, she is prime ransom material.”

“You are so unnecessarily twisted.” But my eyes are still following the crown jewels. I notice that Lacy, Tina and Heather all rise to the girl’s room immediately after they finish their minimal lunch.

I interrupt Eddie and Gareth’s too-intense-for-lunchtime debate about the morality of posthumously publishing The Silmarillion. “I have to take a leak.”

As I gently push the door of the bathroom open, I can see Tina standing nervously at an open stall door. Heather is ralphing like her life depends on it. The reptilian arch of Lacy Doevski is bent towards the mirror, touching up her lipstick.

“Grow up, Heather,” Lacy says in this voice that could weirdly be misconstrued as concerned, “Bulimia is so sophmoronic.”

Tina grimaces. “Maybe you should see a doctor, Heather.”

From inside the stall, Heather’s voice echos. “Yeah, Heather– I mean, Tina. Maybe I should.”

I’m about to open my mouth, say something about ginger ale or peppermint tea, but Mrs O’Donnell enters behind me. I dive into a nearby stall, pretty confident I haven’t been spotted. But, I leave just enough of a crack in the door to watch everything that unfolds out there.

“Ah, I should have known–”

Heather vomits again. Damn, how can she pull trig so much on so little?

“–the witches from Macbeth always travel in a trio.” Her heels click over the cracked, yellowing tile, but the way Lacy turns from the mirror gives even O’Donnell pause. “Perhaps you didn’t hear the bell over all the vomiting. You’re late for class.”

Hey. Idea. I dig around in my backpack and scribble on a piece of paper, leaning against the bathroom door.

“Heather wasn’t feeling well.” Lacy says. Again, confusing enough to sound kind! “We’re helping her.”

O’Donnell chuckles all airly. Like she’s any match for her. “Not without a hall pass, you’re not. Week’s detention.”

That’s my cue. I scurry out of the stall, presenting O’Donnell with–

“Um, actually, Mrs O’Donnell, all four of us are out on a hall pass.” I gulp and glance at Heather, who’s finally hauled herself off her knees. “Yearbook committee.”

It’s super hard to breathe as O’Donnell inspects my handiwork. It hits me that this could go horribly, horribly wrong, and I can feel Lacy’s eyes boring into a hot spot on the back of my head.

O’Donnell arches her eyebrow. “I see you’re all listed. Hurry up and get where you’re going.”

She goes to hand the note back to me, but Lacy intercepts. Once the coast is clear, she takes her time looking it over.

“This is an excellent forgery,” she tells me. A drop of freezing sweat runs down my back. “Who are you?”

“Uh, Ronnie– Veronica Ecker,” I stumble. “We were lab partners last year?”

Lacy’s eyes narrow. She doesn’t remember taking the lead on coolly dissecting a frog in front of me, it seems.

“Doesn’t matter. I crave a boon.”

She holds her glare on me. Jesus, why do I feel like I’m about to have my throat slit? “What boon?”

“Um. Let me sit at your lunch table. Just once. No talking necessary. If people think that you guys tolerate me, then they’ll leave me alone…”

What? It worked for Nancy Wheeler. Even if she had to boink Steve Harrington to do it, but I can't quite stretch that far.

The girls all chorus in laughter at me. Oof.

“Before you answer, I can also do report cards, permission slips and absence notes.” Dude, I cannot tell you where this boost of bravery (or foolhardiness) is coming from.

“How about prescriptions?” Heather asks.

“Shut up, Heather,” Lacy cuts.

“Sorry, Lacy.”

Then, she zeroes in on me. Takes slow steps toward me, just like Tommy Hagan did. But her stare is tearing strips right through me. I even freaking hunch as she gets closer.

“For a greasy little nobody,” Lacy says, her voice dropping low so I have to strain to hear her, “you do have good bone structure.”

Tina and Heather must already be tuned into this Lacy-only frequency.

“And a proportional body,” Tina adds. “If someone didn’t catch you during a basket toss, you’d probably only kind of fracture your spine. That’s very important.

“Of course, you could stand to de-hobo your wardrobe.” Heather goes so far as to flick the flappy pocket on the front of my overalls. “Salvation Army much?”

“And ya know, ya know, ya know…” the shiniest jewel in the crown hums, tapping her lipstick tube against her cheek, “This could be beautiful.” Her painted fingers pinch my chin and turn it down toward her–because I’m fucking tall. “Mascara, maybe some lipgloss and we’re on our way. Get this girl some blush– and Heather, I need your brush. Let’s make her beautiful.”

A manic looking Tina produces a vanity bag out of absolutely nowhere. “Let’s make her beautiful…”

“Let’s make her beautiful?” Heather snarks, but Lacy shoves a hand in her face.

Her eyes turn on me again. Dark and sparkly and… and… smiling. At me. “Okay?”

“Okay!”

Then, whaddaya know, smash cut, it’s the next freaking day. I don’t know how that works, but I don’t see another goddamn narrator so pipe down.

The halls are their usual shitshow– Billy Hargrove shoves the new Hellfire freshman, Gareth, into a locker. Eddie hauls him up by the collar and they run headlong into a gaggle of girls, who all scream because every nerd that plays a fantasy game is contagious.

“Don’t you dare touch me!”

“Get away, pervert!”

“What did I ever do to them?” Gareth yelps, exasperated. Hard not to feel bad for the kid.

But Eddie’s sage about it, even though he knows it’s as unfair as I do. “You’ll get used to it, freshman.”

“No, dude!” Gareth pushes back, verging on a panic attack, “Who could survive this! I can’t escape this–I think I’m dying!”

O’Donnell, hot on the tardy check, appears behind the both of ‘em. “Who’s that with Lacy?”

“Damn. Someone got a welfare increase,” Nicole Summers hatefully snarls.

“Who’s the babe?” says Andy Sweeney.

But Eddie Munson, oh-ho, Eddie Munson settles his eyes into slits. Anytime, any place, he’d know–

“Veronica?!”

“Veronica?” Cass and Carol caw.

“Veronica?” Steve and Tommy mimic.

And Lacy Doevski… she looks to her dutiful right, and smirks. “Veronica?”

And you know, you know, you know, life can be beautiful!

My whole life, I haven’t had a choice but to be one of the boys. My best friend’s a boy. I’m in a band with all boys. I’m surrounded by boys all the time who make gross boy jokes and do stupid boy shit. Nobody, not even my Granny, even though she fucking rules, ever asked me if… if I wanted to put on a skirt and get my goddamned nails painted. And it’s not as if I mind being on the more masculine side of things but, shit, is it so wrong to want something? Even if I believed what I was pretty much dragged up to believe, by all my friends and the world at large around me–that being a chick was totally dumb. Couldn’t I try it on?

You hope, you dream, you pray, and you get your way!

Lacy beckoned me into her walk-in closet, which was about as big as my bedroom and smelled of gardenia, and put me in a pleated skirt set that she said didn’t fit her temperament anymore. ‘But it’d work for a novice.’

Ask me how it feels, lookin’ like hell on wheels–

“You gotta be fucking kidding me,” Eddie seethes as I pass, carried on the cloud of Lacy’s perfume.

‘My god, it’s beautiful!’ I’d said, spinning around in the stupid, flippy skirt.

“Those bobbleheads totally morphed her!”

‘I might be beautiful!’ I mumbled, fingering the diamond studs she put in my ears that she made Heather pierce.

“She looks like–like–” Gareth chokes.

And when you’re beautiful…

“A girl!”

… it’s a beautiful fuckin’ day!

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

Now, at first, I think I’m fucking flatlining, expecting to wake up with goddamn tubes down my throat and shit– but I’m not. I’m in my regular old bed, with my regular old alarm clock screaming at me. I smash my hand down on it and jerk up, out of the covers.

First place I go is my wardrobe.

I feel the physical sensation of my heart dropping like a lead kite when I flick through my old thrift store samesies and Granny Ecker hand-me-downs to find no such minty plaid skirt set.

Just a dream.

Which is such a bullshit conceit. Sorry to break it to you.

I admit defeat and pull on my overalls, scrunching my ballcap over my head and muscle out the door. I’m already late, for me.

But–then, there’s an apparition hovering at my mailbox.

Someone who excitedly takes notice and waves when she catches me staring, arm stretching out of her fur-trimmed peacoat–which is looking a tiny touch shabbier than it used to these days.

“Happy early acceptance day, asshole!” Lacy Doevski sing-songs. Sing-songs. Which is… something I have to readjust to, given the liminal version of her I just experienced.

“Oh.. jeez,” I mutter, feeling dazed still, “I forgot that was today.”

Lacy’s brow gets all pinchy. “You okay? You look like steamed dogshit.”

“Thank you so much,” I drawl sarcastically, “It’s nothing, I slept funky. Where’s Eddie?”

