#i think this might actually have been part of my bigger shadow children project? but whatever you get a snippet <3< /div> Explore tagged Tumblr posts

[shadowsofhaddix]

Finished up some angsty Jen art that has been sitting as a sketch in my Shadow Children art folder for like two years </3

[ohmypreciousgirl]

Xicheng AU Rec List

This time I compiled my favorite AU fics for @waterandsilver! Hope everyone will enjoy this list too ♥

Just Two Lost Souls 46,978

Even if it is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife, husband, or companion, all Jiang Cheng really wants is to run his company, take care of his pets, and maybe get some sleep. Unfortunately the new job promotion to CEO comes with a loaded social calendar and a need for some sort of companion.

So clearly the most sensible answer is to start dating the man he's had a crush on since he was a teenager.

Because nothing could go wrong there. Sequels: Hold Me Like You Want Me; I Am Yours, If You Are Mine; Jiang Cheng and the Lans; You Get a Torch and a Flame and Burn The Path You Want.

i don't really care how much silence kills me 15,611 [Part 1 of all the lights couldn't put out the dark] It’s been around 2 years since Jiang Cheng has last seen to his brother, and a little over a year since the last time he spoke to him, when they locked eyes at Nie Huaisang’s art exhibition. Jiang Cheng had only come because Huaisang had explicitly promised him he wouldn’t be here. He knows Wuxian and Wangji have just moved back into the area after traveling, and he has every intention of avoiding them at all costs, just like he avoids his college-era crush Lan Xichen. 

But it would seem that the universe has other ideas.

charcoal on newsprint 2,151 [Part 1 of fine art] Xichen distantly realizes that there is no way Huaisang had actually told Jiang Cheng that this is a nude modeling session. He can already hear Jiang Cheng’s clear baritone, dripping with sarcasm, telling the entire dinner table “So, Zewu Jun wanted me naked in front of all his students.” at the next Lan-Jiang family dinner.Uncle is going to have his head. 

Madam Yu is going to skewer him alive before that. Or, Jiang Cheng models for life drawing in his spare time.

Family 2,514 [Part 1 of The Lan-Jiang Family] Jiang Cheng stops dead in the doorway as he takes in the horrendous state the apartment is in; toys and clothes everywhere, new furniture, child-furniture, all over the place, and no matter where Jiang Cheng’s gaze drops, it’s been taking over by stuff that belongs to a child.

A child that is still screaming, almost drowning out Lan Xichen’s attempts to calm it down.

“What the actual fuck is happening here?” Jiang Cheng blurts out and while it does nothing to stop the child from screaming, Lan Xichen freezes.

Worthy of a god 1,859 [Part 1 of The most faithful] Jiang Cheng knows that there is a chance Chifeng-zun will choose him; he is the god of war and rage and ever since Jiang Cheng was old enough to scowl there had been talk at Lotus Pier, how well he would fit with that.

But Jiang Cheng also knows that there is a bigger chance of no god choosing him at all.

Not just a vacation [Part 1 of The best catch] The next night Lan Xichen goes back to the beach. He keeps out of sight at first, hoping to catch the man unawares first, his mind still reeling from the research he did during the day.

It’s probably not what Lan Qiren and Lan Wangji wanted for him when they sent him on this vacation, but Lan Xichen needs to know what’s going on here. The only thing his research turned up were tales of mermaid and Lan Xichen is not ready to believe that.

Until he catches sight of a rather huge tail, flapping out of the water.

What Happens in Vegas Comes Home to Taiwan 3,120 [Part 1 of What Happens in Vegas] What do you do when your brother is getting married to someone you can’t stand?

The answer probably shouldn’t be to marry his brother, but in Lan Xichen’s defense, he didn’t know Las Vegas would allow drunk people to tie the knot at three o’clock in the damn morning.

A Lionheart 19,916 Wherein Xichen is a Crown Prince and Jiang Cheng is his bodyguard.

Emergency Help Wanted 76,819 EMERGENCY HELP WANTED I lied when I got my job. I told them I had a kid so I could leave early from work to pick him up from daycare, take him to doctor's appointments, and occasionally miss a day when he's sick. Long story short, I'm in too deep. I didn't think it through. Looking to rent a kid for bring your child to work day. Must be a boy ages four to six, longish dark hair, likes soccer. Must also be artistic as the macaroni noodle paintings I made seem a little advanced for his age. Also, I will pay extra for someone willing to play the role of husband when dropping him off. He's a prosecuting attorney who often brings his work home. Message me for further details. Serious inquiries only.

how to not fall in love in a broken elevator 2,741 [Part 1 of a guide to falling in love (for runaways and heirs)] Jiang Cheng and Lan Xichen get stuck in an elevator together.

Stream 4,494 He’s in love with Lan Xichen.

Jiang Cheng blinks once, twice and allows the feeling to fill him completely, at least once, before he ruthlessly squashes it down and locks it into the deepest parts of himself.

By the time Lan Xichen stops laughing and turns his attention back to Jiang Cheng, it’s as if nothing ever happened. Sequel: Umbrella - Savor

Jiang Cheng knows what he’s worth, after all, and it’s definitely not enough for the First Jade of Gusu.

How to get revenge on your brothers: A Guide by Jiang Cheng and Lan Xichen 8,339 “That’s it. That’s the solution.”

Jiang Cheng opened an eye confused. “What do you mean?”

There was a weird light in Lan Xichen’s eyes and for a moment Jiang Cheng thought the other had gone crazy. “We will make them understand what it feels like seeing their brothers being… intimate with each other.”

Talent Hunt Crew Finds Angry Guy Shouting On College Campus, Recruits Him For Vocal Projection Abilities 80,575 Jiang Cheng, resident Angry Guy and heir to a conglomerate empire, has never been the apple of his father’s eye. Quashed under the shadow of his brilliant brother, the music prodigy Wei Wuxian, Jiang Cheng sees his chance to turn things around when he is recruited by the All-Stars Lan Talent Hunt. One problem: he can’t sing to save his goddamn life.

do you eat pringles with or without the shell? 32,291 Wei Wuxian smiles at him, the bastard. “I’m proud of you for figuring this out. That means Xichen-ge is your gay awakening.”

“Don’t put it like that,” Jiang Cheng sighs but he isn’t wrong.

All This Could Be Yours 17,337 After transferring to the main branch of his family’s publishing business and into his newly-acquired responsibilities as its CEO and managing director, Lan Huan finds himself stressed and burnt out. His brother recommends a solution.

Jiang Cheng is too gay to deal with this shit.

how should i know what tomorrow will bring 1,630 “If they can’t accept the fact that Jin Ling will always be there, then they might as well fuck off.” Jiang Cheng points out.

“Well, sure.” Wei Wuxian concedes. “But you don’t even give them time to know if they want to be involved with you before you’re kicking them away. That’s not how first dates are supposed to go.”

“How would you know,” Jiang Cheng grumbles, annoyed that Wei Wuxian is right. This time. “You haven’t been on a date since like, 2002.”

Children's Secrets 5,225 Jiang Cheng and Lan Xichen swap nephews for a weekend. Some revelations are made.

the Magical-Realism of Awkwardness 10,168 Jiang Cheng thinks things can't get worse when he is forced to third wheel Wei Wuxian and Lanzhan's date.

Then Lan Xichen shows up and proves that things damn well can.

(Or, what shapes up to be one of the worst days of Jiang Cheng's life takes an entirely different turn.)

in the incense is tangled a cool moon 3,614 Some loves aren't meant to be, Wanyin knows. 

Pay me in love 2,770 Madame Yu watches Lan Xichen walk away, until he is out of earshot, before she turns towards Jiang Cheng.

“What are you paying him?” she wants to know and Jiang Cheng can do nothing but stare dumbly at her.

“What?” he asks when she doesn’t say anything else.

“Did you really think I would believe you’re dating Lan Xichen, CEO of Lan Enterprises? Nice try, Jiang Cheng. Now tell me what you’re paying him.”

a slight tilt of perception 5,238 It was just a dance. 

Jiang Cheng, trying to avoid the society matrons and their matchmaking-themed whispers, accepted a dance invitation from Lan Xichen, an old friend.

He forgot that his dance partner was probably the most eligible bachelor in the room.

He forgot that was all it could take: a moment, a look, hands intertwined in a dance—and everything could change.

Not at all fake 3,070 “Tomorrow,” Jiang Cheng gives back and then makes a noise as if he’s dying. “Fucking hell, I’m a dead man. If I show up tomorrow without anyone in tow—without someone in tow who can give Lan Wangji a run for his money—then I am dead.”

There’s a beat of silence and then Lan Xichen says “Take me.”

Jiang Cheng blinks a few times, processing the words, but even after a full minute they don’t make any sense.

For better, for worse 6,713 People forget marriage vows are more than pretty words. It's easy to honor them when it comes to good things but they're easily forgotten when it comes to darker times. Lan Huan, however, always keeps them in mind. To love someone like Jiang Cheng, who wears his emotions on his sleeve due his terrible parents, is to remember that love is not simple.

Glow 3,033 [Part 1 of Eldritch!Lans AU] Jiang Cheng carefully turns his head, maybe the absence of his boyfriend is what woke him up, but when he looks at Lan Xichen’s side, he’s met with something so dark it even stands out against the darkness of the night.

There’s a void next to him in bed and Jiang Cheng throws himself out of it, Zidian already crackling and sparking, illuminating the room in a faint purple.

White Lotus in Bloom 7,147 As the Crown Prince from Gusu Lan visiting YunMeng Jiang, Lan Huan was beyond excited to attend the region's famous Lotus Festival, where he meets a boy in purple and black.

Never Had I Ever 56,263 Nie Mingjue is almost certain that Jin Guangyao has an ulterior motive for dating his best friend, Lan Xichen. However despite voicing his concerns, his best friend seems unconvinced and Lan Xichen continues to date the said man. Unable to give up just yet, Nie Mingjue tries a different tactic--convincing his best friend the man is not the right person for him by setting him up. Fortunately for him, Wei Wuxian's youngest brother is very much single and seems to be just the kind of person his best friend needs. Can Jiang Cheng truly change Lan Xichen's mind, or will Nie Mingjue's plan is a disaster from the beginning?

As he struggles to develop his nascent singing abilities, Jiang Cheng finds himself sucked into the whirlwind drama of reality TV, helped along by his adoring siblings, his irritable vocal coach Wen Qing, and strangely enough, the unfairly attractive host of the All-Stars Lan Talent Hunt, Lan Xichen. Somewhere in the glare of the stage lights and an unexpected first love, Jiang Cheng stumbles upon the thing he was searching for all along: the courage to dream — and to attempt the impossible.

Comfort 1,838 Wei Wuxian always pisses him off, this is common between them. Some fights, however, make Jiang Cheng sad enough to lock himself away from people and Lan Xichen has taken on the role of always being there to comfort him.

midnight comforts 1,946 At 11:36 his phone buzzed next to his ear. Lan Huan had a strict sleeping routine, but even so he was a fairly light sleeper. He answered the call—no one he knew would call him this late without reason—and murmured a groggy greeting.

“Lan Huan?”

He sat up, already rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

“A-Cheng?”

“I know it’s late,” he started, voice sounding odd through the phone, “but you,” he stopped again with a gasp. Now that he was more alert, Lan Huan realized with mounting horror that the hitch in his breath, the odd thickness, was from crying. “You said I could come over whenever,” he finished, voice much shakier.

To The Beat 1,859 [Part 1 of Fever]

"The bathroom is over there you fuc--"

His words caught in his throat as he saw the person on the other side. He looked a lot like Wei Ying's boyfriend, but he was smiling and his eyes were somehow kind; comparatively, the most expression he'd ever seen on Lan Zhan's face was mild disdain.

Jiang Cheng must have been staring dumbly for a while because the man cleared his throat. There was a blush rising on his cheeks, and oh fuck, that was kind of cute.

"I apologize for interrupting your night. I was told that this room was where the people who were 'no fun' were supposed to go," the man said. His voice was deep and somehow just as smooth as his skin, which was flawless.

It Took Me So Long To Find You 6,349 [Soulmate AU]

But it didn’t take him too long to realize that he was simply not worthy of the other.

So he hoped at least that they could become friends.

Lotus Pier burned down before Jiang Cheng could think of telling Lan XiChen. And after the Sunshot Campaign, he understood, being Lan XiChen’s soulmate would not just be a burden to the other, it would be a curse.

paint my skies with your skin 15,473 [Soulmate AU] “There’s no point in this, is there?” Jiang Cheng scoffs, “We both know I am not who you want your soulmate to be.”

“Soulmate or not, you have my heart and my ribbon. Only if you want it, Wanyin.”

once upon a dream 18,438 [Part 1 of once upon a dream] An au where your dreams are small snippets of your soulmate’s day. They’d show small things like buying coffee, reading a book, or hanging out with people from their perspective.

The problem was that people always have expectations and Jiang Cheng knows he always falls short of them. Time and time again.

[msotherworldly]

The Black Rain: Chapter One

In my previous posts, I mentioned my series in progress, The Children of Pandora, and how it was technically a multi-protagonist project. While Eradica is the main protagonist of the books, Insula and Rowan also have their own occasional books. The chapter below is the first in Rowan’s story - like The Blue Door, it’s still in need of editing. 

If this whole multi-protagonist business sounds confusing, check out my earlier posts. You’ll be introduced to the characters, their stories, and my comparison to Narnia on how this functions.

CHAPTER ONE: THE POSTCARD

The afternoons when I could be alone were the best, because they were also a relief. Outside, clambering over the rusty playground and dodging around the scattered beer cans, the children played. The place, with a few stunted shrubs for it’s fence, was filled with litter: there was a discarded tire, a few cardboard boxes, and some dirty clothes. The children used them as their toys, but I had my own toys to play with.

    From the window, I could see the mountains. They partially blocked a watery sun, which already fought a swath of cloud. I didn’t know that day would seem bright, when compared with the ones to come. I didn’t know a lot of things, such as what Dad looked like.

    I only knew his handwriting. I turned the postcard over. The writing was spidery and small, but I had looked it over at least once a day for the past three years. I flipped it over to the picture on the front: palm trees swayed in the wind, casting long blue shadows over the fancy cars and the newly paved roads. There were green hills, and a beach side resort with shirtless old men and grinning, skinny twenty year olds, most of them blonde. I had bought into a myth of my own making: if you stayed in the sun long enough, it turned blonde...but you had to live where it was hottest.

    At eight, that myth seemed flimsy. I curled a strand of brown hair around my finger, which was also brown, but sort of gold.

    The Palm Tree Place, where Dad lived, was like something from a dream. It was funny how it made me deeply happy and deeply sad at the same time.

    “What are you doing up here?” a voice hissed. Ms. Brocklehurst ambled into the room. A Seagull Anthromorph, she was a confusion of frayed feathers and pinstripe clothes. Her skirt was bunched around her knees, and her jacket was too loose on her thin frame. Glasses slid down her sharp, dirty beak.

    “I was just-”

    “If you don’t get down, I’ll switch you good.” Ms. Brocklehurst’s beady eyes narrowed. “Actually, I think I will anyways. You’ve already disobeyed me, haven’t you?”

    “Please, I was only-”

    “Bend over.” Ms. Brocklehurst took a cane down from the wall. “Now.”

    A lump formed in my throat. Hot tears spewed from my eyes. Mom always said I was a baby. What was the word she used? Ingrate? That’s what I am.

    The pain thudded over my back, and I screamed. That was bad, but I couldn’t help it: it whistled through the air. It hit harder. It bit. I screamed louder. My eyes were glued to the floor. A piece of it peeled away.

    Whoosh, whap, whoosh, whap. The sounds were so gentle, but they felt so hard. I tried not to count the hits. That always made me hope, and that made it worse somehow.

    The next hit didn’t come. I remained bent over. Snot streamed from my nose. The floor was a blurry mess, like a painting.

    I heard the cane being hung up. That was such a happy sound. I heard a stomp of taloned feet, squeezed between black shoes.

    “Down, or I’ll give you another set.”