Lacy shifts in herself a little, tucking hair behind her ears and avoiding my eyes. “How should I know?” Right. That. The daylight version of this little tryst they pretend they’re not having. Honestly, if the two of them would just bang it out– well, maybe things might be worse off and this weird little platonic ménage à trois of ours would be totally ruined forever, but at least I’d have to stop tiptoeing around them. “Come on, are you gonna open it or what?”

Oh, right. There’s a whole gravity of a situation supposed to be happening here.

I kind of feel the saliva gathering at the hinges in my jaw, you know the way you do when you’re about to puke your guts up? But then, I remember. Bulimia is so sophmoronic.

I yank open that rusty mailbox and a thick, thick envelope with a New York University imprint sits inside. I yank it out.

Lacy stares at me like I’m the dude holding the thing the Ten Commandments were written on.

I’m not drawing this shit out. I am not teasing myself, dude, you couldn’t pay me to–savagely, I rip the envelope open, which makes Lacy cringe. She probably has a little knife for these sorts of things, knowing her.

Dear Veronica,

Congratulations! I am delighted to inform you…

“Holy fucking shit.”

“Well…?”

I thrust that hot, heavy paper right into that pretty girl’s face. “Full. Goddamned. Ride.”

Lacy gasps, grasping the letter so hard it leaves claw marks. Her eyes shake back and forth, reading and re-reading the whole acceptance ream. It’s weird, and I know it’s weird, but I’m standing there, looking at her and trying to make her make sense with the Lacy that showed up in my dream. That girl existed, and she was mystifying, in a horrifying way. A total reign of ice cold terror. But now, I’m staring at Lacy, who’s all short, weird angles and specific enthusiasm and… it’s hard to see how those two girls ever lived in the same body.

She’s a little Whitman. She’s got those multitudes. And, actually, so do I.

“I knew it!” Lacy hisses, “And I want you to know that I’m not at all bitter. While I should be celebrating early acceptance with you, I’m glad–”

I grin at her. “You’re a little bitter.”

“Fine, I’m a little bitter, but I’m mostly excited. New York City, Ron! That’s transformative!”

“Yeah… speaking of. Lacy?”

“Yes?”

Dreams are meant to be prophetic and shit, right?

“Doyouwannagivemeamakeover?”

She cocks her head at me. She still hasn’t let go of that acceptance letter yet. “What?”

“Do you.” I take the envelope from her hands. I know she’s capable of identity theft. “Want to give me. A makeover.”

“Huh?” Her fingers stay curled around imaginary paper. Oh, my god.

“You heard me! And I hate repeating myself!” I flail a little. I get like that, quick to bug sometimes. “Look, you said it, New York is gonna be… transformative. I’m going to be a freaking lawyer, dude, fingers crossed, all going well.”

Lacy nods, not a hair out of place, with perfect confidence,“You are.”

“And when was the last time you saw a lawyer wearing fuckin’ overalls?! Huh? The people vs Howdy Doody?”

“I like your overalls.” I know she’s saying this because it’s the right thing to say, and she’s been practicing doing that really hard. She also might like them now, after repeated exposure, in a Stockholm syndrome sort of way.

“But they don’t scream esquire,” I impress upon her. And it’s true. I truly do believe that I can’t set foot in New York fucking City looking like I just fell off the back of a turnip truck–nor do I want to.

It takes a big fat beat, but her face changes. Lacy looks almost dastardly–dark, sparkling eyes like Lacy from the dream. She looks me right over, making the calculations of how to reupholster tragically unfashionable me in her mind. And then she arches her eyebrow.

“Well, remember… you asked, Veronica.”

#published by powder #r. ecker by powder #hai brainrot #ronnie ecker #stranger things fic #l. doevski by powder #this is really just wish fulfillment for me it's been stuck in my maladaptive head for weeks

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kermitscavern · 1 year ago

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Watch the World Turn Green

For @thefreakandthehair's Spicy Six Summer Challenge! It's a day late but shhh no it isn't

Dialogue Prompt: "How did everything get so green so fast?" | Pairing: Robin Buckley/Nancy Wheeler | Rating: T | CW: None | Word Count: 4k

Robin has always hated the winter. It’s cold, it’s grey, there’s nothing to do, and she gets sad. It gets harder and harder to drag herself out of bed, her days blend into one long string of schoolworkbedschoolworkbed, and to make it worse, senioritis has been setting in hard. She usually spends every January-through-March counting down the days till spring hits. At least the groundhog saw his shadow this year, predicting an early spring. God bless Punxsutawney Phil. So come March, she keeps her eyes peeled for the budding crocuses, the first patches of green grass, and the fresh buds coming from winter-dormant trees. The allergies suck, but spring brings Ultimate Frisbee season (hey, she has to get her sports credit somehow) enough warmth to make her lips stop turning blue, and color. She loves to see the color come back.

It was only the second of February, though, and those days seemed so far away it didn’t even make sense to dream of them. There's been one person making her days a little less dreary, though.

When Robin got bored, she decided to pick a piece of eye-candy in her classes, y’know, to pass the time. They weren’t real crushes, just a bit of fun, someone to daydream about during math class.

She shared Biology, Stats, and Modern Lit with Nancy Wheeler.

So besides being convenient, she was also really cute, which helped. And even better, she was Steve’s ex— she had passed many a slow shift at Family Video watching Steve’s face turn increasingly entertaining colors as she asked if Nancy’s lips were really as soft as they looked, if he thought she was a B or C cup.

So yeah. It was fun. And Nancy was really smart, too.

It started when they had been paired up for an assignment about 1984. Nancy had never been Robin’s favorite person, she was too preppy, too clean cut, and besides, she was Steve’s ex, so she was predisposed to hate her. But ah. Haha. Oops. Sorry Steve-o, but the loins want what the loins want. (Steve had smacked her for that one, it hadn’t been serious, but it did sting a little.) Nope, it turned out Nancy was really cool and pretty and witty and just the right kind of innocent that drove Robin wild.

And even though Robin was an absolute wuss, it turned out it was much easier to invite pretty girls over when it was under the pretext of homework. They did talk about 1984 a little bit, but they got kind of distracted when Nancy started berating her for not reading that weeks chapter— Robin tried to look apologetic but she kept getting distracted by the quirk of her lips as Nancy tried to keep a straight face through “telling her off,” the gentle whack of her manicured fingers leaving tingling ghosts across her skin.

She was down bad. Oh no. Oh no no no no no. Now this, this was a problem. As long as she didn’t think she actually liked Nancy Wheeler, she was all set. But as soon as the feelings became serious, she turned into an absolute mess. She tried to hide the truth from herself. It didn’t work.

The next time she had a shift at Family Video with Steve, it took about twenty minutes before Steve was asking her what was up.

“So… How’s Nancy?” He had asked, nudging her in the side, wiggling his brows suggestively. “She was meant to come over last night, right? You get to figure out how soft her lips are for yourself?”

She shoved him back, not unkindly. “Shut up.” She grumped. “Nothing happened.”

Steve froze. “Oh.” He said. “So something did happen, just not for her.”

Robin was glaring daggers. “Shut the hell up. Now.”

The next time Nancy came over, it was just to hang out. They had started getting coffee after school together, so that was a thing that happened now. They hung out.

Something was off from the moment Nancy came in, though. She rushed them up to her room, her lips a hard line, her eyes avoiding Robin’s as she asked how her day had been.

“Nance, it was fine, how was yours?” Robin asked, freaked out enough to place a comforting hand on her shoulder without her brain spinning a thousand unpleasant tales about the consequences.

“I- So- Well- So Jonathan and I—” She started, took a deep breath, looked at Robin with tears in her eyes, and spit out, “So Jonathan and I are over. Like, done. It’s finished. We’re… done.” She gave one last pathetic sniffle and keeled over, effectively crying into Robin’s lap.

Right. So. This was happening. Robin was having trouble stopping herself from short circuiting. She was always awful at this kind of stuff— emotions, comforting people, et cetera. She had no idea how some people just had the perfect things to say, all the time.

But she tried, carefully lowering her hand to Nancy’s softsoftsoft curls, stroking them in what she hoped was a soothing way. “There there,” she stuttered out, wracking her brain for how they handled situations like this in movies. “It’ll be okay, he doesn’t deserve you. Um. Plenty of fish in the sea.”

Nancy sniffled, raising her head from her lap. “You’re pretty awful at this.” She cracked a small smile, looking unreal and yet so, so human with her red and shiny eyes. “Haven’t you ever been broken up with before?”

“Um. No.” She admitted, breaking eye contact with Nancy as she worried a lip between her teeth.

“Lucky.” Nancy chuckled, laying back in Robin’s lap.

“I mean, yes and no…” Robin said quietly, glad Nancy wasn’t able to see her face turning red as the girl in her lap grabbed her hand and gently started playing with her fingers.

“Hmm…” Nancy hummed after a moment. “So you’ve never been in a relationship?”

“Nope.” She got out, trying not to squeak, trying to fight the urge to grab Nancy’s hand and pepper it with little kisses and tell her she shouldn’t be wasting her precious tears over Jonathan, that she deserved so much better than some stupid boy.

“How about on a date?” She pressed on, and while Robin was starting to feel a little shy about her inexperience, she hoped this was at least getting Nancy’d mind off him.

“No, not even.”

A beat. “Ever kissed anyone?” She asked so gently, her eyes coming up to reach Robin’s.

Robin swallowed, blushing but unable to take her eyes away from the angel in her lap. “Uh. No.” She breathed out. Not like there was much chance to in small-town Indiana.

A couple moments of silence. Nancy brought her eyes away and looked across the room, hand almost imperceptibly squeezing Robins before she asked in the barest whisper, “Because you’ve never found another girl who wanted to?”

Robin froze, all warm and fuzzy feelings going freezing cold. She felt like she wanted to throw up, hell, she just might. “I— No—” She stuttered, “That’s not—”

Nancy froze her with a look. Voice wavering, “Robin…” she said, catching her eye and stopping her stuttering, “I… I want to.” She admitted, jaw set, on the verge of tears again, with more bravery than Robin would ever have.

Robin breathed. “Okay,” she said, trying some of Nancy’s bravery on for size. “I want to, too.” She admitted for the first time since she got way too high with Steve in the Scoops bathroom after work, for the second time in her life because she couldn’t even look in the mirror and say it without looking away.

A deep breath. “Robin,” Nancy coaxed, their confessions hanging heavy in the air, “will you… kiss me?”

Robin was terrified, mouth gone dry, brain completely short-circuited. She was in disbelief, and frozen.

Nancy squeezed her hand again, the delicate tears perched so precariously on her lashes. “Please?” She asked again, looking so fragile that she might break with the slightest touch, the smallest word said in the wrong tone.

“Okay.” She breathed, squeezing her eyes shut as she leaned down, because she was still so scared this wasn’t real. But Nancy’s lips were real when they met, and yes, they were just as soft as they looked.

And if she had any sense, she would be terrified of being a rebound, of a mistake made in a vulnerable moment, or worse yet, the butt of a practical joke. But she was too infatuated for that to cross her mind, and besides, Nancy didn’t seem like the type.

She let herself have this. She let them have this moment, in case they never got to have another one. It was soft, and gentle, and so full of care. Robin could taste her strawberry lipgloss, confirming her suspicions that that was why she could never tear her eyes away from her shiny lips.

They broke after a moment, and Robin felt her mouth going a mile a minute. “I’m so sorry, are you sure you still want to do this? It’s okay if you don’t, we can just pretend it never happened, I’m cool with that— also was that really bad? I’m sorry it probably was, I really don’t know what I’m doing, I—“

Nancy cut her off with a hand gently cupping her cheek, as she sat up properly. “Hey,” she said, gently directing Robin’s frantic eyes to meet hers. “It’s okay. I do want to do this. I want to do this with you. You’re not doing badly, just follow my lead, okay? It’s easy. Relax.” She slowly leaned in again, and Robin let herself relax a little more into the better angle. Her eyes fluttered closed as she gripped onto Nancy’s arm, the other hand coming up to her shoulder. She felt awkward, and there was definitely still some anxiety buzzing around, but she was starting to let herself enjoy the experience of kissing Nancy Wheeler.

Just as she was beginning to get into the rhythm, the last of her walls coming down, she felt a tongue prod against her lips. “Mmf!” She squeaked in surprise, pulling back.

Nancy looked up at her, concern starting to creep across her features. “I’m sorry— is this— is this okay?”

“Yeah,” Robin breathed. “Just surprised, that’s all. Um. I don’t really know what I’m doing. Especially not when it comes to um. Tongues.”

Nancy smiled at her fondly. “That’s alright, just do what I do, okay? Try to feel the rhythm. You don’t have to apologize.”

Robin smiled at her gratefully, before Nancy was gently pushing her back onto the bed, their lips reconnecting. She dutifully opened her mouth to let Nancy lick in, and should probably have been more embarrassed by the sound it elicited from her. But as it was she was so in awe of what was happening, she was hardly even aware of herself.

The introduction of tongues brought a new intensity to the game, the innocent kitten kisses turning more involved as the pair found their footing. After a couple of minutes, Nancy sat up to readjust herself, bringing a leg over Robin’s hips so she straddled the girl lying beneath her. “You’re so hot,” she told her, voice low and husky as a grin worked its way across her lips, with a glint in her eye that made Robin’s stomach turn. She felt hands sneak under her shirt, fingers tracing shapes across her stomach with feather-light touches, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

“Yeah?” Robin breathed, her chest rising and falling as she tried to hide the fact she was panting. She couldn’t believe this was happening to her, and she certainly hadn’t imagined this for her first kiss.

“Yeah.” Nancy grinned, raking a hand through her hair in a move she must have calculated to destroy Robin. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the girl on top of her, eyes tracing the curves of her waist, her chest, her neck, mesmerized by the way the curls bounced on her shoulders as she shook her hair out. Nancy caught her staring and returned her a devilish grin as she leaned down again, bracing herself with an arm beside her head.

Fuck. “So are you.” She told her, Nancy now so close their noses were nearly touching. She caught her smile before she was dipping down again, reconnecting their lips.

She felt her hips stutter as Nancy’s roaming hand found her chest, cutting off a groan as she did so. She felt Nancy’s hips roll down in response, and Robin brought a knee up to support them, slotting it between Nancy’s legs. She groaned into her mouth as she ground against it, her head dropping into the hollow of her neck as she continued to rub herself against Robin’s thigh. Robin was seeing stars just listening to her. She couldn’t believe she had Hawkin’s perfect princess making downright filthy sounds into her ear, making her hot all over.

She gasped again as she felt a nip at her neck, Nancy sucking and biting at the sensitive skin below her ear. She knew enough to know she’d have a bitch of bruise to cover the next morning. Thank god her mom had bought her some makeup for her sixteenth birthday. When Nancy sat up again, it was to rip off her shirt, Robin’s brain going blank as her hands flew to her own shirt next as she felt Nancy pulling it over her head with an urgent “offoffoff.” She felt a hand on her chest pushing her back against the pillows, Nancy looking unreal as she dipped down again, this time working her lips down her chest and along her braline. A hand flew up to Nancy’s shoulder as she felt a hand sneak behind her back to the clasp of her bra.

Nancy stopped abruptly and sat up, worry creasing her brow as she looked into Robin’s pleading eyes. Robin felt a blush creep up her neck and across her cheeks, a deep pit of embarrassment filling her stomach.

Nancy dipped her head, muttering a quiet ”Fuck,” mostly to herself. She gave Robin an apologetic smile as she rolled off her, the pair now lying side by side on the bed. Robin felt her head shift to look at her, and matched the action at Nancy’s soft, “hey,”

“I’m really sorry—” She began, but Nancy cut her off, finding her hand and giving it a soft squeeze.

“No, hey, don’t say that, I’m sorry. I took it too far, and I should’ve known better.” She watched her eyes dip, before fluttering back to meet hers.

“It’s really okay, it’s just all a bit much all at once, and I’m not saying I don’t want to, uh, go further, because I do, it’s just—” she felt herself rambling, unable to meet Nancy’s eyes because she’s pretty sure she just told her that she wanted to like, have sex with her or something. She was brought back to reality by Nancy reaching over and placing a soft kiss on her cheek.

“—a lot.” She finishes for her. “Don’t worry, I get it. We don’t have to do everything all at once.” She drifted off to a murmur at the end as she trailed a few more kisses across her jaw and down her neck, making Robin shiver. “It’s probably best to stop now anyway,” she continued, placing a final kiss to Robin’s lips before sitting up. “It’s getting late, and my mom wants me home for dinner.”

“I— Oh— Okay,” was all she was able to get out, propping herself up on her elbows as she watched Nancy tug her shirt back on. Her skin still felt like it was on fire, her brain still reeling from what just happened.

Once she’d fixed herself, she turned back to Robin, a fond smile gracing her lips as she took in what must be her sorry state. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said, half asking, half promising, as she pulled Robin up with a hand, rubbing soft circles into the back with her thumb.

“Sounds good,” She told her, clearing her throat as she found her voice again. “Yeah, sounds good.” Nancy left her with another of her treasured smiles as she slipped out the door, and Robin shook her head to try to clear the fog.

There was no way that had just happened, right? There was no way she had just had her first kiss, with Nancy Wheeler of all people, with her panting in her ear, trying to take them to second? third? base. And yet, as she looked in the mirror, a hand flew up in horror to blossoming blue mark on her neck as her mom called, ”Robbie! Dinner!