    My back burned as I straightened myself. My whole body ached; my legs stung, and it was hard to move. I was stiff.

    I shuffled past worn beds with identical gray coverlets. The walls were gray; everything was. It matched the cobwebs that hung in the corners. It matched the rickety stairs that had been brown, but were now rotting and bleached from too many days of sun exposure.

    I stopped at the foot of the playground. I realized I was still holding the postcard. I shoved it into my pocket. I wore a pair of jeans that were always sliding down. My pink hoodie was baggier, or I was just too skinny.

    I saw Emma Ruth skipping along a hopscotch she had made from snapped twigs. I wandered over to her, smiling.

    “Hi, Emma.”

    “Hi, freak.”

    “Can I play?”

    “Sure. Just don’t touch me. I don’t want to catch your freak bug.”

    I hopped along behind her. I felt oddly cheerful. It was one day at a time, right? Also, nobody was hitting me. That was always a plus.

    “Do you ever think about your parents?”

    “Don’t talk to me.”

    “Maybe they’ll come back for you. Or maybe a rich man will come here and adopt us all. And he’ll check back in to get any new children that come in. And then Brocklehurst will sell the place to him. He’d be a billionaire, and he would make his money selling children’s clothes. But he’d buy all our clothes for free!”

    “You’re really stupid, aren’t you?” Emma hopped along behind me. We went in a circle. “That stuff only happens in storybooks.”

    “My dad wrote to me right before I came here. It was his only letter, but he told me how palm trees grew. He talked about coconut milk and-”

    Emma shoved me to the ground. My head hit the edge of the playground box, and pinpricks of light, golden and white, flashed across my eyes.

    Emma looked big, though she was only a tiny girl in a dress, red and white and checkered like a picnic blanket. She crossed her arms, her blue eyes growing small. “Just leave me alone, freak.”

    A mean picture came into my mind: Emma’s dress on fire, her face as she screamed. I brushed the picture away. How could I have a thought like that? How awful! It wasn’t Emma’s fault I was weird. What if I could give it to her? I guess I’d be afraid too. I didn’t want to hurt Emma. The meanness was gone, leaving behind cold.

    And she’s sad too. We all are. We’re in the same boat.

    A bell rang. Children rushed past me. I stood up. My butt was damp. I realized the grass was wet, glinting in the gray-gold light. It must have rained. I wiped my hands on my jeans; the palms were stained green.

    I was sure I would have hated school, even if it was a nice one. Math just didn’t make sense, though the other children seemed to get it, and science was sort of creepy. I only really liked art and language.

    Ms. Brocklehurst passed out our papers. We had been tasked with essays. As usual, mine was covered in red circles, red underlines, and red comments. These said things like, “Do you hate commas, or are you just dumb?” There was also, “My brother could write better than you, and he’s illiterate.”

    The comments might have bothered me, but Emma Ruth’s paper looked like it was dripping with blood. I know it’s mean, but it’s kind of awesome, too.

    We were asked to write short stories. This was the part I liked. I flew into another tale about a lost prince and the king who had sent him away because dragons were looking for him. He lived alone in a cottage, but he could see the castle from his window, surrounded by palm trees. The king drank coconuts for breakfast, ate pineapple for lunch, and dined on mangoes and watermelon in the evening.

    Emma snickered. “You’re writing that story again?”

    “I like it.”

    “You don’t have much of an imagination, do you?”

    I blushed. “It makes me happy. I wasn’t going to publish it or anything.”

    “I hope not. Otherwise people will be vomiting everywhere because it’s so bad.”

    “You’re just unhappy because your stories get picked on too.”

    “Excuse me? You don’t know anything, freak.”

    My face was on fire, and shame coated my stomach. “I didn’t mean...but I understand, Emma. I like your stories. I’m glad they have happy endings.”

    “You’re mocking me.”

    “No! My favourite was the one with the golden haired Elf. I’d run away with him in a heartbeat, though I probably would make us move somewhere warmer than in the story.”

    Emma stood up. Her chair scraped over the floor. She raised her fists. “Keep talking.”

    “Okay.” I didn’t understand sarcasm. “Um, I liked the one with the blue Dragon, too, and how it had green polka dots. I probably wouldn’t date him, but he was really cool.”

    Emma’s fist connected with my lip. It felt dull, the pain spreading in a blanket through my whole jaw. I fell to the floor. The chair caught my elbow, and I yelped. I could still hear the wet thud in my head; the moment replayed itself through my spinning head. I pressed my cheek to the floor. It was cold, and felt good on my hot skin.

    “What in the name of Genitrix-”

    “She made fun of me!” As I rolled onto my back, Emma pointed to me. “She made fun of my story!”

    Ms. Brocklehurst glared at me. She slapped a long ruler in her hand, before trotting forward. She stood over me. “Up! What are you, a dog?”

    I scrabbled to my feet. I sank into my chair. I wanted to cry that it wasn’t fair, but what good did that do? I pressed my lips together, keeping the tears in.

    “Put your hands out.”

    She’s just doing her job. I spread my fingers out over the desk. Below them lied my sketch of the prince. He had brownish gold skin, brown hair, and eyes that were so dark they were almost black. His lips were full, his nose wide and hooked. He looked just like me, except that his hair was cut short, almost a buzz.

    Mine hung down my back in a lank ponytail. The prince also has a shower everyday. He bathes on the beach, and waits for the king to collect him.

    The ruler came down with a slam. It was louder than the cane, but less painful. Even as I teared up, I couldn’t help thinking how funny that was. My fingers wrinkled back, bending at the knuckles. She hit me three times. That was easy to count.

    Addition is the only math I like. I felt dazed. My stomach growled. Was it the hunger or the pain? But subtraction sucks. I only like the math where numbers get bigger.

    Ms. Brocklehurst stocked to the front. I resumed my story, like nothing had happened. Because nothing did. She’s doing her job. She thought I was being mean, and that’s okay. So she was wrong. So what? If I had been mean, I would have deserved it. I glanced at Emma. She’s just scared, is all.

    A second voice, the one I thought of as The Meanie, answered me. Keep telling yourself that if it makes you feel better.

    I will. There’s no need to be gloomy all the time, or nasty. Gloom settled in the pit of my stomach. Despair clutched my heart like a hand. My chest sank on the inside. My eyes stung.

    “Not fair,” I whispered. I glanced at Emma again. “I’m sorry.”

    “Huh?”

    “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to be mean.”

    Emma furrowed her brow. She returned to her writing, shaking her head. All around me, pencils scratched. I wanted to read all the stories. Weren’t they all good in their own way?

    A delightful idea came to me. I had to struggle through math first, and the equations made me weep—literally. I was dreading algebra when I got older. That was when math stopped making sense for everybody.

    When class was over, I rushed to enact my plan. It was like clockwork: the kids tossed their last stories into the recycling bin. They dumped out their books.

    I knelt by the blue plastic container as they filed out. When the last kid, a Dog with Rottweiler markings named Jimmy, trotted out, I shoved my arms, elbow deep, into the paper. I plucked tales and drawings from the mix. I ordered them carefully, clicking them against the floor to make them straight.

    When I had collected them all, I had a fat, albeit unbound, book in my arms. I scurried up the stairs, ecstatic over my treasure. I didn’t have any books to read, but now I could read everyone’s stories.

    I flipped through the papers, knees pulled to my chest. I sat on my bed. I felt like a jeweler, surrounded by gleaming rubies and emeralds.

    I found Emma’s story, and put it at the front. The heroine (who always looked like Emma, with blue eyes and blonde curls) was falling in love with a Bear this time. She took half a page to describe his bulging muscles and glossy fur.

    She’s going to be a great romance writer someday! The story made me happy and warm all over. I decided it was my new favourite.

    I put my story at the back. It wasn’t that good, and I knew how it went. When I had read through all the stories, including mine, I pulled out the postcard again. Even though I loved Emma’s tales, this would always be my favourite thing to read.

    I closed my eyes, smiling. I sank into sleep. In my dreams, I saw the palm trees, and a sign with the postcard’s address: Similo, Sapphire Crest, Calidi, Queen Street, 4321.

[miss-eucatastrophe]

Main Pairing: Levi x Erwin x Mike x Thick!Reader/PlusSize!Reader

Summary: When you purchased your first home you’d anticipated it being a turning point in your life. You just didn’t anticipate that turn to give you whiplash.

A new home throws you into a new lifestyle you would have never thought you’d find yourself in-- with three men you’d never expected to be with.

Rated: Explicit [18+]

Main Tags: Polyamory/Polyamorous relationship, BDSM, Attack on Titain Modern AU, Slow Burn, Porn with Plot, Thick!reader, PlusSize!Reader, Chubby!Reader

A/N: I was gonna wait, but I guess I have no self control. 

Chapter 2

A groan left your lips. You were so sore. Who knew that gardening could make someone so sore? Your legs and forearms ached from digging, weeding, and kneeling in the dirt. But the payoff had been near instantaneous. Your little front yard garden was so cute. Time would tell if it would thrive. For now, it was just what you wanted. It was welcoming, and warm; evidence that a new person lived in the house.

“Just gotta keep my flower children from dying.” You mumbled out loud against your pillow. It took great effort to turn your head and face the light shining through your blinds. It was early again. It was shocking you hadn’t been sleeping in late given how busy you were. It was safe to assume it was the excited jitters that came with being a new homeowner. Each day brought a new project. You closed your eyes and took a deep breath through your nose, willing yourself to settle your thoughts before they started to list all the things you wanted to do to your house. For now, you settled on nurturing your flower children.

Good ‘ol Google had informed you that you should water your plants every day when you first put them in the ground to get them used to their new home. After that you could settle on a watering routine.

You pushed one foot out of bed, testing the air with your toes like you would a pool, and then groaned, pulling your foot back under the warm safety of the blanket. For a moment you contemplated going back to sleep, but vanquished the idea when the morning sun assaulted your eyes again.

With a determined huff, you threw the covers from your body, taking the plunge into the day. It took you a moment of stretching to drag yourself over to your dresser and throw some clothes on the bed. Something comfortable. You weren’t planning to go out anywhere today, just outside for as long as it took to water your front yard, then you would likely retreat to the comfort of your home. You had a few more boxes to unpack anyway.

After you slipped your clothes on, you made your way down the stairs to your kitchen, petite—but still bigger than your previous. It was the perfect size for a single occupant. In spite of not being hungry in the morning, you forced yourself to make breakfast, hoping the smell of scrambled eggs would coax you into eating by the time it was done. You often skipped out on meals, which was a problem. Perhaps it was one of the reasons for your thickness. Skipping meals could be just as bad as overeating, forcing your body to unhealthily accommodate for the bad habits. It could also be a trigger for overeating later in the day. One of your goals of a new home was to adopt a routine, which included eating regularly.

You spooned your meal onto your plate, adding some toast to it as you made your way to the window of the living room that overlooked your front yard. You yanked open the blinds, eyeing your garden as you lifted toast to your mouth and took a bite. Thankfully, the new plants hadn’t spontaneously combusted in the night. Something you assumed happened if you didn’t have a green thumb.

Noticing movement from the corner of your eye, you turned your head, seeing your neighbor getting into a clean, and rather new looking, truck in an army green color. Mike must have been going to work. You smiled, resisting the urge to wave. He probably wouldn’t have seen you anyway. Moving back to the kitchen table, you sat down to eat your breakfast before placing your dishes in the sink, opting to scrub them later. For now, you’d let them soak. Did they need to soak? No. But letting them soak gave you an excuse to avoid doing them for a few hours until they stared you down later.

Slipping on your shoes, you walked outside and unwrapped the hose from its coil, turning on the spray and providing your plants with much needed sustenance. You started with your potted plants, being reserved with the amount of water you gave your succulents before making your way down the stretch of dirt to the north of your lawn that your new shrubs and flowers called home. You watered your shrubs generously, pausing as you reach your pansies. You glared down at them, some of the flowers had actually had the audacity to wilt slightly. Giving a huff, you changed the function of your hose nozzle, making the flow far gentler as you crouched to examine them more closely.

“If you could not do that, that would be great.” You mumbled at the ungrateful cluster of flowers, eyeing a particularly sad looking petal.

“Flowers being disobedient?” You flinched at the smooth voice and stood right up, turning around quickly. If you hose had been on a higher function you would have sprayed the source. Opting not to take any chances, you quickly moved to stop the flow of water with the switch on the attachment.

You weren’t adequately prepared for what greeted you when you leveled your gaze on the source of the voice. Though after yesterday, maybe you really shouldn’t have been all that surprised. This man was nearly as tall, though not as brawny as your new acquaintance Mike. He had golden hair the color of wheat, and eyes that put oceans to shame under a pair of thick brows. You swallowed, taking note of his jawline and the expanse of his fit torso which was snuggly clad in a white button down. You didn’t realize you could hold contempt for a shirt—but with the sleeves rolled up a pair of strong forearms, it was clear the shirt was hiding impressive goods.

Damn every man in this neighborhood must have been a stud. You weren’t particularly religious, but you felt the urge to praise god for the blessing.

Though he’d probably just strike your down for the unholy thoughts going through your head.  

The clearing of a throat brought your eyes back up to the blond man’s face where a smile sat, not the smirk you’d expected from your obvious ogling. “I’m Erwin Smith. I’m your neighbor.”

“Ah, sorry!” you said quickly, setting the hose down by your tennis shoe clad feet. You wiped your palm as discreetly as you could over your thigh to clear it of moisture from the hose and extended it to him. “Nice to meet you, I’m [y/n].” This hand was soft, but all consuming as Mike’s had been.

Mike.

You suddenly remembered, stopping your handshake abruptly to point to what you assumed was the man’s house. “You’re Mike’s boyfriend?” You probably shouldn’t have blurted that; in case you were wrong. After all, Della had made assumptions about you and Sasha the day you’d moved in. But the stranger, Erwin, only tilted his head and chuckled. “Did he mention me? All good things I hope.” His tone was deceptively casual.

“Uh, no,” you mumbled in embarrassment, clearing your own throat this time as a blush rose to your cheeks. “Della told me there was a couple next door.”

Erwin hummed, a deep and satisfying sound, and nodded his head, though in the next breath he’d seamlessly dodged the question. “Della is such a kind woman. Did she bake for you?”

You smiled brightly, remembering the cookies, and not noticing his lack of confirmation. You’d already drawn your conclusions. “Yeah, the cookies were amazing. I’ve got a theory that she’s a witch.” Oops, word vomit. You were worried that male wouldn’t understand you were joking, but he laughed—to your relief.

“When we moved in, she made a cake.” He leaned in closer to you, his voice just above a whisper, “She might be looking to fatten us up and eat us, so be on guard.”

This pulled a giggle from you, and oh what a pleasant sound to Erwin’s ears, “If Hansel and Gretel could handle it, I think we’ll be okay.” The scent of Erwin’s cologne filled your nose, musk and mahogany flooding your senses and the hint of something else too. Ink maybe.

“I sure hope so,” Erwin leaned back, out of your space, “I would hate to lose our new neighbor so soon.”

Biting your lower lip, you took in air that wasn’t saturated with the blonde’s heady scent.

“Yeah, who would care for my flower children if I died so soon?” You teased, gesturing behind you to the new plants which for the most part looked healthy in spite of the stubborn pansies which seemed hell bent on making your life a little more difficult. The last thing you needed to worry about where flowers. Though your anxiety was probably delighted to have yet another thing to obsess over.

You compared your anxiety to a super villain—someone lingering in the shadows and waiting for the smallest display of weakness through your progress—poised to strike.

Erwin’s blue eyes slid over the greenery before looking up at you. “We’d adopt them for you. No need to worry.” You looked over to Erwin’s home where the lovely magnolia tree grew. Their garden didn’t have as many plants with flowers, but what plants were there were clearly well taken care of. It was mostly green, though the magnolia tree added the perfect little pop of color to an otherwise verdant front yard. “At least I know they’d be going to a good home.”

The male chuckled, a sound that hummed from deep in that fit chest. “Can’t take all the credit. Mike takes care of the yard occasionally, but we leave most of it to the gardener.”