~*~

The next few weeks were a strange time for Robin. She and Nancy definitely had a… thing. She was over at the Wheeler residence almost every day, usually making out. But they also talked, and did homework, and when it was late enough that Nancy started talking about her insecurities, Robin would try to tell her how amazing she was without sounding like the completely lovesick idiot she was.

Sure, it had started out as a silly crush, and then it had been fun to fool around, but now that Robin was getting to know the real Nancy, the one who huffed in her sleep, who was cranky in the morning and late at night, who liked to make her guests pancakes because it was the one recipe her mom had taught her that she was actually good at, she was starting to fall a little bit in love. But even though that was the case, she wasn’t sure she was even ready for a relationship, if she even wanted one. She rarely got to keep the good things in her life, so who’s to say Nancy wouldn’t just drop her as soon as a cute boy looked her way, who knew if Nancy would even go out with her if she asked? Wanting to kiss a girl and wanting to date one were two very different things.

So the grey days continued to drudge on, and Robin tried to pull back to stop herself from getting too attached. And Nancy was having none of it.

“Robin,” Nancy grabbed her leg. “What’s going on?” The pair were sitting on Nancy’s bed, and Robin had not-so-elegantly ended a makeout sesh because she had “homework to do,” but was really because she was having trouble keeping her hands under control.

"I told you,” she said, avoiding her gaze as she twisted out of her hand to pack her bag. “I have a lot of stuff due tomorrow, I gotta head out. Sorry.”

She froze when Nancy grabbed her shoulder, her other hand coming up to cup her face and face it towards herself. “Bullshit. Somethings been going on, you’ve been completely off lately. Is something going on? Do you want to stop? …Did I do something?"

Robin couldn’t stand the guilt in Nancy’s big blue eyes. Her stomach dropped. “No, it’s not you, god it’s not you, trust me. I’ve just been, I don’t know. I’m not sure how I feel. I’m not sure this is a good idea. Do you even want to keep doing… this?” She asked, gesturing between them wildly. “Like, what are we even doing here? Fuck!” She was breathing heavily, eyes a little wild as she unleashed all her anxieties.

“Of course I want to keep doing this,” said Nancy in a small voice that broke Robin’s heart. “But if you want to stop I get it, Rob, it’s just, I really like you.”

“You do?” Robin felt like she could only whisper, the moment between them was so fragile. “Because god I like you so much, I’m just so scared, all the time. And I’m not sure I can do this anymore, like this. I’m terrified I need more, and I’m terrified I’ll scare you away.” She wasn’t sure where this was all coming from, this bravery, and bluntness. She had a sneaking suspicion her brain had turned off and she was working on autopilot.

She watched, terrified, as Nancy chewed her lip, eyes cast down as she thought. “You mean like, date?”

“God, yes. Nancy Wheeler, will you go on a date with me?” She blurted, fed up with the turmoil in her head. She needed an answer, yes or no, so she could just move on with her life.

“Yes.” She said quietly, but as her gaze came up again a grin was spread across her face. Robin felt a smile split hers too as she leaned forward, connecting their lips in a desperate celebration.

“She said yes!” She raved, elation finishing off her adrenaline high. She felt snapped back to reality, a million thoughts and possibilities running through her head. For once, the future seemed hopeful.

~*~

Life with Nancy was good, so good. She had no idea how she made it through winters before her. Yes, the cold and grey still sucked, and she was still eager for frisbee season, but she wasn’t counting down the days anymore. She didn’t need a future to distract herself with when she was so happy every day, with Nancy. On their first date, Nancy asked her to be her girlfriend, and Robin wouldn’t stop raving to Steve for weeks. Classes still sucked, but she shared a whole three with Nancy, and she saw her at lunch and in the halls and after school. The winter was still depressing, but she had Nancy as her guiding light through the darkness. The wind was still terribly cold, but she had Nancy to bundle her in her arms, to warm her frost bitten hands between hers with a tut.

Before long, it was warm enough to plan a proper “outside date,” a picnic. Robin dug out the mini tea set from elementary school, and they got together at Nancy’s house to make tea sandwiches and slice fruit. They found a quiet spot on top of hill, an expanse of forest and buried rooftops visible beneath them, and they felt above it all. They laid out the blanket and ate their sandwiches and drank their tea and reveled in each others company, and when that was done they lay down, sides pressed together and thumbs tracing gentle circles between them.

After a while, the chit chat petered out, and Robin started to doze, lost in her thoughts. She felt a hand stroking her hair, and leaned up to grin at her girlfriend. She was caught by the scene in front of her, her eyes locked on Nancy’s. In one staggering moment, she realized she had never been happier. She took a moment to look around herself— the sky was a dazzling blue, the flowers were coming into bloom, birds were chittering in the trees, dashes of red and black flitting between branches, and although she was still cozied up in a sweater, the wind didn’t have the same bite it did during the winter months. She was taken aback by a sudden thought— ”How did everything get so green so fast?”

#lexssummerfanworkschallenge #stranger things #stranger things fic #st fic #ronance #robin buckley #nancy wheeler #robin x nancy #kermits creations #first kiss #getting together #this was so fun to work on thanks for setting it up lex !!

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devosopmaandag · 9 days ago

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Met vrijheid getooid

Ergens in de jaren zeventig las ik George Orwells roman '1984'. Ik meen me te kunnen herinneren hoe gevangen ik mezelf voelde in de wurgende sfeer van de totalitaire staat waarin hoofdpersoon Winston Smith leeft. Op de witte gevels van het Ministerie van Waarheid, waar hij werkt, staat in sierlijke letters: OORLOG IS VREDE – VRIJHEID IS SLAVERNIJ – ONWETENDHEID IS KRACHT. Ik moest toen tijdens het lezen toch ergens mijn hoop vandaan halen. Was het niet in de natuur, ver weg van de hermetisch gecontroleerde stad, dat de laatste resten vrijheid te vinden waren? Het zou toch onmogelijk zijn om onder elke boom, in elke bergspleet of verscholen in het riet gedetecteerd te kunnen worden. Ieder jaar komt die gedachte wel een keer naar boven, als ik ergens langs een water loop, of midden door een bos.

Ik bladerde in het boek dat decennia dicht was gebleven, op zoek naar een passage die dat vermoeden zou bevestigen, en vond het op pagina 103. Een onbekende vrouw heeft Winston op slinkse wijze haar streng verboden liefde aan hem kenbaar gemaakt. Ze ontsnappen aan de ogen van Big Brother ergens ver buiten de stad. “Het zonlicht zeefde door bladeren zonder tal en was nog heet op hun gezichten. Winston keek uit naar het veld daarachter en had een eigenaardige, trage schok van herkenning. Hij kende het van gezicht. Een oude, kort afgegraasde weide, met een voetpad er dwars doorheen en hier en daar een molshoop. In de ongelijke heg aan de overkant deinden de takken der olmbomen nauw merkbaar in het koeltje, en hun bladeren bewogen zwakjes in dichte opeenhopingen, als vrouwenhaar. “ En dan raken ze samen betoverd door het zingen van een lijster, en vervolgens door elkaars lichamen.

Ik dwaalde in Breda langs enorme foto's die verspreid opgesteld stonden in een braakliggende gebied waar de natuur langzaam terrein wint. Het was Breda Photo. Ik werd onmiddellijk getroffen door een foto van een jonge vrouw. Ze heeft een krans van bladeren om haar haar gedaan. Ze draagt een mouwloze jurk met zonnebloemen en aan een lange, kleurige ketting hangt een halve maan. Haar blik is verstild en naar binnen gekeerd. Ze zou een Zuid-Amerikaanse kunnen zijn, of iemand uit India, maar ze is een Iraanse. Ik las dat de Iraans-Canadese fotografe Parisa Azadi, jonge Iraniërs fotografeert die in de woestijnen en bossen een gevoel van vrijheid zoeken, ver weg van het stedelijk islamitische regime.

Ik was vergeten hoe Orwells roman eindigt en zocht het op. Ellendiger kan het niet: gebroken door het systeem geeft Winston Smith zich over aan het systeem. In de foto van de Iraanse lees ik hoop: haar gezicht verraadt de realiteit van het leven dat ze voor even achter laat en dat weer op haar wacht, maar daar, in dat donker bos, tooit ze zich met symbolen van vrijheid. Misschien is die maan aan haar ketting, niet wassend maar afnemend, een teken van hoop of stil verzet.

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coffee-n-bagels-comic-universe · 1 year ago

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Brainwaves Bios: Janine Melnitz (1984)

The Secretary of The Ghostbusters Janine Melnitz

The Ghostbusters secretary and receptionist, Janine is incredibly sarcastic but very loyal to the Ghostbusters, and often entrusted with keeping everything running that they are too busy to handle.

"Ghostbusters, whaddya want?"