Of course, they would have a gardener. Their house was large and immaculate, and in addition to Mike’s well-maintained truck, it was hard to miss the Mercedes currently parked in the driveway. Clearly Mike and Erwin had well-paying jobs. “A plant nanny.” You deadpanned, earning another chuckle from Erwin who’s smile turned fond.

“We’d love to have you over for dinner. We’d like to properly welcome you to the neighborhood.”

You were taken aback for a moment, anxiety flooding your stomach on instinct. The thoughts were instantaneous. ‘What if I make a fool of myself?’, ‘What if I spill a drink?’, ‘What if I eat too much in front of them?’, ‘What if I say something wrong?’, ‘What if—’

A deep breath through your nose.

A subtle exhale from your mouth.

The thoughts were quieted.

Another deep breath through your nose.

Another subtle exhale from your mouth.

Your heart rate significantly lowered.

“I’d like that very much.” You answered before your thoughts could creep in again and dispel your nerve.

You weren’t going to let your anxiety keep you from experiences, especially making friends with your neighbors. You knew if you stopped to think on it deeply you would psych yourself out with overthinking the kind offer and ultimately decline. Best not to let your anxiety or self-consciousness rule your decisions. Therapy had taught you that.

Erwin looked pleased with your answer, his smile touching his blue eyes.

“Wonderful,” he purred, reaching into the pocket of his black slacks to hand you his phone, “Put your number in, if you wouldn’t mind,” he added the last bit to make it less of a command and more of a suggestion, “I’ll text you a date.” You smiled and tapped your name and number into the contacts of his phone, adding a flower emoji just as a playful wink to your conversation before handing the cellphone back to his waiting hand. “Sounds good.”

The male’s smile didn’t fade as he slipped the phone back in his pocket. “I’ll text you later.” He promised, making you return his smile. Though that should have triggered a bit more nervousness, anticipating a text, instead it just put little butterflies in your stomach. Yeah, he was gay—and taken, you reminded yourself again—but you could have attractive friends that were nice to look at. You were allowed to get excited over a little dinner date, no matter how platonic.

As Erwin moved in the direction of his Mercedes, he looked over his shoulder at you. “Don’t be too hard on your flowers,” he fished out his key fob, clicking the button to unlock his car, “It can be hard adapting to a new home.”

Smiling, you leaned down and picked up the hose, clicking the water back on and misting it gently over the pansies once again for good measure, hoping to perk up the wilting petals. “It helps to have someone to pamper you though.” You mumbled absentmindedly, earning a little glance from Erwin before the blond got into his car and sped off down the road.

-

You thought you had made yourself perfectly clear to yourself that the backyard was not a priority. But after unpacking a few more boxes of miscellaneous objects late into the afternoon, it just seemed to call to you.

You stood at your sink in your kitchen, looking out into the yard from the window as you nibbled on a bite of your lazily made sandwich. Your small kitchen table had already been set up so it’s not like you had to stand to eat any of your meals, but it seemed even when eating you had to pace. You blamed the new environment. It would take time to get comfortable, just like Erwin had said about your flowers. Even though you were excited and loved your new home, it was taking your time to adjust.

Your eyes narrowed as you looked over the yard, as though you were trying to imagine it looking differently than it currently did. You had a rather vivid imagination, you read quite a bit after all, but when it came to mental landscaping you were coming up short. The only reason you were able to spruce up your front yard without much deep consideration was because there was a plot of dirt already prime for flowers. It just lacked anything in it. Picking some things to fill the void hadn’t required a great deal of mental fortitude. The backyard was different.

It wasn’t exactly a mess, but it wasn’t a marvel either. It was a blank canvas of untapped potential—and weeds. A slightly overgrown lawn, lack of any interesting plant life, and boarder of dirt that was begging for flowers much as the front yard had. But you weren’t ready for the amount of plant life the backyard could hold. Being a new plant mother, you needed time to hone your skills. The front yard was plenty for now.

Even so, you couldn’t keep yourself from glaring at the backyard. Maybe it was because it glared back at you from every window. You wanted to look outside and see something pleasing to the eye. Why did hyper fixation always go hand-in-hand with anxiety? You tapped your foot against the floor and chewed your food, willing the nervous energy to dispel.

Fuck it.

You could pluck the weeds.

That might help until you could really bring yourself to get into the project that it would someday be. Besides, you should really keep up on the yard even before fixing it so that it wasn’t more of a hassle in the long run. Weeding it would be a good start, and it might make looking through your windows a bit less bothersome.

You placed your crumb covered plate into the sink and made your way through the sliding glass door to the backyard, taking a little detour to drag the green’s can from the side yard so you would have somewhere to put the weeds after you ripped their stubborn carcasses from the ground.

The poor bastards had no idea what was coming.

Taking a look around you, you once again crinkled your nose in contemplation. At least the lawn was mostly green. It didn’t look as though the previous owner had used the yard for storage or trash. It really didn’t look like the previous owner had used it for much of anything. They clearly couldn’t have been bothered to do much more than turn on the sprinklers, just like the front yard. You narrowed your eyes and scanned the environment, once again trying to channel your creative side. All you could think about were plants for the most part. You weren’t even all that plant crazy until recently. It was just the first thing that came to mind when you thought of the outdoors. You huffed through your nose. Maybe a deck at some point? That would cost money. You sure as hell were not going to build one yourself. IKEA furniture was the extent of your carpentry skills. At least the fence looked pretty good, spare for a hole like crack in one of the planks on the left side of the wall. That should be easy enough to fix. Surely it wouldn’t require the establishment of a whole new fence so at least you’d save some money there.

You gave up your attempt at visualization to pull your gardening gloves onto your hands. You’d take to some online forums for backyard ideas when the time was right. You had to remind yourself that right now you were just focusing on battling the weeds.

You tried to go at it methodically, you really did. You were going to start at one end of the yard and make your way to the other. But each time you bent down to pluck one weed you’d see a huge one from the corner of your eye at the other end of the yard that would distract you. You’d pluck that one, then there would be another at the side of the yard you’d just came from so you’d have to go back again. Pretty soon you were just hopping from whatever weed assaulted your eyes to the next, which mainly consisted of the big ones that had no right existing in the first place.

You were going to kick yourself later when you had to revert back to your original method of going from one end of the yard to the other when it came time to sift through the smaller weeds—but for now the satisfaction that came from yanking the big suckers out of the earth gave you too much momentary euphoria to care. That would be a problem for your future self.

For now, your newest target was spotted. A huge weed growing along the fence line. The number of squats you were inadvertently doing in your quest to de-weed the yard was going to hurt you tomorrow. It was kind of hurting you now. Turning your legs to Jell-O. But you were determined to vanquish every form of unsavory vegetation before sunset. You’d use tomorrow as a day of rest if it came to that.

It was probably going to come to that. Gardening was proving to be a workout in itself.

Pulling yourself to standing, you walked over to the weed by the fence and crouched down, gripping it and giving a firm tug around the stock. But the titan weed hardly budged. You arched a brow and wrapped your other hand around it, tugging once more. You swore the weed pulled back as you rocked on your heels. Frustrated, you sat yourself on your knees and leaned back, trying to use your body weight to get the massive bulb from the earth with a grunt.

At least, you thought you grunted.

Wait that wasn’t you.

You paused; your hands still wrapped around the weed as you stayed frozen in mid tug.

There was another grunt in a masculine tone— which most certainly did not come from you.

“Goddamn it…” The voice was deep, dripping with a sort of smooth roughness that was a complete contradiction that only made sense from hearing it firsthand. It was the sort of tone that held an edge in any words that came from it. In spite of it coming from the direction of your neighbor’s yard, it was not a voice you’d heard before. You were sure you would have remembered it.

“Erwin—fuck!” There it was again.

“Shh…” That second voice you thought you recognized. Finally, your head darted up from your place on your knees out of instinct. You were eye level with the rough hole in the plank you’d noticed earlier that exposed your neighbor’s yard.

And much more than that.

From your viewpoint you could see the edge of a pool, lush plants, a deck further back—but the lovely yard wasn’t what pulled your attention. What pulled your attention was two people on a lounge chair, one propped up by the lifted back, the other straddling across strong hips.

The person sitting back on the lounge was obviously Erwin, naked as the day he was born in the late afternoon sun. Your assumption had been right about his torso. It was in fact sculpted by the hands of god, all firm muscle and definition. You could vaguely make out light traces of hair on it from your distance, what little there was must have been as blond as he was.

However, this isn’t what struck you the most about what you were seeing. Though it was a sight to behold. What struck you the most was that the person in his lap—

Was not Mike.

Your lips parted in a silent gasp, lashes fluttering as if you could wash the other figure away and replace it with Mike. But the person on Erwin’s lap couldn’t be more different and there was no way in hell to confuse the two even with the most vivid of imaginations.  

He was smaller, clearly shorter, with a body that was muscular on its own but far more lithe than the bulkier form of Mike. It was hard to see his face at the angle you were given. The lounge was not exactly parallel to the break in the fence, giving an angle that displayed a view of the sinewy back of the stranger, as well as their stark black hair, but no hint to their face in the slightest. But you could see Erwin’s, twisted in pleasure, and even at a distance it was obvious what was taking place.

Swallowing thickly, your eyes drifted down the stranger’s back to a pert round ass currently stuffed with Erwin—which from what little you could see not buried inside, was not an easy adjustment.

“Fuck me harder.” Came that deep voice once again, a commanding growl for more as his hips rolled down on the intruding length.

Erwin grunted, his fingers digging into the man’s waist in a white-knuckle grip as he bucked himself up, thrusting himself into the ravenette. “Beg for it then.” He bit back in a grunt, it seemed to be taking a great deal of effort to keep from fulfilling the request, if his clenching palms and strained voice were anything to go by.

The man on top of Erwin scoffed, lifting his body and sitting himself right back down on his lap, forcing the cock deep inside him before rocking his hips forward and back, pulling a moan from Erwin. “When have I ever begged?” His tone was deceptively even for what he was doing— as if taking that massive length was the easiest thing in the world. Perhaps something he did regularly.

You weren’t so sure you would be able to keep an even tone had you been in the raven’s place even if it had been the hundredth time.

A smirk played on the blonde’s lips, “First time for everything.” You thought you heard, but the voice was quiet, perhaps suddenly conscious that they were outside.

Pale fingers slid up the plains of Erwin’s chest to coil around his neck. “I’ll take it myself.” The black-haired male growled, steadying himself on his knees before he started to bounce on the cock inside him. He pulled himself up, nearly taking the shaft out of his hole before slamming himself back down, muted moans pulling from him each time he forced himself down on the lap with a lewd slapping of skin.

It was at that moment that the weed in your hand snapped, sending you backwards with a yelp. You’d lost your balance, your butt making contact with the soles of your shoes as you plopped down completely on your knees from your previously raised position on them. Ditching the weed, you crawled away from the hole in a panic and covered your mouth with your hand as though you could turn back time and capture the yelp that was already in the air.

It wasn’t until you were a good seven feet from the fence that you allowed yourself to listen for any sound. There was silence for a long while other than your rapidly thumping heart under your palm while you attempted to keep it in your chest. It was only when you heard the faint and distant sound of skin on skin, a sound you’d only hear if you’d known to listen for it, that you allowed yourself to breath. You pulled your mouth shut, not realizing how long it’d been hanging open. You’d probably swallowed a bug or two in your stupor. You couldn’t be sure.

Feeling your pulse throb between your legs, you whined softly, squeezing your thighs together and biting your bottom lip as guilt washed over you. The guilt was rather misdirected, at least it should have been. But you’d felt it for a variety of reasons. The hallow yet heavy sensation sat deep in your chest. You’d peeped on your neighbor, accident or not, a total invasion of privacy. What made it worse was the wetness steadily forming at your core. You’d peeped like a horny teenager and gotten turned on by it.

If the guild from that wasn’t enough—you’d gotten turned on, meanwhile Mike was being cheated on.

That last part stung the most.

Erwin was cheating on Mike.

-

You paced back and forth in your living room, the tip of your thumb in your lips so you could bite at your nail—a habit you’d thought you’d long since kicked.

How on how on earth were you going to tell Mike that he was being cheated on? Should you tell him at all? Was it really your place?

These where the questions stirring in your mind as you paced. If you continued to traverse one end of your living room to the other, you would likely ware a rut in your flooring.

Plucking your thumb from your mouth, you stilled your feet and pulled your phone from the pocket of your leggings, tapping away on the technological rectangle to bring up Sasha’s number. It was times like this where you needed to get out of your head. So, in these moments you often talked out your thoughts with Sasha. It was the only way to get out of the infinite circle your pondering often became.

‘If you were being cheated on, would you want someone to tell you?’

It wasn’t ten seconds after you sent the text than those little ellipsis came on the screen to indicate your friend was already typing out a reply.

 ‘What do you know?’

You brought up the keyboard of your phone to explain, but another message quickly followed.

‘Is Connie cheating on me?’

‘I’m gonna serve him in the burgers.’

‘I’m Sweeney Todd-ing this bitch.’

You had to type faster to cut her off. Maybe starting the message like that hadn’t been your wisest move.

‘No!’

‘No!’

You sent the message twice when you saw the ellipsis raise on your screen again, being sure she saw your reply so you could clearly explain.

‘Not you or Connie! I’m talking about my neighbors.’

‘Oh’.

She wrote back, a momentary pause before adding,

‘Don’t tell Connie about me making him into burgers.’

This pulled a smile from you and curbed your anxiety, allowing your heart to still. Leave it to Sasha to calm your nerves with her naturally comedic personality.

‘Anyway, what happened?’

Well that calm was short lived. You remained standing in case you had to get the nervous energy out by pacing again.

‘I met the neighbors. The ones Della told us about when we were moving me in, remember?’

It only took a second for Sasha to text back—she was fast with her fingers even though she had had the same shitty phone for close to 3 years. Only shitty because of the cracked screen that she had more than enough money to fix, but always complained if she got a new one, she would just drop it anyway. You were fairly sure the phone also had a little dent in it, she said it added character.

‘Yeah.’

‘They hot?’

‘Ridiculously.’

‘Niiice.’

You typed hastily to try and stay on topic.

‘Their names are Mike and Erwin.’

‘And they’re hot.’

You snorted but continued typing, trying not to let your thoughts linger on how attractive both the men were. That wasn’t was the discussion was about. You cut to the chase.

‘I accidentally saw Erwin having sex with someone that was NOT Mike.’

The reply actually took a full minute, though it wasn’t long, an indicator that Sasha had probably typed a few different replies but deleted them until settling on what it was she did send.

‘How did you ACCIDENTALLY see that?’

You could hear the accusatory tone through the little blue bubble that held her words.

‘I was in the backyard and I heard a sound and I ACCIDENTALLY looked through a hole in the fence.’

Reading that back—it really did sound like you were some kind of voyeur.  

‘It really was an accident. I was weeding.’

These excuses were completely pitiful, and you were the one writing them.

‘So did you accidentally get a good look at who he was screwing?’

‘I only saw his back.’

It was only half a lie. You saw his strong back, his black hair, and an amazing ass.

‘Was he hot?’

Maybe texting Sasha wasn’t as productive as you originally thought.

‘It was a very nice back.’

An understatement if there ever was one. You hastily added to the message.

‘But that’s not the point. It wasn’t Mike. Now I don’t know if I should tell Mike or if I should just mind my business.’

On the one hand, you wanted to have a good relationship with your neighbors, and who they were and were not sleeping with was not something you should be concerning yourself with. Injecting yourself into their love life was something you didn’t feel you had the right to do, especially because you hardly knew the two of them.

On the other hand, you thought about how much it hurt to be cheated on. You imagined Mike, blissfully unaware that the love of his life was sleeping with someone else in their own home and it made your heart sink into the pit of your stomach. You ached for him

‘Are you 100% sure that you saw what you think you saw?’

Taking a moment to recall the memory, a blush creeped up your neck and right up to your face. You shook you head to will the images away, once again ashamed of the heat it stirred between your legs.

‘Yeah. It was clear.’

There was no way to mistake what you saw. They weren’t nude sunbathing, they weren’t naked cuddling, and there was no way the other guy just fell on Erwin’s dick.

This time it took Sasha more than two minutes to answer. She must have been thinking. Maybe even asking Connie what he thought. You hopped not. Connie and Sasha may not have known your neighbors, but you also didn’t want to gossip about them. You honestly just needed your friend’s advice on a difficult situation. One that you’d put your own damn self in. 

‘That’s hard. I mean you don’t really know them well enough to say anything, ya know?’

That was something you wrestled with. It would be different if this were a friend who you were close with. It wouldn’t even be a debate if it were someone you knew well, like Sasha. You would tell them in a heartbeat because not telling them would likely have greater consequences. But when it came to Mike and Erwin, you didn’t know them. Again, you reminded yourself that it wasn’t your place.

But if you did form a friendship with them, would you be more obligated to tell Mike? You imagined having a friendship with the men and all the while harboring this dark secret.

There you went again, 100 miles ahead of present.

You chewed your thumb nail again, not noticing that you had once again began to pace.

You must have been taking too long to respond, because another text from Sasha lit up your phone.

‘Who do you think he was banging?’

‘Dunno. They do have a gardener.’

Your reply was meant to be sarcastic. How were you supposed to know? You didn’t know a thing about the guys next door other than they were both attractive and that one was a cheater.

Actually, you were relatively certain that Erwin wasn’t banging the gardener. That man on top of Erwin was too pale to see the sun on a regular basis.

A vibration in your hand made you lift your phone again, expecting another text from Sasha, only to see a message from an unknown number. Your brows knitted together as your finger pressed against the notification, pulling up the text.

‘Hello, [y/n]. It’s Erwin. If you’re available, we’d like to have you over for dinner tomorrow night.’

These guys didn’t waste any time. You’d be thankful about not having to cook if you weren’t harboring a secret about your inviter. You stared at the message, kicking yourself for opening it because Erwin would likely have an alert on his end that said the text had been read. He’d be expecting a reply.

It wasn’t as though you could lie and tell him you wouldn’t be home. That avoidance strategy wouldn’t work with someone who could just peek outside and see if your car were in the driveway. Hiding your car in the garage wouldn’t work when it was still a mess of packed and unpacked boxes you had yet to either toss or organize. Honestly, you weren’t about to be up all night clearing it just to avoid your neighbors. You answered before you had more time to mull it over.

‘That sounds great, I look forward to seeing you.’

Was that too formal? You added the number as a new contact before you could hyper analyze your own words. It was tempting to place the number under the name ‘adulterer’, but you thought better of it. You were just being petty about a matter that you shouldn’t be so invested in. You were going to have dinner with your neighbors and completely forget about what you saw—for your own sanity. You weren’t about to let self-imposed guilt eat you up inside. Though this wouldn’t be the first time.

“Not my circus, not my monkeys.” You muttered to yourself, a little mantra you used to say when reminding yourself that something, often some sort of drama, wasn’t your business to involve yourself in or to be dragged into.

Instead, you opted for continuing your conversation with Sasha, steering it toward any other subject possible. By the grace of god, she started asking you about your move and how you were enjoying your new house. Your friend always knew how to distract you. Maybe she felt your nerves through the phone.

She’d known you early in your journey through therapy and knew when you needed to talk and when you needed to be distracted. Sometimes she knew it before you did.

Counting and colors could only go so far. Sometimes a friend was the best grounding tool.

To bad you couldn’t bring her to dinner tomorrow. 

You’d be on your own for that.

[jjkpls]

crayons ‘set’ (PG)

> genre : fluffy fluff, light angst, comedy

> pairing : kim namjoon x reader

> words : 3.8k

> warnings : none (except a rusty quill)

>Y/N, a primary school teacher, is way too soft for the quiet, timid new child in her class. Little did she know, the adult version, who engendered this cutie, is even more charming.

> prior

> next

The principle of balance. 

It’s a curious concept. Like most of the things that turn people into different versions of themselves, just from an unconscious force brought to light by the sheer inner sense of competition that inhabits every single person. It’s quieter in some people. Feel non-existent sometimes. But it’s here, dormant, just waiting on the right trigger to awaken. 

You didn't think you would see it in Jimmy. The little boy lacks completely self-confidence and affirmation. But a voice and a stance, easily remarkable, end up fitting him.

It turns out that you witness it quite quickly after the Progress has started. And it manifests in the most adorable and comical of ways. 

It’s been a few weeks since you've met his dad. There wasn’t much to talk about with him yet. Every day, longer lingerings of the gaze, less tucking away in the far back of the rest of the group, more definite wordless participations during class -nodding and clapping along. The progress you've been wholly satisfied with but nothing so drastically different that you thought necessary to call his father in for. 

Nothing absolutely astonishing. Therefore you didn’t call and what a surprise this one Thursday afternoon turns out to be when he appears at your class’s doorway.

He’s wearing very casual clothes, a simple light linen shirt and some distended jeans to pair, sneakers and his hair -you've only seen neatly tucked to the side- is floating about his forehead, freshly washed and devoid of any wax. It’s a pleasant surprise, especially with the evident appearance of calm and quiet tranquillity he’s carrying. 

This man looks rather handsome when he’s on vacation, stressless and well-rested and seemingly content, you note.

“Mr Kim?”

He looks up from his son he is holding the hand of, eyes wide and bewildered as he stares a little. You chuckle, confused but amused. He’s the one paying you a surprise visit but he’s shocked when you do talk to him?

“Is it bad timing? I can come back another day...” From the look he’s giving you, or more accurately, barely sparing you, body already aiming for the corridor, you wonder if you should return the question. It'd be cruel though, to tease, therefore you choose to simply shake your head and insist on him walking in. And then it happens, the man can’t take a step inside, for some reason. He’s just paralysed, looking like a million contradicting thoughts are fighting inside his brain and he simply cannot make out the best option, if he would or not step in; and it’s Jimmy who takes the decision for him. Puffing his cheeks out in annoyance, he pushes against his father's leg, small hands pulling the bigger one towards him. It’s like watching a tiny mouse trying to drag along a giraffe. It has little to no physical effect until there’s an aggravated tiny whine of “appa”. He moves, at last, letting himself stood in front of me before Jimmy lets go of his hand. 

He gives you a look you're not sure you interpret well. Dark eyes all serious, attention loud, he seems to be intrusting his father to you. A gentle smile, hiding your teeth biting back a hilarious grin, sends him away towards the very back of the room. Taking a seat next to the bookshelf, it takes Jimmy a few minutes only after you've diverted your attention from him to grab an image book and start going through it patiently.

He's so comfortable. Almost too comfortable. He looks strange, like that. Strange because different from usual but still, oddly, it fits him well. It's like a projection, a little vision of a future little boy, easygoing, at peace with himself and his environment, that won't take too long to be born again.

And it's now the dad who's acting weird. He's standing on his two never-ending legs, the tip of his fingers toying nervously with the button of his vest, his mouth keeps teasing, opening slightly, as if about to spill a word, only to shut itself right up, a lightly aggravated sigh following soon after. It happens quite a couple of times until you get tired of waiting. Tired of the eyes avoiding you, the tension heavy for no particular reason that you could decipher, you ring him awake with an abrupt overexaggerated clearing of your throat.

"Mr Kim?" He's confounded again, caught off guard somehow. "Did you mean to discuss something with me?" It's hard to make an adult talk, you realise. Sometimes children can be difficult. Put aside Jimmy's case, sometimes children are like that. Making them want to share, especially when they are at that age where they can't express themselves and their ideas as well as they wish they could, frustration, laziness at times can get the better of them and having a fairly constructed conversation with them is like pulling teeth out of a very adamant, unwilling person. But you manage. Adults, on the other hand, have never been too much of your cup of tea. There's a reason why you chose to spend the better part of your weeks with children instead of adults. You're not that terrible at getting along with them, you do it pretty well, honestly. But the reason is probably the fact that you're not difficult. You're convenient as a person, always willing to help, always trying to be positive, you do not get in people's way and most of the times, it's enough to make it through.

You don't deal with adults the way you deal with children. With great pleasure and passion, you insert yourself into your pupils' existence, try to leave a mark and help them have the better, feel the better, be the better. Adults, you don't get too involved. They sound complicated, complexed, too many compromises, too many facets. You know because you are one too.

And Mr Kim, looking all nervous and troubled seem the very embodiment of this bias you have. He looks some sort of troubles. Probably nothing that terrible. He appears too childish for it to be that grave. But he's serious about it, about the anxiety, the struggle, the uneasiness he's feeling, you can tell, just from the way he hasn't been able to look at you in the eyes since he appeared in your class. Still, whatever it is, will cost some of your time, and with that, might clog up some very much needed space you require in this busy head of yours.

It's happened before. A new neighbour trying to get closer to you, maybe because they've just moved in the city, didn't know anyone, and you looked friendly enough and they needed someone to listen to the exhaustive list of all the things that made them leave their hometown -even though, you don't necessarily care for any of it. Or a colleague, trying to get you involved in their office dramas, simply because people need the attention, the feeling of importance and support.

Quite frankly, you've never been interested in any of them. Adults sound like too much work, especially given the fact that, as filled with flaws as they are, they are a pain, and often impossible, to fix. And they say things they don't mean. And they want things that they don't need. Their words and their acts hardly ever match. They're for the most part unrecoverable and unfixable, and you don't want any of it.

But Mr Kim and his dimples -invisible to the eye at the moment, but that you realise marked your brain so strongly you can picture them exactly where they should be winking- are piquing your interest. You're ninety-nine per cent sure it is not about Jimmy but you'd like to know. Never mind that curiosity killed the cat.

“Yes, uh-“ Clearing of the throat, scratching of the neck and more clearing of the throat. “about last time...”

You're lost. For a second, your body freezes to give your brain its full capacity to wreck through the whole place and retrieve a memory that seems to have been lost somehow, somewhere. You have no idea what time he is referring to. 

He seems so invested, so intensely experiencing his emotions you're left shocked and deeply embarrassed to not remember something that had that effect on him yet didn’t leave a single trace on you. 

He insists then, having to face your transparent confusion. The more you stand in pure oblivion, the more awkward he gets. Stuttering more, an accent, very deep, adding rough edges to his voice, colouring his words with new shades that you've never heard before.

“Mr Kim-“

“Namjoon.”

“I’m sorry?” 

“No, it’s me, I am, I’m-“ You will, later, feel terrible for it. It’s undeniable. But right now, facing this grown-ass man, usually so collected now decomposing in the most adorable red-cheeked boyish thing, you can only start laughing. It renders him speechless which in a way is almost an improvement and when you finally can restrain the giggles from bubbling straight from your belly, you start again,

“Maybe take a deep breath, take your time.” You bite your lip down to the blood, poorly concealing your grin when he actually does it. “What did you mean by ‘last time’?” You're mortified to ask, honestly, persuaded that you should know but at this point, it’s pretty mean but you don’t think you can embarrass yourself that much in front of him, not when he’s been such a mess himself. 

“When we met. When I came to talk about my son.” Calmly, diligently he answers. Like a good boy answering his teacher’s question, a shadow of worry covering his usually sharp gaze. 

“Oh, what about it?” Curiosity melts with confusion as you refrain yourself from pressing him further into elaborating faster, eager as you are to understand. You were sure he was not going to talk about him. 

“I’d been a bit much and I wanted to apologise personally to you.”

Been a bit much? 

“In what sense? I’m not sure I understand.”

“It’s just- I poured myself and our luggage on you when you’re- I know you care about my son but I shouldn’t have, I don’t know, I shouldn’t have-“

You hate cutting people off. It’s a terrible habit you are constantly trying to teach your students to drop. But here he is, struggling to express an idea that irks you strongly. Is he able to put the words he needs? Does he even know them in his own mother tongue or do they even exist? Maybe what he's trying to express are pure emotions. Unease coming from a heart shameful for having shown itself vulnerable to a stranger. You'd know about this feeling. You've experienced it plenty of times, throughout all your life. Even if it wasn’t in the form of you stripping your heart off to someone, like he did, simply showing that you cared gave you the same sense of vulnerability, of terrifying exposure you've always had a hard time dealing with. 

You hate the idea that he regrets it, especially with you. At that time, you could tell he had words to pour out. You were glad, you were even enchanted to be the one helping out no matter how small you just assumed your impact to have been. And now, he's trying to say that he regrets it?

“You said you were thankful to have someone to talk to.”

“I did say that.” He mumbles, pressing the pad of his fingers against his closed eyes. 

“Then don’t regret it. I don’t want you to be embarrassed about this, seriously. I had parents do way more, actually embarrassing, things in my career. Don’t even worry about it.” He’s thinking it over. You can tell your words have little to no impact on his bruised ego. “I’m not sure how appropriate it is for me to say that but if you need it, whenever in the future, don’t hesitate. I’m not a psychologist, but I’m just- I’m willing to listen if it can help. I mean me or anyone else, really, you should in general just share. It’s important. You don’t want Jimmy to mimic such bad habits like so, holding in and all.” You may be talking too much. The man just looks so eager to hear those words and it spurs you on. “You really shouldn’t feel embarrassed. I can understand the feeling, where it comes from, but it’s pointless with me.”

“You’re really kind.” You give a smile, only. It’s not much but you're pretty sure it’s the genuineness tinting it that renders it enough. Again, he seems surprised. As bewildered as last time but undoubtedly convinced. “I’m glad he has you as his teacher.”

Your cheeks burn intensely. You don’t know how conscious he is of his words. If he realises that he perfected the art of flattery and of slipping people in his pocket. He really did. Especially when he’s leaning slightly towards you, gaze intense and on you now that the embarrassment has vanished for the most part and he can bear looking at you, seemingly hanging out for any other words you may have in stock.

There’s nothing left for you to say though. It takes you quite a few attempts to skim over your brain, trying to formulate a sentence, any word, but you come out completely empty. You can’t even stutter a thank you from how utterly flustered you're feeling. 

Therefore you choose the easy way out. Waltzing on your heels to give him your back, your hands reaching to the barely messy top of your desk to pretend they’re busy. You believe yourself to have been sleek enough but apparently not so -maybe it’s the fact that you're just picking up stuff to put them exactly where they belong, at the exact same place. 

“Was I inappropriate? I’m really sorry, Mrs ___. Sometimes I just talk too much and I don’t realise that maybe I shouldn’t.”

“Please stop apologising. It’s fine, you’re fine. You’re just- You saying nice things that you mean,” You stumble upon the last words as if maybe you're getting over your own head to just assume and claim so loud that he must mean the sweet things he said to you but that bashful yet adorable expression he's wearing, with the eyes a bit wide and the bottom lip munched, fill you with a regain of confidence, “can’t be an issue. It’s just unexpected and- I mean you’re fine you can say whatever you want. I mean I’m not asking for more compliments, I’m just saying-“

It’s terribly unnerving. You don’t know what impression you're giving off as a teacher. Lacking so much elocution, scrambling to form sentences and turning into a messy, overwhelmed emotional mess. 

“I don’t mind giving you more compliments, Mrs ___.” Here comes that curious principle of balance again. You're half-dying of mortification and he seems to be having fun, smiling kindly, with a hint of something else -amusement, maybe even smudginess. 

Is he flirting with me? There’s no way he’s flirting. I think I’m losing my mind. 

“It’s Miss, actually.” You swear to yourself, silently, that you're not flirting back -assuming he is, in fact, doing just that- and you just mean to be called by an accurate name. 

“Oh.” He almost gasps. Looking shocked and you don’t understand what’s going on anymore. Was he really not flirting? Why does he look so shaken as if you misinterpreted his intentions and now he’s misinterpreting yours and think you're getting over your head -because you're not, you were not flirting!

“I’m not flirting with you, I’m just clarifying!” 

You hate this whole conversation. You hate yourself, your life and anything and everything that may or may not have led you to this tragic instant.