Name

Full Legal Name: Janine Ombeline Melnitz

First Name: Janine

Meaning: Variant of 'Jeannine', a diminutive of 'Jeanne', the modern French form of 'Jehanne' an Old French form of 'Iohannes', the Latin form of the Greek name 'Ioannes', itself derived from the Hebrew name 'Yochanan' meaning 'Yahweh is gracious', from the roots 'Yo' referring to the Hebrew God and 'Chanan' meaning 'To be gracious'.

Pronunciation: ja-NEEN

Origin: French, English, Dutch, German

Middle Name: Ombeline

Meaning: Feminine form of 'Humbelin', a medieval diminutive of 'Humbert' derived from the Old High German elements 'Hun' 'Bear cub' and 'Beraht' 'Bright'.

Pronunciation: AW-BU-LEEN

Origin: French

Surname: Melnitz

Meaning: Meaning Unknown

Pronunciation: MEL-nitz

Origin: German

Titles: Miss

Nicknames: Janie, Jan

Characteristics

Age: 32

Gender: Female. She/Her Pronouns

Race: Human (Touched by the 'Psychic Realm')

Nationality: American Citizen. Born in America

Ethnicity: White

Birth Date: October 28th 1952

Sexuality: Bisexual

Religion: Jewish

Native Language: English

Known Languages: English, Hebrew

Relationship Status: Single

Astrological Sign: Scorpio

Actor: Annie Potts

Geographical Characteristics

Birthplace: Crown Heights, Brooklyn, New York

Current Residence: Central Park West, New York, New York

Appearance

Height: 5'6" / 168 cm

Weight: 117 lbs / 53 kg

Eye Colour: Blue

Hair Colour: Brown

Hair Dye: Various Shades of Red

Body Hair: N/A

Facial Hair: N/A

Tattoos: (As of Jan 1984) None

Piercings: Ear Lobe (Both)

Scars: None

Health and Fitness

Allergies: None

Alcoholic, Smoker, Drug User: Social Drinker

Illnesses/Disorders: None Diagnosed

Medications: None

Any Specific Diet: None

Relationships

Affiliated Groups: Ghostbusters (Employee)

Friends: Heather Nieto-Jorge, May Keaton, Allison Wada, Janine Melnitz, Nova Teufel, Mars Teufel. Peter Venkman (Sort-Of), Egon Spengler, Raymond Stantz, Winston Zeddemore, Dana Barrett, Louis Tully

Significant Other: Single (Crush: Louis Tully, Egon Spengler)

Previous Partners: None of Note

Parents: Moses Melnitz (67, Father), Rachel Melnitz (65, Mother, Née Zimmerman)

Parents-In-Law: None

Siblings: Antonia Stein (35,Sister, Née Melnitz)

Siblings-In-Law: Henry Stein (36, Antonia's Husband)

Nieces & Nephews: Samuel Stein (13, Nephew), Grace Stein (10, Niece)

Children: None

Extras

Level of Education: Didn't Finish College, Attempted 2 Courses, Finished Neither

Occupation: Secretary, Part-Time Ghostbuster

Employer: Ghostbusters

Expertise:

Touched by the 'Psychic Realm'

Cryptographical Knowledge

Can type up to 130 words a minute

Plays Racquetball

Does Yoga & Pilates

Gardening Knowledge

Can (Barely) Act

Expert on New York

Fast Learner

Bookworm

Faults:

Has a Small Criminal Record

Sweet-Tooth

Attraction To nerdy / Smart-Looking Men

Bad With Kids

Backstory:

Janine was the first person hired to work at the Firehouse. She staffed the phones and kept track of appointments, calls, messages, etc. She showed a romantic interest in Egon Spengler, but he didn't return her advances.

#Brainwaves #ghostbusters 1984 #ghostbusters #janine melnitz #Janine Melnitz

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joostjongepier · 1 year ago

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Wat? Brown Spot (Portrait of Andy Warhol as a banana) ((1984) door Jean-Michel Basquiat, Jean-Michel Basquiat (1984) door Andy Warhol, Los Cabazos 91984) door Jean-Michel Basquiat, China Paramount (1984), African Masks (ca. 1984) en Taxi, 45th/Broadway (1984-1985) door Jean-Michel Basquiat en Andy Warhol

Waar? Fondation Louis Vuitton, Parijs

Wanneer? 31 juli 2023

Andy Warhol ken ik al een groot deel van mijn leven. Jean-Michel Basquiat ontdekte ik pas een paar jaar geleden. Sindsdien ben ik een groot fan van zijn werk. Van 1983 tot 1985 blijken beide kunstenaars nauw te hebben samengewerkt. Basquiat beweerde een miljoen schilderijen met Warhol samen te hebben gemaakt. Dat was lichtelijk overdreven. Het waren er in werkelijkheid zo’n honderdzestig. Beide kunstenaars werden in oktober 1982 aan elkaar voorgesteld door galeriehouder Bruno Bishofberger, die hen beiden representeerde. Ondanks het leeftijdsverschil klikte het meteen tussen de twee. Aanvankelijk werkten ze samen met Francesco Clemente, later zetten de twee hun samenwerking voort. De samenwerking tussen Warhol, Basquiat en Clemente leverde zo’n vijftien schilderijen op. De werken werden van studio naar studio vervoerd en elke kunstenaar voegde elementen toe, waarbij ieders eigen stijl zichtbaar bleef.

Warhol en Basquiat maakten verschillende portretten van elkaar, zoals Brown Spot (Portrait of Andy Warhol as a banana) en Jean-Michel Basquiat (in de pose van Michelangelo’s David). Toen Bishofberger de twee kunstenaars aan elkaar had voorgesteld, vroeg Basquiat hem om een foto van hem en Warhol te maken. Basquiat vertrok en twee uur later bracht zijn assistent het schilderij Dos Cabezas naar Warhol’s Factory. Hierop riep Warhol uit: “Oh, I’m so jealous! He’s faster than me.””

Een fraai voorbeeld van de samenwerking tussen Warhol en Basquiat is China Paramount. Het door Warhol toegevoegde logo van Paramount Pictures staat voor de Amerikaanse filmindustrie, maar is ook een eerbetoon aan zijn toenmalige levenspartner Jon Gold, die bij het bedrijf werkte. Ronald Reagan, de acteur die president werd, propageerde in de jaren tachtig van de vorige eeuw goede handelsrelaties met China. Hieraan ontleent het werk zijn naam. Basquiats zwarte figuren geven aan dat de Afro-Amerikaanse bevolking niet meedeelt in de groeiende welvaart van de jaren tachtig.

Basquiats aandacht voor zijn Afrikaanse roots komt ook tot uiting in het meterslange werk Afrikan Masks. Warhol schreef hierover in zijn dagboek: “We painted an African masterpiece together. One hundred feet long. He’s better than I am, though” (29 mei 1984).

Taxi, 45th/Broadway geeft een autobiografische scène uit Basquiats leven weer. Toen hij een taxi wilde aanhouden, kreeg hij alleen maar beledigingen toegeschreeuwd. Kunstenaar Keith Haring, een vriend van Basquiat, zei hierover: “”Being black and a kid and having dreadlocks, he couldn’t even get a taxi. But he could spend $ 10,000 in his pocket.”

De tentoonstelling Jean-Michel Basquiat x Andy Warhol, Painting Four Hands is een grote tentoonstelling. Wat de vele werken vooral laten zien is het enthousiasme waarmee ze zijn gemaakt, de wederzijdse onderlinge inspiratie. De kunstscène in New York in de jaren tachtig was een bruisende creatieve smeltkroes.

#andy warhol #jean michel basquiat

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edupunkn00b · 1 year ago

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It Could Always Be Worse, Ch. 2: It Was a Bright, Cold Day in April

Butterfly universe version of Happily Ever After, Ch. 2: It Was a Bright, Cold Day in April

Prev - It Was a Bright, Cold Day in April - Next - All - [ AO3 ]

WC: 1404 - Rating: T - CW: swearing, self-deprecation, divorce, dogs

"It was a bright, cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen." -George Orwell, 1984 (1949)

Logan drove slowly down the winding road, fingers still a little cold while he waited for the heater to finally start in the old minivan. As he passed each mailbox or curbside label, his eyes quickly flicked over, searching for the right house number. He got the end of the street, peering out at the sign on the intersection. He shook his head, muttering to himself in the empty minivan. "No, that's already East 67th. Fuck. I must have passed it."

Sucking in a breath, fighting against that all-too-familiar burning tightness in his chest, Logan carefully made a K-turn at the intersection, biting his lip and wincing as he came close the the curb on the opposite street. Finally, he got his old minivan turned around so he could drive back up the street he'd just come from. Logan put the van in park and pulled up the email from the PTSA treasurer for the fourth time that morning. 5923. He needed 5923. He huffed out a little puff of air, swallowing against the growing lump in his throat. There isn't a 5923.