You're positive you screamed a little. You get confirmation of just that from the tiny mop of hair bouncing up in your peripheral vision, as Jimmy gives you two a slightly concerned, curious look. 

The tension is blatant. It's a mixture of irritation, of anxiety, of embarrassment. You couldn't have messed up any worse than you did and you positively want to simply die, right about now.

The mere thought that you'll have to live with this humiliation not only for the whole day ahead, blatantly hanging out at the back of your head, sometimes probably too close to your consciousness for any sense of comfort to ever inhabit you again, but for your entire life makes you want to throw yourself out the window. You decide not to indulge in the pressing pulsion only because you're on the ground floor, therefore, it would be pointless if not even more humiliating.

Mr Kim, somehow, helps a little. By not wearing a mask of pure revolt, revulsion or aggravation. He stares soundly, expression not giving off much to work with. Just enough to understand he is not mad, simply lost in his own thoughts he doesn't seem too keen on sharing.

A spark of sensibility blooms suddenly in your brain. You're so thankful for it, you jump right on it, grab it with your two hands and start again, as if nothing happened, as if you haven't just humiliated yourself in front of this man (and his son), "Jimmy has made a lot of progress, I've noted."

Mr Kim blinks a few times, unnaturally so. "Yeah? I mean, yes, I've noticed too, actually." He keeps staring with the same obnoxiously loud thoughts running in his mind. His brain is on full activity mode. It's obvious. And he doesn't care too much about talking about his son right this second (even though he doesn't seem to care much about sharing what's going through that private head of his either).

How disappointing. You sincerely thought the one subject that matters the most to him would successfully tear the attention away from you but you're a fool. Apparently, even the cute little bean of a son he has can't divert the attention from the humiliation you've just submitted yourself to.

"Anyway, I won't hold any more of your time, you must have work to attend to."

"Actually I'm not working today. I have the day off." Your lip now too sensitive, you attack the inner part of your cheek with your teeth -thankfully you've turned your back to him again, feigning observing with great attention something through the windows- to stop yourself from screeching. It takes him so long, so fucking long for him to decide, finally, that maybe he should leave. The longest dozens of seconds of your life. Staring outside, picturing him behind you, probably watching you wondering to himself how you can be so lame and how he could have thought you a good fit to be his precious son's teacher. "Ah, I should leave anyway. Your class is about to start?"

"Ah, yes. Well, thanks for passing by. I hope you rest well." It's the least genuine you've been with this man, and anyone for the matter, in so long. Your heart and mind are in such a shamble you don't actually remember the reason for his coming and if, really, anything positive came out of this conversation.

It's ridiculous how you feel, all bothered and nervous, aggravated with him for making you feel so flustered. You give him the most convincing fake smile you own, not taking the time to check if he buys it as you don't dare lingering your attention on him for any longer than the blink of the eye takes.

When he leaves, only after having scattered a bunch of smooches on Jimmy's face, you find yourself breathing again. It's like you've been holding in for so long, you're getting dizzy at the taste of oxygen again, heart beating furiously in your chest, sweating all over.

Fuck, that was painful.

You're such an idiot sometimes. Why do you have to be such a fucking idiot? It's not like you're asking much in this life, honestly. You're not aiming at any groundbreaking, universe shaking novelties. You're staying in your line, trying to be good and do good in your own little world. Not asking much, not taking without beforehand being offered. Is it really that much to ask to not be absolutely humiliated in front of one of your kids' parent, who happens to be a stupidly handsome man? (Yes, he is. You can admit that -to yourself. It's probably the reason why your brain stopped working properly, by the way.) You're cursed. I'm cursed, I'm cursed, I'm cur-

"Mish?" The quietest little call comes from the quietest little boy. Standing a secure meter away from you, his peculiar big black eyes staring with a silent demand in them, Jimmy waits patiently for your attention to be given to him. You offer it to him with great enthusiasm. Because between self-pitying your dumb ass and celebrating the first-ever-self-willingly-uttered word to you by this boy, the choice is not even to be pondered over.

"Yes, Jimmy?" He's holding in one hand your crayons he slowly tends your way, careful not to spill them all from his tiny fist. In the other one, there's a paper he's drawn on. Your eyes instinctively are driven to it, curious to see what he decided to draw when he felt comfortable enough to do it. He catches the line of your attention, evidently, and it takes him a second but then, finally, he decides you're allowed to see it. It's a too accurate copy of the ugly cat you made for him the other day. The colours are different, the traits a bit shakier yet, completely unbiasedly, you have to admit that he somehow made it look better. "That's a very pretty cat, Jimmy."

He looks at it, ruminates your words, trying to make sense of them, verify their accuracy. Suddenly he seems to decide that you're right and giving you another candid look, he returns to his table where he proceeds to carefully slip the drawing in his bag.

You realise your eyes are filled up with prickling tears while you sniff. You're not sure how much is due to this, how much the terrible, terrible encounter with his dad worked your emotions so intensely you're so sensitive now. In any case, it turns out for the better. It's this cute little cat that ends up making you and your day ahead feel better. You're so thankful for it.

Again, you know you're too involved but how are you supposed to do any different with them? Maybe it wasn't a punishment earlier. Maybe it was the storm before the ray of sunshine. It's probably the case. You're less aggravated, suddenly. Less vexed and probably more lenient on talking to this man again given, not the ray of sunshine, but actually rainbow that he may have helped cause to colour your day.

A/N: thanks for reading ���

[ncfan-1]

“I think I may be falling in love with you.” Can we talk about what a conspicuously weird thing that was to say?

I mean, it’s obviously an attempt at manipulation, but to what end, exactly? Narek’s stated goal is to try and coax information about other androids out of Soji, and she presented him with a golden opportunity to present himself as a confidant, and he just didn’t capitalize on it. Like, dude. She asks you if you believe her, and you say yes. Obviously, you say yes, even if you don’t mean it, because you’re playing the part of the caring boyfriend who, of course, has no idea what’s going on here, but if Soji ever wants to talk about anything that is going on, ever wants to talk about anything else that happens to her that she doesn’t understand, of course you will listen. I feel like the game plan here should be for Narek to try to position himself as Soji’s trusted confidant, but again, he had a golden opportunity, and he used it to say something conspicuously weird and inappropriate for the conversation instead.

But then, Narek hasn’t really been behaving in ways that would encourage Soji to regard him as confidant, in general. And once she’s had more time to think about it, maybe she’s gonna be wondering if there isn’t something a bit off about her new boyfriend.

[More of my highly disorganized thoughts under the cut]

I predicted earlier my hope that Narek would join the good guys, and then immediately experienced the regret that comes when you make such a prediction when you’re not even halfway through the first season yet. Nowadays, I’m still hopeful, but more uncertain. I think that, for now, what keeps him at least somewhat sympathetic is his interactions with his sister.

(As a note, I had to look up her name, and got the name of her cover identity on earth—Narissa Rizzo. I’d be shocked if ‘Narissa’ is her actual name, but then again, who knows if Narek is his real name, so these are the names I’m going to use when talking about them, since I’ve got nothing better to go with.)

First, let me just say: it took Romulan makeup and dim lighting for me to recognize Peyton List, aka Poison Ivy Mark 3 from Gotham, and I’m not sure what that says about me. I hope she gives as engaging a performance as she did when playing Ivy.

Okay, when Narek tells Narissa that he’s not sure if Soji knows exactly what she is, and, if ignorant, should probably stay that way as long as possible, I was just like “….why?” Isn’t your stated goal to get information out of her about other androids, and won’t your very scary boss get mad at the both of you if you can’t get that information? How are you supposed to do that if she doesn’t even know she’s an android? Is it because the moment she finds out you’ve been playing her the whole time is the same moment she finds out she’s got enough raw strength to oh, say, snap your neck like a twig? Is it because of the implications from this episode that Soji might be some kind of apocalypse maiden and you’d like to avoid doing anything that could trigger the apocalypse? Or is there another reason you’d like to share with the class?

On another note, I wonder if either Soji or Narek have thought to use any kind of birth control. Because literally the only way this situation could get even more fucked up would be if it turns out Soji can get pregnant and then does. Just imagine the first brother-sister back alley rendezvous after the pregnancy test. God, what a conversation that would be.

Anyways, from a writing standpoint, I can’t help but think that it means something, the way Narek and Narissa play off of each other. Because he opens with making nasty digs regarding her ears which, considering that probably involved cosmetic surgery which could have been quite painful to recover from, is, yeah, pretty nasty. But then she escalates it so much. First, in Episode 2, she makes it very clear that while she is interested in preserving his safety, if it comes down to saving his life or her own, she’ll throw him under the bus in a heartbeat. And then, in Episode 3, when discussing the state of affairs between Narek and Soji, she behaves a lot less like an impatient sibling than she does a jealous lover, and proceeds to get really creepy. (Someone please tell me I’m not the only one who got incestuous vibes from their back alley conversation. Please tell me I’m not the only one who got those vibes; I don’t rightly know how else I’m supposed to interpret the sniffing.) Seriously, I don’t think you’re winning any contests if you guess who comes off more sympathetically after their conversations, but at present, I’m not sure what it means that Narek has been portrayed more sympathetically than Narissa in both of their talks. We’re definitely meant to think that Narissa is the bigger fish in the pond, but beyond that, I’m really not certain.

(Another thing that interests me about them is how they’ve both thus far been rather ineffectual. The goal was to get information, and neither of them have succeeded yet. I thought about the contrast at first as being light touch vs. sledgehammer, and I think that still holds, but there’s another one I can think of: the fairly soft-spoken manipulator who doesn’t seem to know how to parlay manipulation into actual results vs. the violent loose cannon whose impatience got her target killed before she could get any useful information out of her. It’s too early to tell what it means that they’ve been ineffectual thus far, whether it means that they’re going to step up their game later on, or if they’re just not very good at their jobs, and are going to go on being not very good at their jobs. Both are equally possible.)

Similarly, from a writing standpoint, I can’t help but think that it means something that Narek was present and watching as Soji comforted the newly ex-Borg drone in Episode 2. But at present, it’s too early to say just what it means, if it means anything at all. What I think is that it would be very difficult for Narek not to develop some sort of empathy for Soji, whether he means to or not, but I’m not sure how much that would mean, either. When the time comes, I’m not certain whether or not it will be enough to change anything.

And with all of this is the elephant in the room, that the last live-action fiction show I watched while it was airing was Gotham. As anyone who has followed my blog for a while knows, I was largely… quite disappointed with Gotham as a show. Good cast, but everything else was a flaming train wreck. Gotham was a show where the most fucked up thing that could happen had a decent chance of actually happening. Gotham was also a show where many other things I thought had to mean something later turned out to be sound and fury, signifying nothing. That casts a shadow over my perceptions of Picard, and given how many other disappointments I’ve had with TV shows and movies and manga and comics, my operating method these days is to just not get my hopes up too much. If I prepare myself for disappointment, I can be pleasantly surprised if I’m not disappointed, but if I am disappointed, at least I won’t be gutted again.

-

Now to talk about something I am more optimistic about, even if I know no more about it than I do what I just talked about: what role Soji has to play in this story.

I’m actually most interested in Soji of anyone in this show, though I will likely talk less about her since I’ve found less to be anxious about. I’m very curious to see how she’ll cope with the revelation that she’s an android, since she’s all but certain to discover it in circumstances just as unhappy as Dahj’s discovery. I’d also like to see how she reacts to news of Dahj’s death, and get information on what their relationship was like.

I’m also eager to learn what the hell is up with the Zhat Vash’s fear and loathing of androids in general, and Soji and Dahj in particular. The agent interrogated in Picard’s house calls one of the two sisters ‘destroyer’, Rhonda (the ex-Borg drone and expert on Romulan mythology Soji interviewed; at least, I think that’s her name) associates Soji and/or Dahj with some sort of malevolent figure from mythology—I mean, if Soji’s presence is enough to trigger a suicide attempt, it’s likely Rhonda doesn’t regard her as a particularly benevolent figure. (Though this comes with the caveat that seeing as the mythological figures came in a sister pair, one who lived and one who died, it’s possible that there’s some sort of benevolent/malevolent dichotomy going on.) Are they just projecting their own fears onto Soji and Dahj, or is there something else to this?

Furthermore, I’d love to know what has drawn Soji to the Borg in the first place, because biologically, she’s only roughly three years old and wouldn’t have had a lot of time to develop this interest naturally, and, well, I don’t think it’s a coincidence, story-wise, that she is where she is, doing what she’s doing for work.

And then there’s Bruce Maddox. Considering there was an episode later down the line in TNG where Data exchanges letters with him, I had assumed he’d experienced character development since his appearance in ‘The Measure of a Man,’ and it would seem I was right. (Oh, and fun fact? In ‘Data’s Day’, the episode I referenced in the beginning of the preceding sentence, there was featured a Romulan who had been posing as a Federation ambassador for years.) But I do wonder for what purpose he created Soji and Dahj. It’s possible that he simply created them to be his children, that he created them for the sake of creating them. But I wonder about that, honestly.

Episode 3 raises the serious possibility that Soji and Dahj’s ‘mother’ is a hologram, or some other kind of artificial intelligence. While it’s possible for their ‘mother’ to be a hologram without there being anything more to their creation than just being created for their own sake, the fact that the purported ‘mother’ responds to Soji’s questions about whether she’s heard from Dahj with blatant lies doesn’t really gel with that. If there is anything at all to the Zhat Vash’s fears regarding Soji and Dahj besides projection and paranoia, then how does Maddox play into that?

Anyways, it’s only been three episodes and I probably shouldn’t try to form any concrete opinions on how things are going to go yet, but I’m very interested in seeing how things go.

[plantfeed]

        ok turns out i am 100% that dumbass bitch who still aint posted my intro on main....... so for reference.....  hello! im nora ( she / her ). im a 24 year old creative writing graduate currently residing in sheffield, south yorkshire. when i’m not hunched over a keyboard writing, i enjoy independent cinema, chinese food, and big nights out that i’ll remember only in fleeting snapshots. i currently work as a barmaid and a tutor for a filmmaking project.  

without further ado, here is my interpretation on the skeleton ‘ophelia’, a development of a character who’s been brewing at the back of my mind for absolutely AGES now so thank u for giving me the push to actually flesh her out. 

ive included a full biography, but please feel free 2 skip to bullet points if TLDR because it is LOOONG..... and im so happy 2 be here.... new home.... chefs kiss.... yes lov u all

IN CHARACTER.

skeleton: ophelia name: theresa rigby. (goes by diminutives tess, tessa, tea or thea. the only time she’s theresa is when she’s in trouble.) age: 21, born july 10 (cancer) faceclaim: diana silvers. gender: cis-female. pronouns: she/her degree: comparative literature & ancient history (joint honours)

INTRO.

trigger warnings.

loss of a parent. missing person / disappearance. drugs and alcohol reliance. death.

BIOGRAPHY.

i. narragansett, rhode island.

              1999, an Austrian sunrise, it is the year of the Water Monkey.  A water baby, first screams under the surface, the catch of it gargled in your throat. A birth mark the size and shape of a door handle pressed into your pelvis like a lover’s badge. Born like a clenched fist. Annie always wished you’d be more like an open palm. You still carry that tension with you, an unreadable kind of silence when you slink around the edge of a room or perch on an arm rest like a bird about to startle and fly off. Nobody knows a thing about you and you like it that way. Conceived in the winter, some of that coldness still lingers in you. 

              The only perfect girl is a dead girl. That’s what you learned, last-born runt of the litter growing up in the bedroom of a girl who would be forever cold, young and pretty. In the beginning, they thought you were a blessing — Bet’s soul reincarnate, the same pale face they’d seen as they’d signed her into the pick ‘n�� mix family. You were given her clothes, her room, even her middle name, stripped and rebranded like a toy doll bought after the last one’s head was chewed off by the dog. Four boys, a dead sister, and you who — with your birdlike features and unrelenting eyes — was merely a walking ghost. Tennis skirts, nail varnish, a shag rug, a rotten corsage; these were the staple reminders that you were living in a shrine, the room never quite your own lest you disturb the lingering presence of Bet. Soon, you began to see it as not a room but rather a prison cell caging you in the imprint of a sister you never met.

              Your mothers met at an undergraduate socialist meeting when the fall semester fell into winter, Kath in a mustard coloured beret, Annie in a blood-orange duffle coat, a philosophy major and an art historian respectively. Your childhood was a montage of potato printing eels onto the walls of a Rhode Island boarding house next to the sea. Five children — some adopted, some surrogate — a permanent rotation of rooms and always a handful of lodgers to foot the bill. Travelling salesmen, students on gap years and tinkers in search of odd-jobs became a flipbook of faces etched into your memories like fleeting figures in the wings of a theatre; you sketch them into the body of your work. They become the characters to haunt the pages of your notebooks, stashed beneath floorboards lest they fall into too-hungry flour-caked fingers, scones baking in the oven two floors below. A house that seemed to physically inhale every time a new body entered it, tall and thin, too small to house all that weight. The gaps beneath the floorboards are the only spaces that feel like your own, untouched by a girl who’s shadow you were born in. In your diary, you scribble her name until it tears through the pages thinking that if you wish hard enough, you’ll make yourself her. It’s never enough.

              At twelve, you lose Annie to a boating accident. You lose a piece of yourself with her and stop wearing yellow. Grief makes a better writer out of you though it sounds selfish to admit it. Kath remarries the following spring, a man named Peter. He is ordinary in all the ways Annie was magical and when he sits in your mother’s chair you feel yourself slip out of your skin and into the body of a raven cawing in the woods, scratching at the dustmites. You try to teach yourself how to be a girl, though you’ve always felt more like a wild thing crouched in the attic window of the lighthouse, screaming at the crash of the waves. You wanted to love the sea as closely as it owned you. In the sea you were rewritten into a tide, into a shell, into the swell of a rockpool around the body of a crab. You wanted to be like the ocean —a tangible, changeling thing —making paper boats and setting them out to sea, wishing you could shrink yourself into one, sail away. For a while, you toy with the idea of starving yourself into something the size and shape of an eel; of growing gills in the night and darting into the ebbing current. They’d think you crazy if you told them.

ii. concord, massachusetts. 

              You butt heads with Kath on a daily basis. She tells you you resent her for moving on with her life when you seem unable to move on with yours. That maybe a clean break would be best for all the family. A fresh start. A change of scene. You lock yourself in the bathroom and cry for an hour until your mouth feels raw, like running a cheesegrater down the inside of your throat. The following September, they send you to boarding school, two suitcases and an armful of Annie’s jumpers. Kath has decided they don’t compliment her skin tone, and she’s not twenty-five or studying philosophy any more. New England becomes the best decision for you that your family have ever made. You thrive on the independence of living in a dormitory on a corridor of Alison’s and Margaret’s and Ruth’s. From the names on their doors, you paint them into people in your head, red-haired Ruth who collects birth stones and can count to twenty in Mandarin. They turn out to be nothing like the versions of them you’ve spun. You love them anyway, their rough-softness, the scuffed knee thrill of growing up half-wild. There’s a brightness in their girlhood that you try to capture in your words. 

              Though you never quite find yourself settling into a group, Dr. Franklin becomes the anchor to which you tether yourself to, a little girl leeching onto her Literature professor for a sense of stability in a tempestuous world. The others might think it sad, but she sees something in you — an inner restlessness, a need to analyse and observe and contain everything within poetry and prose — that reminds her of herself at your age. You begin one-to-one sessions after the school day has closed, whisper about Proust and O’Hara over frothed lattes in a campus-run coffee shop, ink blots on the pages of dog-eared copies she’s gifted to you on an indefinite loan. Sometimes, you think you love her. You run your fingers over the buttons of her typewriter, close your eyes, and imagine yourself pulling on her skin like a new coat.

              The woods become your saviour. In Narragansett you never knew woods, only harboursides, seafood restaurants, the smell of the ocean breeze and a lighthouse calling you home. You learn to love the smell of the earth after rain. The feeling of soil between your toes. The sense of belonging you feel trailing through the woods in stark white nightgown, twigs catching on the mud-stained hem. Massachusetts becomes a place of revision. You remake yourself as a fawn, elegance in your limbs and hunger in your heart. You learn how to write yourself into being. There’s a violence in your grace — simultaneously glass and the hammer that shatters it — and despite the ethereal way you move it’s the leonine stature of a tigress, claws bared, teeth sharpened into fangs, but a smile like butter wouldn’t melt. Lady Macbeth was always your favourite of Shakespeare’s heroines. There’s something dark in her that resonates with you, the way when a pimple appears you have to squeeze it until it bleeds. You tell yourself that everybody has a morbid fascination. 

              Each night you take a torch, a book and a bottle of Merlot, and you wile away the hours reading in the woods. At home, sleep never came easy to you. You’d pace the floorboards counting sheep and wake having barely slept a blink. This, on the other hand, seems useful, though when you’re never asleep, you’re never quite awake, floating through the school day like a ghost, part removed, the dark circles pulling your eyes to a close. It’s a tiredness you carry in every aspect of your life, limbs heavier than usual, pen slower when it grazes the page. Soon you start taking tablets each night. Two white ones, no bigger than a baby’s fingernail. For the first time, you begin to dream.

              When February rolls around you take your exams. Pass with the grace of a swan in everything except AP Calculus. You say you’ll try again next semester, but you don’t. You apply for Yale, Cambridge, Harvard, Columbia, Ashcroft. You wait. And wait. And wait until it feels like your skin has shed itself since the letters left your hands, before an envelope comes marked Theresa. No one ever calls you that name. Right from the start it’s been Tea, Tess, Thea, common names in your house as fickle as the tide that swallows it. Billy’s never been a William, and Sebastian sounds all wrong. You can scarcely remember what Brodie’s short for. Rejection after rejection until Ashcroft answers the call, a cawing in the dark of a wasteland you’ve not yet walked. You’ll read literature, follow in the footsteps of Ginsberg who you clumsily try to quote as you bid the girls goodbye, a bonfire and the smell of cinnamon whiskey. 

iii. ashcroft university, edinburgh. 

              You’d read of a boy who went missing there. It happened in the woods. Seventy years and all they’d found was an emptied bottle of wine and one shoe. Newspapers claimed involvement in an elite society, perhaps a hazing gone wrong, and you imagine them burrowed in underground tunnels wearing wellington boots and tweed. This is what draws you to Ashcroft ; to Imperium. It’s not so much the mystery of it —you’ve never seen yourself as a Nancy Drew — but more the idea of living in a place where people can disappear. That’s always been an idle fantasy of yours. One day, you wonder if you’ll write yourself out of the world and into the pages of a book, nestled between a title and contents page.  

              From Concord to Boston, then a ten-hour flight ; for the first time in months, you sleep through the night. A line break cancels your train and you have to take a replacement bus service instead. By the time you reach the school, the open day is almost over. You feel it at the gates, like a tingle on the back of your neck, something crawling down your spine. It only grows as you close in on it. It feels like it knows your own heartbeat. You’ve never known a building to have so much soul. You imagine yourself walking the cobblestones on the quad each day, climbing the steps to a dormitory, sprawled on a library table, scribbling frantically, willing the clock hands backwards. It’s a life you want to lead.

              In a matter of months, Ashcroft has become not only your home but your life. You are utterly consumed by it. You meet Lysander at a poetry reading. You recite Shelley. He recites Keats. He compliments you on the steadiness of your voice, clear as a bell. A voice for the stage. You tell him your father had a powerful voice. It’s a lie. You’ve never had a father, but it’s fun to imagine one slouched on the couch, wire-rimmed glasses on the end of his nose. He invites you to dinner the following week. Grilled sea bass and risotto. You don’t have the heart to tell him you’ve become a vegetarian, swallow each mouthful with your pride. You try out for the orchestra, though your hands shake a little too much and you hear more from the inside of your own head than the keys. You leave without waiting on an answer. It’s too contained for you, anyway. You need something more chaotic, like jazz. You wish for chaos, so Imperium opens it jaws and swallows you whole. They like you because of your voice, a voice that speaks scarcely more than a low whisper in life, but when written wins you a Bysshe-Shelley Prize. In poetry, you give that voice to the voiceless ; bring dead girls buried in the woods out of the ground and into being, like soil in your hands. A voice like that is a powerful thing to have in your ranks. It becomes every page in your diary, every catch of your skirt on a tree branch, every rap of your fingertips against the desktop, imperium, imperium, imperium.

              You’ve never been able to do things by halves — you always let them consume you. One glass becomes a bottle. One paragraph becomes scrawling until sunrise. Obsession takes its form in Hamlet, strong in all the ways you appear weak. You like the smell of his breath when he tells you to stub out your cigarette. That’ll kill you one day, he says. I know, you reply, and your pretty lips curl upwards. One drunken night, you fall into his bed and imagine stitching yourself into his sheets so you can sleep with him every night. Tongues on your thighs like a voice in your throat. Touch me, touch me, touch me. Never been held like this before. Like you’re not glass, but something material and robust. You like the way his hands feel under your skin. Perhaps you’ll keep him there like a splinter. Tall for your age but thin as a rail, he makes you feel like more than an eel of a girl. You like the way he catches on your spindly elbows where others have snagged leaving trails of cotton. At first, it’s only physical, but you get greedy and want more. You’re not sure when a love of beauty became something more than skin deep. You’re not sure if you even loved him until he’d stopped loving you. In October, you find the body. The day all the clocks stop ticking. The day something inside of you snaps like the branch of an elm.

              You become a cocoon, velvet ribbons in your hair and rope around your throat. Or maybe it’s lace, and you’re only imagining it that way. You drink wine, stumble blind-drunk through the woods, lose textbooks to nature and curse when you can’t find them the following morning. Most nights, you appear like a ghost in the wood, a linen nightdress with mud clinging to it’s hem and feet laden in soil. You’re not sure if it’s conscious at this point, or mindless sleepwalking. Everything you do feels like sleepwalking these days. Shadows move in the corners of your eyes at night and you turn to the tarot cards for answers. They tell you only of that which you already know. Death. The Hanged Man. High Priestess. You think of Octavia, of Lysander, and of you pulled like a ragdoll between them, with the intuition that comes from living by the sea but without the evidence to execute it. The pills have stopped working. You wake in sweats, guilt swelling in the pit of your stomach. In a therapist’s waiting room, you watch as a girl scratches the skin off her own arm.

              Soon news of your occultist proclivities becomes gossip on everyone’s tongue. Witch becomes a synonym for your name, and one you’ll happily wear like a noose until you’ve stolen Lysander from the drop. Finding the truth becomes the only thing keeping you sane, runes scrawled on the walls of a dormitory where pages of novels are tacked up like wallpaper. And still, you can’t shake the fact that she hasn’t come to you when the others who scarcely believe in such phantomed are rattled by her ghost on a nightly basis. Competing and girlhood go hand in hand, but the longer it gets, the more it feels like she knows your desperation to absolve Lysander isn’t entirely selfless. Perhaps she saw you lingering in doorways, waiting in the wings for him to change his mind and tell you it was you all along. Or maybe the sight of her corpse is making you search for answers in places they don’t exist. You’re hanging on my a single thread, one glimpse away from fleeing to the woods to plant yourself into the earth.

              The snow is crisp on the November ground when you learn to love melancholy like a dance you were taught as a child. You think it adds depth to being a writer. How can a person write about pain if they live in a state of blissful oblivion? You tell yourself that all of the best writers were depressed; Plath, Fitzgerald, Dickinson, Rice. If you say their names each morning, followed by your own, perhaps you’ll become one of them. 

BULLET POINT SUMMARY.

here is a bullet point summary of theresa, as i understand my writing can get a little dense.

Mother always said that people who grow up near water are different to other people. That there’s something more primal in their bones. A kind of knowing.

In Theresa, the knowing is a kind of silence. She’s always struggled with verbal communication, and it’s rare that she can ever let herself go in a conversation. She’s the one on the outskirts of the group, only speaking up to deliver a poignant metaphor, before fading off again. On a good day she’ll ramble, perhaps, on morbid longings and fascinations, but it’s like she’s always skipping around words she can’t quite pinpoint. 

Writing’s different. When she’s writing, she feels like all the dead souls of Emily Bronte and Virginia Woolf and Sylvia Plath are all rising up from their graves to possess her. It is, perhaps, a rather egotistical thought -- but it makes her feel less alone. Like writing isn’t so much a solitary pursuit as it is a reigniting of what’s been lost, a way of listening to the dead. She’s militant in the way she writes, has been for as long as she can remember -- every night when the clock strikes twelve. Even if she’s rolling on mandy in an abandoned warehouse or dropping acid in a shipyard with her toes in the sand, she’ll start scribbling at twilight, for as long as she can. Back home, there weren’t too many bars that allowed underage kids, and the ones that did would nail your phone to the wall like you’re living in the eighties, so they made their own fun getting high in places long since infested with rats on baggies bought cheap in the back of the dry-cleaners shop.

Theresa’s always felt more able to relate to dead people than to living ones. That might sound depressing, but she doesn’t think so. Death has never been far from her. She grew up in the room of a foster sister who had died the previous winter. She lost her mother to a boating accident at twelve years old. She lost Octavia last year, found her body in the woods, and was thankful that she -- and not someone else -- had seen her crumpled like a fawn. Because even though it clings to her and burrows under her skin, she knows how to drown it out now. In words. In wine. In pills crushed against the veneer of a sink and snorted through a twenty-dollar bill. She’s getting good at losing herself completely. Theresa herself feels like a girl half-dead, like something ghostly, trapped between two planes. Which is why it hurts so much that she still hasn’t seen Octavia’s ghost. She’s supposed to be the special one. The one who’s vision isn’t clouded by idle dogmatism. The one who believes in all that fate, juju, third eye stuff that the others seem to scoff at. It feels like a personal attack. Like somehow, in keeping hidden, she’s blaming Theresa for her death.

Theresa is the month of November. There’s something mysterious about it, something cold. It’s on the cusp of the end of the year, but it doesn’t quite reach it. I feel like that’s what Theresa’s like. Always reaching for the apples that are just out of her grasp, or perhaps, reaching for apples which aren’t even there. 

She knows grief like an old friend, but somehow, she still doesn’t trust it. When she was twelve years old she lost one of her mothers. Annie was always the brighter of her parents, and Tessa never really believed that someone so full of life could just disappear. Her soul had to be somewhere. When Kath remarried, Theresa never forgave her. Between grief and anger, their relationship became fractious, and Kath decided to send her to boarding school. She went to a New England college where she learned art, history, literature, english, athletics, the sciences and the classics. Boarding school was probably the best decision for Theresa that Kath had ever made. She became fascinated with the girls around her, so feral and wild in their girlhood. She fell in love with another girl more than once. She fell in love with the freedom of New England, of being in the woods, of a gaggle of girls with bottles of wine sat around a campfire, scared half to death that the matron would find them.

But death’s never far from her. She’s been searching for Annie in the linebreaks between poems, in the chaos of clutter under her bed, under lace and linen in her underwear drawer, but somehow she can never quite find her and never give up.  Finding Annie was perhaps the reason she came to Ashcroft at all. She intended to go to Columbia, read Literature, and clumsily follow in the footsteps of Ginsberg. But Annie had spoken of Edinburgh with such a childlike awe.

Lysander was the first of the society she met, at a poetry reading in the autumn of her first semester. He brought her into the club because he saw something in her, an otherworldliness, a still but powerful voice. Her eyes saw more than they let on, always glinting at something more. She thinks her closeness with Lysander is the reason she still hasn’t seen Octavia’s ghost, and now Hamlet’s out of the picture she’s starting to think she might love Lysander. Or maybe she just needs to be loved by someone, and absolving him of blame is the key.

She was never really sure how she felt about Octavia. One moment they were friends, the next they were rivals. It was something like love and hate combined, but perhaps that’s just the curse of being a woman. A fierce sense of competition in everything you do, even if it’s just competing for air.

She likes old French music, European cinema, art that doesn’t come in her mother tongue. She’s always thought English pointless. The French say things so much better.