Logan ripped his glasses off his face, tossing the frames onto the passenger side seat next to him and buried his face in his hands. He let out a long, muffled scream into his palms. He screamed and screamed and screamed. He screamed he felt his eyes might burst. He screamed until he felt glass scraping his throat. He screamed until he was completely empty.

He took another breath and muttered to himself again. "C'mon, you dumb fuck, get yourself together. Google Maps says the house exists. The Treasurer says the house exists. You're just not seeing it. Try. Again." Logan lowered his hands and replaced the frames on his face, taking a couple of deep breaths and ignoring the burning in his eyes and the fire in his throat. He licked his lips, tilted his head from one side to the other, feeling one side crack. He shifted out of park, checked his mirrors and his blind spot, and pulled back onto the road, searching again for the proper house.

After another half-hour, Logan finally spotted tiny white numerals painted on the edge of the curb. "See, it's right fucking there," he muttered to himself. "You must have driven past the place ten times." He carefully parked on the street, turning his steering wheel against the incline of the hill, and engaged the parking break. He gathered his laptop, pen case, phone, and keys, and locked the car, racing up the walkway to the house. The front door was open, the other PTSA parents in the audit sub-committee already sitting around a tastefully decorated dining room table. The hostess waved him in and he carefully toed off his shoes, leaving them just outside the door.

The moment his foot crossed the threshold, two large dogs lunged against a gate covering the hallway next to the front door, barking and snarling at him. Logan jumped backwards then froze, breath caught in his throat. Oh my god, Logan, if you have a fucking panic attack in front of the PTSA moms...

"Oh, sorry, about that, they get so excited when people come over," the hostess called out to him.

Logan nodded, pressing a smile onto his face. He forced his feet to move forward toward the table, keeping a steely grip on his computer, refusing to look toward the dogs. He pushed up the corners of his mouth, trying to brighten his smile. "Hi, Liz, Grace. Bridgett, thank you for hosting this year." He sucked in a breath, "Sorry to be so late."

"Oh, hun, it's fine. We're just glad you're here. Now we can get started."

Grace handed Logan a large, thick three-ring binder filled with paper copies of every check and cash deposit transaction for the PTSA that year. "We had a lot of small teacher grants this year, plus the graduation yard sign sale was a big success. We've got a lot of ground to cover. Bridget and Liz will reconcile the minutes and budget updates. Will you validate that each check for reimbursements and grants matches the requisition form and documentation?"

Logan nodded, "Certainly." Opening the binder, Logan pulled out the four checkbooks-worth of check duplicates and began the audit list.

Grace looked around the table and waved, "I'm not supposed to stay for the audit but you all can call me if you have questions! See y'all later!" She skipped away from the table, petting the dogs as she left.

The three worked in relative silence for a few minutes as Bridgette and Liz finalized the short report for August. Finally, Bridgette cleared her throat, "Oh, did you hear about the Petersons?," asked Liz as they compared reports for September.

"Do you mean that they're moving or that—" Logan could feel Liz' eyes on him. He kept his eyes trained down on the documents in front of him.

Bridgette hummed, leaning closer to Liz, whispering low enough that Logan couldn't make out most of the words and the few that he could hear were easy to tune out. He turned to the next page in the notebook, confirming that the check number, date, signature, and payee all appropriately matched the requisition form.

The audit sub-committee worked this way for a few hours before, finally, Bridgette and Liz had completed their notebooks, signing off on their portions of the audit list. Logan had a few more forms to check and then he could sign off, as well. Bridgette refilled their water glasses, then turned to Logan. "So, Logan, how has Kelly been doing? We haven't seen her around much lately and it's been forever since Pete and I have had the two of you over."

Logan bit down hard on the inside of his cheek to try and stop his jaw from trembling. "Kelly is doing fine, thank you." He nodded absently, eyes fixed on the forms in front of him. He turned to the next check in the book and the next form to validate.

Bridgette sounded surprised. "Oh, well, that's good to hear." He didn't look up, but could hear the little popping sounds of one of the two mouthing something to the other.

"Are you sure she's okay?" Liz pushed. "You know, we had heard that you two had gotten a divorce."

Logan sucked in a breath, staring down at the form in front of him. "Yes, yes that would be accurate."

"Oh, that's such a shame. You had such a beautiful family," Bridgette murmured, taking a sip of her water glass. "You know, Brad and I have definitely been through some rough spots, let me tell you!"

Logan quietly nodded, trying to complete the last few pages in his book without breaking. He could feel the lump in the back of his throat growing, but he was confident that if he could just concentrate on the numbers in front of him, he could get this done and get back in his car before his control slipped completely.

Liz reached out, patting his hand. "So how often do you get to visit the kids?"

Logan grit his teeth, pressing his lips together for a moment before forcibly relaxing his jaw and answering quietly, "We have a shared custody agreement. The boys spend half their time home with me and half their time at Kelly's."

"Oh," Liz said, pulling her hand back. "I'd heard, well, I'm—"

Logan finally turned the last page in the book and snapped it closed. "Well, I believe our work here is done. With the exception of the one reimbursement for more than the request amount on check 7294, everything is perfectly in order here." Logan reached for the audit report sheet and quickly signed it. He looked up at Liz and Bridgette, "It has been a pleasure, as always." He drank the last of the water in his glass, thanked Bridgette for her hospitality and left, flinching as the dogs barked at him in his retreat.

Rushing to get in his car before they could see his face, Logan started the car, carefully backing out and driving home in the waning light. When he had gotten a few blocks away, he pulled over, leaned over the steering wheel and sobbed.

#It Could Always Be Worse #ts logan #Logan Sanders #butterfly story of Happily Ever After #what happened when Janus and Remus met at Jack's party and Janus never walked home alone #sanders sides fanfiction #sanders sides fic

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tombofmemories · 2 years ago

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I was tagged by @silent-cha0s to post 9 songs I have had on repeat this past month. Thanks hun 🫶🏼

Tagging (Only if you want): @tequila-daisies @queen-jester-quinn @doe-eyed-des @thelittlest-lynx @epinephrineplz @another-brick-inthewall @new-beginnings-playbook @the-bearded-bisexual

#Spotify #Music #Tag Game #Mutuals

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veselinasboekenkast · 2 years ago

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TOP 3 Favoriete boeken

Mijn beste lezers,

Ik dacht om van mijn favoriete boeken een TOP3 te maken zodat jullie een beter zicht over mijn boek portfolio hebben.

Ik vind veel boeken leuk, maar dit zijn er 3 die echt bij mij zijn gebleven en die ik aan iedereen aanraadt om te lezen.

The book thief/ De boekendief - Markus Zusak.

Uitgeverij : the Penguin

Eerste publicatie: 2007

Seizoen om dit boek te lezen : winter

Dit boek speelt zich af tijdens de tweede wereldoorlog in Duitsland. Het boek is geschreven in de derde persoon en de hoofdrolspeler is Liesel. Een duits meisje dat haar familie op een jonge leeftijd verloor en zo bij een pleeggezin terecht is gekomen. Ze houdt van boeken, maar jammer genoeg kan ze niet lezen. Tijdens de oorlog zat ze veilig bij haar pleeggezin, maar ze maakt er natuurlijk veel dingen mee.

Ik vind dat dit boek zeer mooi geschreven is, in het boek zelf vind je kleine poëtische fragmenten dat meer context geven aan de situatie en de gevoelens van de personages.

Ik vind ook dat de personages zeer mooi zijn omschreven. Ze bevatten veel detail en hebben elk een heel ander carater. Dat zorgt ervoor dat het boek nog veel beter is.

Daarnaast vind ik dat de cover van het boek echt heel creatief ontworpen is ( als je het boek volledig leest zal je misschien de cover beter begrijpen) :

Malibu rising - Taylor Jenkins Reid

Uitgeverij: Ballantine Books

Eerste publicatie: 2021

Seizoen om dit te lezen: zomer

Taylor Jenkins Reid is een best bekende schrijver onder de jeugd. Één van haar bekendste boeken is “the seven husbands of Evelyn Hugo”, maar dit boek is ook best bekend. Ik vind dit zeker een must read voor in de zomer.

Dit boek speelt zich af in Malibu, in California een staat dat in west-Amerika ligt, waar de familie van een arm meisje een restaurant bezit. June heeft veel dromen, maar meest waarschijnlijk kan ze die niet uitbrengen omdat ze het restaurant van haar familie verder moet blijven draaien. Tot op een dag dat ze een bepaalde jongen ontmoet die Mick heet. Die heeft ook grote dromen om artist te worden...

Een hoofdstuk later kom je al meer te weten hoe hun verhaal verloopt tijdens al die jaren. In dit boek worden er twee tijden op dezelfde tijd verteld.

Ik vind dit boek leuk omdat de spanning door heel het verhaal al maar groter en groter wordt. Volgens mij heeft het verhaal een zeer goede plot op het einde.