Her favourite TV show is Twin Peaks. She likes the absurdist truth in it, the style, the colour, the oddness. She likes the mystery of it all. She loved the woods in New England and it reminds her of that. A kind of home away from home. Tea brings a pocked dictaphone out with her, for she’s so often absent-minded that she misses half the day. That way, she can replay conversations, the sound of a bird in flight, the particular inflection in the voice of someone she loves. She’s obsessive when it comes to lovers. She doesn’t want to be loved -- she wants to be respected, understood, devoured. She thinks love is a kind of mutual lying.

She finds truth in the unusual. In tarot cards and horoscopes, in the position of the planets through a thrifted telescope. She’s a night owl, never in bed before 3 or 4 in the morning. She visits the woods each night to write until her fingers ache. Sometimes with wine, sometimes with mushrooms, sometimes with a tab against the flat of her tongue, imagining herself to be Alice in Wonderland. She feels like she’s getting close to the truth, but maybe she’s just closer to losing her mind.

LETTER TO OCTAVIA.

My dearest O,

I wish I could find an adequate way to write you an epitaph. You saw a poet where everyone else saw a foolish dreamer and yet you’re the only one I can’t put into words. But in truth, there is no word large enough to contain you. You were the ellipsis I was always looking to conclude, and it’s so like you to steal even that from me. Some days, I think I could love you.  

Please know that death cannot touch girls like us. That you’re more than just skin, teeth and bone. Death itself has you only on a short-term loan. As Thomas puts so eloquently, Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Thank you for filling me with life. I’ll see you in the next one.

Tea.

anything else?

mock blog.

 pinterest 

wanted plots.

someone who theresa knows purely from seeing them at the library. recently, she hasn’t been visiting as often. she’s less in the world and more in her head. her schoolwork is suffering. someone who feels this absence like a missing tooth.

unlikely bc ashcroft is in scotland but if they’re from rhode island maybe distant relatives.... ophelia / theresa is adopted so could work regardless of heritage. her family lived in narragansett, but she went to boarding school in vermont. could have met if ur character is new england based??? maybe

give me fellow wanky pretentious art-lovers and poets and historians who will go to museums and galleries with her and listen to the velvet underground on vinyl

people she gets mortally fucked off her tits with at parties bcos this baby is not alright. she drinks at least one glass of wine every night. sometimes a bottle. she’s always a little bit high or a little bit weary with a comedown. she can’t seem to keep her feet on the ground.

theresa was pretty numb after finding the body, as you would be. she stayed in her room listening to enya for three days straight and just eating cereal straight out the box. then thalia broke up with her and that fuckin shook her too, and now she just thinks she’s unlovable. she’s always been pretty bad at sleeping but now she just wanders about in her white nightdress looking for a door with light spilling beneath it so that maybe she can find someone who’ll hold her for the night and make her feel like she’s still alive

she’s currently hooking up with a lot of people. a lot of very detached sex, so if she has any sort of close connection with your character this might not work. could be good for angst or awkwardness though, or she cld get like.... super attached after a one night stand and complicate the shit out of everything. theresa’s kind of obsessive when it comes to her affections, she loves with her whole heart or not at all

people she used to date or unrequitedly likes, but to them it’s just a physical thing, give me all the thirsty angst plots, and maybe some softness too, i need some religion in this girls life jesus 

honestly everything just give me all the plots

[kendrixtermina]

Thoughts and Feelings about“Change Your Mind”

I really wish I could rewatch this motherfucker somewhere but I have to sleep and go to work 

Well on the one hand the main story lines are pretty much done for, on the other, the fallout alone could fill another season, and I’m actually glad that they’re not relegating that to the epilogue but actually going to show it

I assume season 5 will be Steven working with the Diamonds to improve homeworld, explaining things to Jasper, integrating the former corrupted gems on earth, finding out the deal with pink pearl, further developing Steven’s new fusions etc. 

Other open questions involve gem origins and peridot’s renewable energy project, but I suppose that will come up as Steven tries to make the Empire less... imperialistic. 

I understand why they wanted to air this in one piece, you couldn’t leave the younger viewers hanging with some of these creepytastic scenes and no resolution

There’s various concepts I feel reminded of. 

There’s this idea of “tzimtsum” in kaballalistic thought, about how God created the world - In order to create a being apart from himself, he “hid” some aspects of the being, the ones that would seem - So every part of creation reflects one aspect of god, but none shows the complete pictures of it, and because everything has some aspects of god but not others, it is unique - so all humans are made in gods image, but still be different from each other.  

Maybe Pink Diamond would be something like Lucifer in this analogy, part of the creation but as far from the god as you can get while still existing, and somehow their antithesis (stretching the analogy here, of course Judaism has no counterpart to Lucifer let alone the positive-ish early modernity interpretions of him - but of course, White Diamond isn’t exactly a benevolent God either. )

First of course Star Trek, like the ep where Captain Kirk is split into what at first seems like his good and evil half but is more like his animal instincts and higher reasoning, or in Voyager, when B’Elana Torres is split into her human and Klingon halves. 

I guess Garnet wasn’t completely wrong in his being something in-between fusion and human reproduction, his gem half could be considered A Pink Diamond, but not the same one who created him - He must be fricking powerful to shrug off WD’s beams like that, like how Stevonnie still has “boosted” versions of Steven’s abilities despite Connie being human, Steven’s probably like Pink Diamond, but ‘boosted’.  

Steven’s victory certainly showcases how it comes from both sides of his heritage. It involves making WD laugh/embarassed like what Pink used to do, but unlike her, he has the communication skills from Greg - I don’t think Pink ever talked to Blue in that way, she didn’t seem aware of what the other Diamonds were thinking at all, any more than she really understood Pearl’s lingering knot of complexes. It’s just not a skill she could have picked up before Greg - when? From whom?  

His responsibility is all uniquely him and due to his upbringing with the CG’s and wanting to help him more, tho, both his parents where free spirit hippy bohemians, but it was Steven who decided “Nope, I WANT to fix it, because I can”, not because he owes it to anybody, even when no one could fault him for running. 

Also, Frankenstein (the Novel not the film) - The original Victor was a sympathetic, even admirable character, but somehow he just couldn’t bring himself to have empathy with the monster, though Adam was in many ways alike to him and initially didn’t wish to be his enemy.  Because while the gems relate to White Diamond as their goddess and the other Diamonds see her as their mother, she seems to regard them as extensions of herself. Maybe she would, as their creator. Gods are expected to smile benevolently upon their followers and solve their problems, Mothers, while they are flawed humans,  are supposed to love their kids as they are and realize that they become their own persons, but artists frequently tear up their own work if they’re dissatisfied with it, because it’s supposed to be a reflection of their existence, so they might hate it for not reflecting them well enough - 

i often regret tearing up half my teenage fanfics, but I’m able to view them different now that I’m - Back then, I felt like they reflectzed badly onto me - but if had kids and treated them like my fanfics or crumpled drawings, well, that would scar them for life. 

You could certainly see this as a metaphor for narcissism, particularly in the way WD judged everything by how much it was like her, to the point that she would ‘overwrite`’ ppl’s personalities with her ideas of how it ought to be, while lacking a solid identity of her own apart from being “perfect/the best” by default, but that only goes so far because the gems literally are her creations who take their characteristics from various aspects of her being. 

She’d have a completely different conceptual framework to anyone else, though she’s certainly not “above it” in any way. 

I don’t think she was completely unaffected by Pink’s dissapearence either, if you want to complete the Stages of Grief analogy she would be Denial or Bargaining. Most likely,  she was growing increasingly frustrated with her ability to make her empire “perfect” like she ought to and that’s why she started keeping to herself more and assuming that Pink couldn’t be dead. 

She seemed like the knowing one when she was as much in denial as anyone else - you can tell they had a complicated relationship because of how White saw herself in her, that might be why she indulged and preferred her, but then again she didn’t always like what she saw and felt that Pink represented parts of her that she didn’t want to see. 

It’s not without reason that Steven tells her to “get out of her own head” and try to see the world for what it is rather than her preconceived notions of what it is or means. You could perhaps relate that to 

When she realizes that she’s actually dead - that’s when she has her breakdown. 

You could even draw a parallel to “Romeo And Juliet”, where the older generation only realizes how much its ways were fucked up when it gets their beloved children killed for just trying to live happy lives. 

Cal Gustav Jung would certainly remind us that what irritates us about others are often things that irritate us about ourselves, that we may be liable to “see the world as we are” and never is that more apparent than when we view everything through some skewed belief system, or when we hate - people hate people who blur boundaries because they don’t want to confront the ambiguity within themselves, or act as “superior” and merciless because they’ve rejected their own mortal fragile humanity.

Another observation is that when you set up anything as the “default” you create pressure not to deviate from the norm and prevent its members from experiencing their individuality. (see societal pressure on heterosexual men, or Euro-Americans saying they ‘have no culture to celebrate’ - maybe instead of becoming a devouring plague upon your fellow men, you could actually appreciate European culture? Like, read some books, eat some cheese, learn a language, listen to some classical music, vote for worker protection laws?)

It speaks for PD that she even tried to save other aliens at some point. steven stepped completely out of her shadow the moment he was able to feel sorry for her, like “Geez, she had to live like that? No wonder she turned out the way she did!” he pretty much calls the other Diamonds out at some point, like he gets a secure sense of the differences between them when he realizes how much better off he’s been in his own life. Like, UGH. 

For my part, I don’t believe the “best of the worst” thing was true, and more of an “evil cannot comprehend good” moment from White, if not outright projection. (after all, White seems to view all other Gems as imperfect copies of herself) If anything, Pink seemed upset that she got stuck being the leader even as “Rose Quartz” (see the Beach scene in “Greg the babysitter”) - but of course Steven, not being Pink, wouldn’t know whether or not White is right. 

Other Thoughts:

In the earlier scenes you could see a lot of parallels to less than ideal family situations, and how people might end up acting as proxies of the problematic person, almost sprouting their words, in the name of keeping the peace, and how people in such an environment may have no idea of how it’s not normal

You CAN talk down such a person (I know of multiple people who made a bona fide job out of talking sense into literal nazis and clansmen, person by person - their tactic was generally to find whatever problem their rage came from), but there’s a difference between “flawed” and “awful” and I do think it came through that White is a piece of work quite unlike, say, Connie’s mother, and that Steven’s dealing with her because he wants to for the good of society, because he’s the bigger person and secure in himself,  not because he owes it to her or anything

It seems like they went for “awesome” rather than “beautiful” with Steven’s fusions. The designs are kinda gaudy, but even so, once you getpast the gaudy design, it’s kind of touching how Steven’s and Garnet’s fusion is essentially a motivational speaker who sprouts encouraging advice nonstop. Garnet was always Steven’s Mentor and  as well as the main person (besides greg) to teach him morals, as well as generally encouraging & supportive, but Steven of course encourages and supports her too, and both like doing that for others

I love Peridot’s short shorts and that she and Bismuth repaired the ships/ went a-tinkering together. It took me a bit to notice that it’s supposed to be shorts and not just her old outfit with starts instead tho

Voice of Reason!Connieis a gift that keeps on giving

[vaultt-tec]

How did Fallout 1 ever get made?

PCGameN sat down with the Fallout 1 team and discussed its making.

This is in a read more because it is SUPER long. I added it all here but click the link and read it on their site, there are more pictures!

Tim Caine was at PAX when he first saw Vault Boy as a living, breathing entity - it was a cosplayer of 16 or 17 years old, hair gelled to replicate that distinctive swirl. ‘This is weird’, he thought.

Feargus Urquhart remembers walking into Target and seeing that same gelled haircut and toothy smile, not on a fan this time, but emblazoned across half a metre of cotton. ‘How is it that a game that we all worked on somehow created something iconic?’, he wondered. ‘How did it show up on a t-shirt in a department store?’

Related: the best RPGs on PC.

In the years since, Bethesda have taken Fallout into both first-person and the pop culture mainstream. Vault Boy has become as recognisable as Mickey Mouse. The series’ sardonic, faux-’50s imagery now feels indelible, as if it has always been here. But it hasn’t.

It took the nascent Black Isle Studios to nurse the Fallout universe into being, as an unlikely, half-forgotten project in the wings of Interplay, where Caine and Urquhart were both working in the ‘90s. The pair helped create one of the all-time great RPGs in the process.

“The one thing I would say about Interplay in those days, and this isn’t trying to pull the veil back or anything like that - there was just shit going on,” Urquhart tells us. “It was barely controlled chaos. I’m not saying that Brian [Fargo] didn’t have some plan, but there was just… stuff.”

One day, Fargo sent out a company-wide email to canvass opinion. He wanted Interplay to work on a licensed game, and had three tabletop properties in mind. One was Vampire: The Masquerade. Another was Earthdawn, a fantasy game set in the same universe as Shadowrun. And the third was GURPS, designed by Games Workshop’s Steve Jackson.

The team picked the latter, overwhelmingly, because that was what they played in their own sessions. But GURPS wasn’t a setting - it was a Generic Universal RolePlaying System. And so Interplay’s team had to come up with a world of their own.

“I would send out an email saying, ‘I’m in Conference Room Two with a pizza’,” Caine says. “And if people wanted to come, on their own time, they could do it. Chris [Taylor, lead designer], Leonard [Boyarksy, art director], and Jason [Anderson, lead artist] showed up.”

Interplay at the time was almost like a high school, as map layout designer Scott Evans remembers it: incredibly noisy and divided into cliques. Caine was building a clique of his own.

Traditional fantasy was the first idea to be dismissed. The team actually considered making Fallout first-person, a decade early - but decided the sprites of the period didn’t offer the level of detail they wanted. Concepts were floated for time travel, and for a generation ship story - but one after the other, they were all pushed aside and the post-apocalypse was left.

“One thing I didn’t like was games where the character you’re playing should know stuff that you, the player, don’t,” Caine says. “And I think the vault helped us capture that, because both you the player and you the character had no idea what the world was like. The doors opened and you were pushed out. And I really liked that, because it meant we didn’t have to do anything fake like, ‘Well you were hit on your head and have amnesia’.”

There was plenty about the Fallout setting that wasn’t as intuitive, however. Players would have to wrap their heads around a far-future Earth and a peculiar retro aesthetic, even before the bombs started dropping. The question of how Fallout ever survived pitching is answered with a Caine quip: “What do you mean, pitch?”

For a short while, Interplay had planned to make several games in the GURPS system. But soon afterwards they had won the D&D license, a far bigger property that would go on to spawn Baldur’s Gate and Icewind Dale. As a consequence, Caine’s team were left largely to their own devices.

As for budget - Fallout’s was small enough to pass under the radar. Although Interplay are best remembered for the RPGs of Black Isle and oddball action games like Shiny’s Earthworm Jim, they had mainstream ambitions not so different to those of the bigger publishers today. During Fallout’s development they were primarily interested in sports, and an online game division called Engage.

“It was almost like a smokescreen,” Urquhart explains. “So much money was being pumped into these things that you could go play with your toys and no-one would know.”

Which is exactly what the Fallout team did, pulling out every idea they’d ever intended for a videogame.

“Being just so happy and fired up that we were making this thing basically from scratch and doing virtually whatever we wanted, we had this weird arrogance about the whole thing,” Boyarsky recalls. “‘People are gonna love it, and if they don’t love it they don’t get it.’

“Part of it was a punk rock ethos of, every time we came up with an idea and thought, ‘Wow, no-one would ever do that’, we always wanted to push it further. We chased that stuff and got all excited, like we were doing things we weren’t supposed to be doing.”

The team laugh at the idea that Fallout might have carried some kind of message (“Violence solves problems,” Caine suggests). To these kids of the ‘80s, nuclear holocaust felt like immediate and obvious thematic material. The game’s development was guided by a mantra, however.

“It was the consequence of action,” Caine puts it. “Do what you want, so long as you can accept the consequences.”