Ten tweede vond ik het levensverhaal van June zeer interessant, daarmee bedoel ik de evenementen die zij moest meemaken op zo'n jonge leeftijd.

Dit boek bevat daarnaast ook een vervolging van een van de personages die je in dit boek leert kennen (naam van nieuw boek : Carrie Soto is Back). Het boek is pas onlangs uitgekomen.

1984 - George Orwell

Uitgeverij: Secker & Warburg

Eerste publicatie: 1949

Seizoen om dit te lezen: herfst/winter

Dit boek is zeer verschillende in vergeleken met mijn twee andere keuzes.

Het boek is fictief maar is gebaseerd op feiten van regimes die je vandaag de dag nog kan vinden. Het gaat hier over een regime dat de mensen de hele tijd controleren. De personages in dit boek hebben geen recht om gevoelens te bevatten, ze mogen niet slecht denken over de Big Brother (hoe het regime wordt genoemd) en mogen zeker en vast vrouw of kinderen hebben. Als je één van deze regels overtreedt en ze betrappen je dan wordt je door de overheid opgesloten en gebrainwashed.

Ik ben dit boek beginnen lezen omdat het al heel lang op mijn lijstje zat, maar dacht dat het niet voor mijn leeftijd was. In het begin vond ik het moeilijk om de context te begrijpen, maar eenmaal ik het begreep las ik de rest van het boek uit in minder dan 3 dagen.

Ik vond het boek in het algemeen al zeer interessant. Maar wat het voor mij meer boeiender maakte, is dat dit boek juist na de tweede wereld oorlog is geschreven. Dat George Orwell al dit dacht over onze toekomstige maatschappij is wel frappant.

Daarnaast vond ik het verhaal zelf heel mooi en leuk geschreven. Ik zat zo diep in het verhaal van het boek dat ik het niet kon neerzetten.

#1984 george orwell #malibu rising #the book thief

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evmke · 1 month ago

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The MIND of the artist

( Les 23-09-24, zelf afwezig maar wel de pp doorgenomen)

Vanuit de Formatief - 100 woorden opdracht heb ik geen voorwerp meegenomen, in plaats daarvan maakte ik een audio waarbij het bewustmaken van tastzin centraal stond - audio tastzin zichtbaar maken -.

Daarna heb ik onderzoek gedaan naar de volgende aangeboden bron;

Werk van Ana Mendiete

Aantekeningen:

1948 New York > Cuba ( gestorven in 1985)

Werk = autobiografisch en thematisch; feminisme, geweld, leven/dood

Spiriuele band met de aarde ; water / aarde / vuur / lucht

Zet haar lichaam in in haar kunst > Performance art?

History, herinnering, cultuur, ritueel

Tree of life

Sporen maken / achterlaten - letterlij > zie silueta serie

Aangeboden bronnen:

https://www.artsy.net/article/artsy-editorial-children-helped-ana-mendieta-radical-art

https://www.latinxproject.nyu.edu/intervenxions/love-letter-to-ana-mendieta

Overige Bronnen:

https://www.kunstbus.nl/kunst/Ana+Mendieta.html https://www.anamendietaartist.com/video

CRITICAL TACTICS IN PARTICIPATORY ART

Aantekeningen:

Participatieve kunst

'In zijn The Practice of Everyday Life (uitgegeven in 1984 in het Engels) maakt historicus Michel de Certeau een duidelijk onderscheid tussen twee concepten die op een bepaalde manier onze alledaagse samenleving reguleren: strategieën en tactieken. In heel eenvoudige woorden kunnen we zeggen dat 'strategieën' vallen onder het domein van wat 'gepast', institutioneel of volgens de regels is.'

Kritische tactiek = toegankelijkheid

Participatieve kunst komt tot leven door de ontmoeting tussen het bekende en onbekende.

2. Kritische tactiek = eigenaarschap / Agency

In zowel proces, als resultaat, als evaluatie

3. Kritische tactiek = articulatie ‘ Spreken voor een ander’ Dat je in een spreker rol valt als facilitator

Conclusie =

' Het creëren van een toegankelijke ruimte en jezelf toegankelijk maken voor anderen is de sleutel tot het initiëren van het werk. De ruimte aan de deelnemers overlaten om hun agentschap en hun eigenaarschap van het proces terug te claimen, is hoe je streeft naar een gelijke, collaboratieve ruimte. En om een community te creëren, is het van het grootste belang om niet in de valkuil van representatie te trappen; open in plaats daarvan een collectieve praktijk van co-creatie die iedereen in staat stelt om met zijn eigen stem te spreken.'

Bron: https://apria.artez.nl/critical-tactics-in-participatory-art

Verbindingen tussen deze artikelen voor mij:

De 'sporen' die ze achterlaten bij de/een ander

Dat het gaat over ontmoeting. Dit kan met mensen zijn, maar ook met de natuur of ruimtes.

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dankusner · 3 months ago

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In Tokyo’s Shibuya district, fashion label Diesel hosts an exhibition celebrating queer artist Tom of Finland

‘Expression, sexuality and individualism’: Diesel exhibition is a trip into the homoerotic world of Tom of Finland

Tom of Finland’s libidinally charged illustrations of muscled-up men in various states of embrace – and often clad in skin-tight leather or denim – have seen the Finnish artist (born Touko Laaksonen), become one of queer art’s most distinctive voices.

First appearing in publications like Bob Mizer’s Physique Pictorial in the 1950s, his stylised drawings would – as his eponymous Los Angeles-based foundation describes – ‘fuel both the sexual fantasies and the aesthetics of gay men'.

Glenn Martens, the Belgian creative director of Italian fashion label Diesel, has forged a deep-rooted relationship with the Tom of Finland Foundation and its president Durk Dehner, a friend and lover of Laaksonen, who set up the foundation with him in 1984 (the artist would die in 1991, with Dehner becoming the guardian of his legacy). ‘[His work] seemed to affect me in a way that art never had before, an emotional way,’ Dehner told Wallpaper* on the occasion of Diesel’s ‘AllTogether’ exhibition in Venice in 2022, which combined Tom of Finland’s illustrations with the work of other erotic artists. ‘There was something in it that made it feel like he had done these pictures for us, for gay boys. That was important in a world where nothing felt like it was made for you,’ he said.

Now, a new exhibition of Tom of Finland’s work is being hosted in the Diesel Art Gallery in Tokyo, part of the brand’s vast flagship store in the buzzing Shibuya district.

Titled ‘Forty Years of Pride’, the display marks a rare opportunity to see Tom of Finland exhibited in Japan and features the artist’s works both in colour and black and white, some of which are for sale.

The former includes the bright red of a Santa costume (worn by a typically gleaming Adonis with just a Christmas stocking for modesty); the latter, men in wipe-clean black leather boots and chaps.

Diesel says the exhibition ‘amplifies the message of freedom of expression, sexuality and individualism’ at the heart of Tom of Finland’s oeuvre.

Alongside the show, there is a VR experience that allows viewers to be transported to Tom House, the artist’s former Los Angeles residence which now serves as a community hub and gallery space, alongside hosting artists in residence who explore erotic themes in their practices.

'Present-day artists are inspired by the generation before, they feed off each other,’ Dehner previously told Wallpaper*.

‘At the foundation, we promote the present and future, and protect the past.

That’s really what creates community and family, because family isn’t just who’s alive today – it’s where you come from, all the people came before.’

The exhibition offers a final opportunity to shop Martens’ Pride collection for Diesel, which is the third to be made in collaboration with the Tom of Finland Foundation.

The collection also celebrates artists Stuart Sandford, Suzanne Shifflett, Tank, the Hun, Valentine and Henning von Berg, who are each linked to the Foundation.

The boldly illustrated pieces, some in playful trompe o’eil, span T-shirts, sweaters and the requisite jockstrap. The collection’s launch last month coincided with the Tom of Finland Art & Culture Festival, held this year in Berlin’s Berghain nightclub, supported by Diesel.

The VR experience which transports viewers to Tom House in Los Angeles

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bartwatching · 3 months ago

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Gestart met “Julia” geschreven door Sandra Newman. Een krachtige, feministische hervertelling van 1984 van George Orwell. Ben dan ook heel benieuwd naar de “andere” kant van 1984.

Het is 1984. Julia Worthing is een monteur die werkt op het ministerie van Waarheid in Londen, de belangrijkste stad van Oceanië. Daar heerst de Partij en hun leider Grote Broer. Julia overtreedt veelvuldigde regels, maar werkt ook samen met het regime wanneer dat haar goed uitkomt. Iedereen mag haar graag. Ze is lid van het Antiseks Jeugdverbond (hoewel ze in het geheim seksueel actief is) en weet hoe ze moet overleven in een wereld van constante surveillance. Sterker nog, ze is gemáákt om te overleven. Maar dan raakt ze geïntrigeerd door een collega, Winston Smith. In een opwelling overhandigt ze hem een briefje en vanaf dat moment is ze de grip op haar omgeving voorgoed verloren.

Julia gaat verder dan het beroemde verhaal over Winston Smith, en laat zien hoe het voor vrouwen is om te overleven in de wereld van Grote Broer. Het is een provocerende, levendige en uiterst spannende roman, die 1984 vanuit een nieuw perspectief laat lezen.

#george orwell #1984 #leestip #julia #sandra newman

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bisexual-baybie · 4 months ago

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I was born in the wrong year, like 20 years late, I want to be born in 1984 so I can be 39 and call strangers hun or something as a term of endearment, everyone I work with does it and I wanna be old enough to do it too. I think it would be weird to say it as a 19yo, well I say that but I’m always telling my female coworkers I love them bc they deserve to hear it, my male coworkers however can fuck off lol

#my post

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nils-elmark · 5 months ago

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Drømmene findes oppe mod vinden

Jeg har læst et sted, at grønlandske slædehunde altid flytter sig derhen, hvor de kan mærke, at de trækker i seletøjet; de vælger aldrig en placering i flokken, hvor de kan drive den af og lade de andre gøre arbejdet. De søger aldrig den lette udvej!

Det samme slog mig, mens jeg læste “Gegen den Wind”, hvor den den tyske sejler Sanni Beucke skriver om sine drømme om at blive off shore sejler. I modsætning til vor egen sejlerlegende Poul Elvstrøm, der vandt guld ved ikke færre end 4 Olympiske Lege fra 1948 til 1960 og deltog i hele 8 olympiader frem til 1984, så kiksede det for Beucke og hendes makker at kvalificere sig til OL i både London og Rio. Og da de endelig kvalificerede sig til OL i Tokyo i 2020, som blev udskudt til året efter, var det midt i Corona nedlukningen og på grund af smittefare tvang deres sejlforbund dem til at se indmarchen på stadion på TV i et lille usselt værelse i OL-byen. De to piger i deres 49er FX kæmpede indædt mod alle odds og kunne drage hjem til Kiel med med mundbind og en OL-medalje om halsen . Ikke af guld som Elvstrøms, men af sølv.

Og de var himmelsk lykkelige for deres medalje.

Se, her begynder jeg at synes, bogen bliver interessant. Sanni har kæmpet i 15 år for at nå så vidt, men trods sin OL-succés er hun var ved at brænde ud og afviser en invitation til møde den tyske forbundspræsident. Hun kan ikke overskue det, men gearer alligevel ikke ned. Hun flytter tværtimod sin kærlighed til off shore sejlads, hvor trækket i seletøjet er størst. Hun ved intet om sejlads på de store have og forskellen mellem det og OL-kapsejlads enorm.

Hun skaffer sig med møje og besvær tre måneders ophold på den berømte off-shore sejlerskole i Lorient, hvor de sejler i Figaro-klassen. Det er 10 meter lange racerbåde for solosejlere, der i al slags vejr konkurrerer i Biscayen, ofte dage af gangen. Det bliver en hård oplevelse for Sanni Beucke. Læringskurven er stejl og ingen gider rigtigt snakke med den sociale OL-sejler; alt er nyt og konkurrencerne er benhårde, som i “Frømands- og Jægerkorps hårde”. Deltagerne sejler solo i orkanstyrke, ofte med blot et par timers søvn i døgnet.

Opholdet i Lorient slutter af med regattaen “La Solitaire du Figaro", der er en 2.000 sømil solo sejlads under ekstreme forhold i det nordlige Atlanterhav. Sanni Beucke træffe forkerte beslutninger undervejs – er uheldig – og kommer i mål som nummer 27. Hun er skuffet, men også stolt, for hun er kommet i mål. La Solitaire var for hende mere end noget andet en konkurrence mod sig selv.

Men Sanni vil videre ud på verdenshavene. Det lykkedes hende at få en plads på en båd i Ocean Race – vildere bliver det ikke. Dette er en jordomsejling i super avancerede racerbåde. Sanni skal sejle med fra Kap Verde til Kapstaden i Sydafrica i begyndelsen af 2023. Hun er velforberedt og tændt som en raket, men skipperen orienterer hende ikke om hendes pligter ombord, gider dårligt tale med hende, meget af kommunikationen sker på fransk, som hun ikke behersker ordentligt.

Sejladsen er ekstremt stressende, båden er som en bageovn midt på Ækvator, toiletforholdene klares i en spand uden privatliv, så det er en slidt Sanni Beucke, der går i land i Kapstaden, hvor chefen uden at se hende i øjnene henkastet fortæller, at hun er sat af holdet. Som læser begynder man at spekulere på, hvad endeløse dage på havet mon gør ved menneskers sociale kompetencer?

Alle andre end Sanni Beucke ville her have givet op: hvad har jeg at gøre i denne kompetitive off shore verden? Men sådan er slædehunden Sanni ikke. Efter at have sundet sig begynder hun at overveje, hvordan hun kan stable sig eget team på benene. Hendes ultimative mål er Vendé Globe - jorden rundt - men mellemstationen er La Solitaire de Figaro.

Hun samler et team – begynder at finde sponsorer – og i august 2023 er hun klar til sin anden Solitaire. Hun er mere velforberedt end nogen af de andre deltagere, hun kender vilkårene men bliver alligevel slået ud af kurs af tekniske vanskeligheder inden start. At klare sig godt i off shore sejlads er ikke kun godt sømandsskab, det hænger også sammen med moderne teknologi . Off shore både kan idag ikke vinde uden autopilot, satellit navigation og moderne computerteknologi.

Sanni havner i vanvittige strabadser; en enkelt forkert beslutning og hun hænger i tågen uden vind en hel dag. Hun må til sidst bryde den forseglede motor for ikke at blive sejler ned af et stor handelsskib. I modsætning til sine konkurrenter undlader hun at sejle ind i en fiskers travl og da Sanni endelig kommer i mål, har hun overskredet tidsgrænsen med ganske få minutter og hun slutter som nummer 27.

Hvordan tror læseren selv, at Sanni Beucke har det? Men igen, efter at have rystet skuffelsen af sig, er hun klar til at kaste sig ud i næste udfordring. Bogen hedder “Gegen den Wind” altså op mod vinden, for Sanni Beucke’s bog handler ikke om, hvordan hun vinder, som et bjergskred af andre uinteressante sportsbøger gør. Den handler om, hvordan hun og alle vi andre kan blive ved med at udvikle os, selvom vi ikke bliver nummer 1.

Man må endelig ikke bedømme Sanni Beucke sejler-egenskaber på hendes placeringer i La Solitaire du Figaro. Hun kunne være blevet ved sin 49 FX – i den kunne hun have sejlet i cirkler rundt om alle de arrogante off-shorte sejlere, som ikke gider tale med hende eller vise hende respekt. Men hun har modet til at bevæge sig ind på deres bane, hvor hun kan vokse som sejler og menneske. Naturligvis er hun et konkurrencemenneske, mere end de fleste af os nogensinde bliver - men jeg tror ikke, at hendes virkelige gnist, er at slå de andre; det er at flytte sine egne grænser og etablere sig i et nyt univers. Det betaler hun en høj pris for.

Jeg er inspireret af Sanni Beucke; nogle af de sejlere, som slog hende på havet, blev bagefter diskvalificeret for snyd eller vandt på grund af hensynsløshed. Sanni ville vinde på egne betingelser.

Mange sponsorer støtter sportsfolk, fordi de giver dem omtale, men Beucke kan meget mere. Hun kan lære virksomheder, hvordan de kommer igennem kriser og vokser med værdierne i behold. Hun bliver ikke for alvor krænket over, at skipperen taler fransk med besætningen, selvom han i sin arrogance ved, at hun ikke forstår sproget. Hun beslutter sig for lære at tale bedre fransk, så off shore eliten, der er fransk, ikke fremover kan lukke hende ude.

Der er en årsag til, at jeg er blevet grebet af Sanni Beucke’s bog. Da hun i 2021 sejlede en OL-medalje hjem i Tokyo, fik jeg mit duelighedsbevis på Svendborg Sejlerskole og få dage efter, at hun i 2023 besøgte Ocean Race cirkusset i Århus for at undersøge, hvordan hun kunne etablere sit eget offshore team, sejlede jeg alene i min nye Polaris Drabant hjem fra Århus. Al den usikkerhed hun beskriver på eliteplan, kender jeg på begynderplan. Det er slemt for Ocean Race deltagere at miste strøm til autopiloten på Atlanten, men jeg ved, hvordan det føles, når det samme sker for en ny sejler i kraftig blæst ud for Sejrø.

Ich bin bei dir, Sanni, den ganzen Weg gegen den Wind.

#SusannBeucke #thisraceisfemale #nils elmark #sailing

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