Fallout lets you shoot up all you want. But if you get addicted, that will become a problem for you, one you’ll have to cope with. The team were keen not to force their own views onto players, and decided the best way to avoid that was with an overriding moral greyness. The Brotherhood of Steel - in Fallout 3, a somewhat heroic group policing the wasteland - were here in the first game simply as preservationists or, more uncharitably, hoarders. Even The Master, the closest thing Fallout had to a villain, was driven by a well-intentioned desire to bring unity to the wasteland. His name, pre-mutation, was ‘Richard Grey’.

“Everyone needed to have flaws and positive points,” Taylor says. “That way the player could have better, stronger interactions whichever way they went.”

Although the GURPS ruleset eventually fell by the wayside, the Fallout team were determined to replicate the tabletop experience they loved - in which players don’t always do what their Game Master would like. They filled their maps with multiple quest solutions and stuffed the game with thousands of words of alternative dialogue. “The hard part was making sure there was no character that couldn’t finish the game,” Caine says.

Fallout’s dedication to its sandbox is still striking, and only lately matched by the likes of Divinity: Original Sin 2. It was a simulation that enabled unforeseen possibilities.

“I am shocked that people got Dogmeat to live till the end of the game,” Taylor says. “Dogmeat was never supposed to survive. You had to do some really strange things and go way out of your way to do so, but people did.”

During development, a QA tester came to the team with a problem: you could put dynamite on children.

“Where you see a problem…,” Urquhart says. He is joking, of course, yet the ability to plant dynamite - achieved by setting a timer on the explosive and reverse pickpocketing an NPC - became a supported part of the game and the foundation of a quest. This was a new kind of player freedom, matched only by the freedom the team felt themselves.

“We were really, really fortunate,” Boyarsky says. “No-one gets the opportunity we had to go off in a corner with a budget and a team of great, talented people and make whatever we wanted. That kind of freedom just doesn’t exist.

“We were almost 30, so we were old enough to realise what we had going on. A lot of people say, ‘I didn’t realise how good it was until it was over’. Every day when I was making Fallout I was thinking, ‘I can’t believe we’re doing this’. And I even knew in the back of my head that it was never going to be that great again.”

Once Fallout came out, it was no longer the strange project worked on in the shadows with little to no oversight. It was a franchise with established lore that was getting a sequel. It wasn’t long before Boyarsky, Caine, and Anderson left to form their own RPG studio, Troika.

“We knew Fallout 1 was the pinnacle,” Boyarsky says. “We felt like to continue on with it under changed circumstances would possibly leave a bad taste in our mouths. We were so happy and so proud of what we’d done that we didn’t want to go there.”

Fallout is larger than this clique now. Literally, in fact: the vault doors Boyarsky once drew in isometric intricacy are now rendered in imposing 3D in Bethesda’s sequels. And yet Boyarksy, Taylor, and Caine now work under the auspices of Obsidian, a studio that has its own, more recent, history with the Fallout series. Should the opportunity arise again, would they take it?

“I’m not sure, to be very honest,” Taylor says. “I loved working on Fallout. It was the best team of people I ever worked with. I think it’s grown so much bigger than myself that I would feel very hesitant to work on it nowadays. I would love to work on a Fallout property, like a board game, but working on another computer game might be too much.”

Boyarsky shares his reservations: that with the best intentions, these old friends could get started on something and tarnish their experience of Fallout.

“It would be very hard for us to swallow working on a Fallout game where somebody else was telling you what you could and couldn’t do,” he expands. “I would have a really hard time with someone telling me what Fallout was supposed to be. I’m sure that it would never happen because of the fact that I would have that issue.”

Urquhart - now Obsidian’s CEO - is at pains to point out that Bethesda were nothing but supportive partners throughout the making of Fallout: New Vegas, requesting only a handful of tiny tweaks to Obsidian’s interpretation of its world. “I’ve got to be explicit in saying we are not working on a new Fallout,” he says. “But I absolutely would.”

Caine has mainly built his career by working on original games rather than sequels: Fallout, Arcanum, Wildstar, and Pillars of Eternity. But he would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about working on another Fallout.

“I’ve had a Fallout game in my head since finishing Fallout 1 that I’ve never told anyone about,” he admits. “But it’s completely designed, start to finish. I know the story, I know the setting, I know the time period, I know what kind of characters are in it. It just sits in the back of my head, and it’s sat there for 20 years. I don’t think I ever will make it, because by now anything I make would not possibly compare to what’s in my head. But it’s up there.”

[firehawk12]

A Silent Voice (Koe no Katachi) (2016)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E7utbHbxDAM

Cross posting from Medium.  (I keep forgetting to update Tumblr...)

Koe no Katachi is a bit of dream project for me. I enjoyed the source material written and drawn Yoshitoki Oima, so I was confident in the actual story being told, and the film adaptation would be produced by Kyoto Animation, reuniting the Naoko Yamada (director)/Reiko Yoshida (writer) team that elevated K-On! beyond its simple 4-koma origins.

Perhaps I was a bit naive in thinking that Yamada/Yoshida team make lightning strike twice, particularly given the uneven nature of Tamako Market, but I assumed that being constrained by an adaptation would provide them with more focus. What I didn’t take into account was that it would be near impossible to take a long running manga and turn it into a 2 hour film. It’s a problem that I saw before in the Kids on the Slope adaptation, which suffered greatly by trying to fit a long running story into a short 12 episode run, but I just assumed that the Yamada/Yoshida team would have been able to make it work.

While I was quite disappointed in the film as adaptation when I first saw it back in June, I’ve softened my stance since then. I do think the film is still problematic — many, if not all, of the secondary characters should have been cut — but knowing that I could safely ignore all of the side plots the second time around allowed me to enjoy the “heart” of the story that much more.

That heart of the film, of course, is the relationship between Shoko Nishimiya and Shoya Ishida (they’re both Sho-chan, as the film points out). The first act of the film takes place in grade school, where we are introduced to the cast of characters as young children. Nishimiya is a girl who is deaf and is unable to properly communicate with any of the students around her. She makes up for this shortcoming by being overly selfless, trying her best to be helpful and not be a burden to the class (we see how much of the work she did when she leaves the school and the teacher wonders why none of the classroom chores have been done). Eventually all the students begin to resent her, culminating with Ishida actively bullying her by stealing and destroying her hearing aids. When Ishida points out that the rest of the class was just as complicit in bullying Nishimiya, the class ostracizes him as quickly as they ostracized Nishimiya, and he’s begins to see his isolation as a form of penance for his previous behavior.

As a teenager, Ishida comes to hate himself and decides to take his own life — but only after he finds Nishimiya and properly apologizes to her. After he meets her, he realizes that suicide is not the way out and he decides to try his best to live his life. It’s from that moment that the film takes off, and we see the awkward attempts that Ishida makes to try to connect with Nishimiya and the other people who come into his life.

The second act is where the film flourishes, with a lot of visual sequences to depict the social isolation that Ishida experiences in his life.

The Xs over the faces of the people around him is perhaps the most obvious visual indicator of Ishida’s psychology, as he externalizes his social isolation from everyone else by trying not to make any human connections. It’s an indicator that pays off at the end of the film when he learns that he shouldn’t isolate himself and the Xs fall off everyone’s faces.

What I found the most enjoyable about the film was how Yamada used framing to show isolation, both from the point of view of the external audience and also from the point of view of the characters.

For example, the film often frames the characters off-center, creating sequences with a lot negative space:

Even without context, the fact that Ishida is in the corner of the frame instead of in the center of the frame is enough to show how he feels in this scene.

Several sequences showing Nishimiya and Ishida interacting with each other are framed in a similar manner.

When the characters reunite and connect with each other, we can literally see the characters bridging the gap between them (and on a bridge, no less) by how the framing pushes them together. They are still somewhat separated from each other, because there is a tentativeness in their interactions, but we subconsciously see that the characters are having a shared moment.

The film uses this type of framing at the end of the film:

You would expect the characters to be really close to each other at this point, but the framing suggests otherwise. Unlike the scene above, the negative space literally pushes the characters apart from each other and we understand why — Nishimiya has resolved to commit suicide, and Ishida has no idea that Nishimiya hates her own life as much as he hates his life. In fact, this moment probably represents the biggest gulf between them in their entire relationship.

The film also borrows the visual language of objectification through framing to help illustrate how the characters see the world around them:

Here, Ishida is unable and unwilling to meet Ueno’s gaze. It’s an effective use of objectification to illustrate the way that these characters look at the others around them. In the Mulvey sense, scopophilic objectification is meant to produce and reproduce sexual desire, but here Yamada turns this objectification into a revelation about the characters — that they think so little of themselves and of the others around them that they can only see people as a generic mass of body parts and not as individuals with unique motivations and desires.

It’s also not just Ishida, since the idea of the story is that everyone has their own personal issues to deal with. Here’s how Sahara sees the people around her when she reunites with the main group after their big fight:

Yamada also uses objectification when the camera isn’t necessarily depicting a specific point of view. In the big confrontation where Ishida calls out everyone’s personal issues, we don’t see any of the characters as people:

Even Nagatsuka on the left, who is too short to be cut off by the frame, has his head obscured by the tree to make the point that the characters are being reduced and essentialized to their particular character flaws in this scene. Again, even without context, you can get an impression of what Yamada is trying to convey in this scene. It’s a technique that she uses fairly often in the film as a way to show how Ishida sees the world. It’s both a sad outlook, because is isolated from society, but it’s also an enlightening one because he’s the only one who can see these people for who they truly are.

Incidentally, the film has a scene where the characters watch a video clip that reproduces the male gaze:

There’s something clever about having the audience experience the objectified gaze mediated by the characters watching a video, considering the fact that the entire experience is mediated. The interesting part is that this scene is an important moment of character development between Ueno and Nishimiya, when Ueno confronts Nishimiya over her passive personality. It’s a dramatic moment where all you can really see are the two characters’ legs, which makes the confrontation somehow more personal and cutting than if we were non-diegetic observers able to see the characters’ faces.

There are also visually striking sequences that made the film pop. In this sequence of shots, we get a clear understanding of how Ishida sees his relationship with Nishimiya:

We can see that Nishimiya casts a shadow over Ishida — of course, it’s a literal shadow in this scene, but we know that she has loomed over him since the very beginning of the film. The fact that she is bathed in light and is almost ethereal and angelic when he looks up at her only reinforces how highly he sees her. But soon after we see that her view of her has been all wrong, that in his own self-pity and martyrdom, he hasn’t been able to see her for who she is — a person with her own flaws and insecurities. It’s a mistake that is nearly fatal, because, as discussed earlier, he isn’t able to see that she has her own suicidal thoughts.

There are many more visual moments in the film that I could talk about. Yuzuru, Nishimiya’s younger sister, is a photographer and we see the world mediated both through her camera lens and through the morbid photographs of dead animals that she collects. Nearly every interaction uses framing and editing in some way to show isolation and internal psychology, which gives the film as a whole a much more “novelistic” feel than one might find in a typical movie. Of course, the fact that KyoAni produced the film is also a guarantee that the animation will be top notch, and on that level the film certainly does not disappoint.

But as I mentioned near the beginning of this review, my biggest issue with the film is how it adapted the source material. The heart of the story still works — Ishida and Nishimiya’s relationship, and the relationship between their families — and is enough to carry the film to its inevitable conclusion where Ishida and Nishimiya find in each other a partner that will help them cope with the realities of life.

The film opens and closes with a shot of two figures creating light in the darkness, and we understand that they may have a long way to go to heal, but that they’ll be able to cope with whatever happens to them as long as they have each other.

The problem is that the adaptation lets down all the other characters in the film by virtue of not having the time to properly develop them. Ishida’s childhood friends and grade school teacher, for example, play a much bigger part in the manga and become important parts in Ishida’s journey of healing and self-discovery. In the film, all of that is boiled down to a quick reunion with Shimada at the theme park and a brief note at the end that Shimada and Hirose were the ones who saved Ishida after he fell into the river near the end of the film.

Sahara, Kawai, and Mashiba are also underdeveloped as well and Mashiba’s role in the group is so marginalized one wonders why he was even part of the friend group in the first place. The fact that Ishida calls him an outsider somewhat “lampshades” his inclusion in the friend group, but it highlights the problem as well. In the manga, Mashiba has his own issues that he needs to deal with, like everyone else in the story. But the film doesn’t have any time to bring that story up, and so we’re left with a character who is there only because he was in the manga and not because he’s integral to the film’s version of the story.

Ueno is perhaps the biggest victim in the process of adapting the manga to film, because her motivations are completely unclear. While I’m fine with her story being softened, and she still has time to explain why she hates Nishimiya, it’s not clear why she cares about Ishida — particularly years after they presumably drifted apart after elementary school. When Ishida is hospitalized, we see Ueno visit and stay in his room every single day that he is in a coma, but we’re never told why she cares so much about him or why his mother would even let her be with him when she is essentially a stranger. The manga version of Ueno is caught in a love triangle with Nishimiya and sees her as a rival, and while one might argue that it’s better that the film version of the character isn’t trapped by that cliche, one can’t avoid the fact that in the film she has no motivation whatsoever to want to be involved in Ishida’s life. If she’s around only because she hates Nishimiya, it just makes her even more petty.

Perhaps the biggest problem I have with the film is that it shouldn’t have been a film. This story should have been told in a 12–13 episode season, if not a 24–26 episode season like K-On!! or Hyouka. If they were able to fully adapt the manga and it’s various story arcs, we’d have a more complete picture of all the supporting cast and be able to understand one of the bigger themes of the film — that everyone, whether the bullied or the bullies, has their own issues that they need to overcome and that shutting one’s self from the world is not the solution. Alternatively, Yamada and Yoshida might have considered condensing the film even further by removing characters like Shimada and Mashiba entirely and just focusing on the more “important” characters like Ueno and Sahara. Instead we’re left with an adaptation that is compromised, neither fulfilling the narrative arc of the source material nor fully succeeding as a film on its own.

Don’t get me wrong. I still like the film for what it is, but I can’t help but see the flaws in the story. Considering how well the K-On!! and Tamako Marketfilms turned out, I can’t help but be disappointed that this film isn’t as well written as those ones.

Before I end this review, I wanted to at least bring up the fact that mental health issues — at least as depicted in anime — are always problematic for me because children are essentially left to deal with their own traumas on their own. The parents do the best they can, but the children are essentially left to process their own negative feelings and discover by themselves that suicide should not be considered an option.

The fact that there are no authority figures to speak of — the teachers don’t intervene in the bullying, for example — is something that I also find unusual as well. This year in a school district in Nova Scotia, three teenagers committed suicide due to bullying, so this isn’t something that I think is strictly confined to Japan, the Japanese school system, or how the Japanese treat mental health problems. But it’s a bit sad that the lesson of A Silent Voice is that you have to learn to overcome your own problems — that you have to reach out to others for help, when maybe, others should be looking for people who are vulnerable and helping them out as well.

Now maybe it would be silly of me to expect all teachers to be like Onizuka from Great Teacher Onizuka, but there has to be a balance between asking kids to stop crying and get over their mental health issues and having teachers smash down walls in order to save their students from bullying/family issues/gang members/etc.

I also wanted to acknowledge that localization is a hard business, and while I don’t blame the dub producers for ignoring the homophone joke that comes in the middle of the film when Ishida mistakes “suki” (love) for “tsuki” (moon), they could have at least tried to do something with that scene to make the misunderstanding make sense in English. This is an issue in Your Name as well, with the gendered first person pronouns that simply have no equivalent in English. It’s a relatively minor quibble, because again I understand how difficult it can be, but if you’re watching a dub of the film the joke falls completely flat because of the localization.

As a final note, this film closes out the “trilogy” of prestige Japanese anime films released in 2016. While I think all three have their merits, In This Corner of the World is my favorite of the three, with Your Name being second and A Silent Voice coming in a close third. Of course, the Kantai Collection film gets an honorable mention because it’s Star Wars mixed with Apocalypse Now (and no, I’m not joking!).

[lovehaswonangelnumbers]

New Post has been published on https://lovehaswonangelnumbers.org/prepping-for-pluto-saturn/

Prepping for Pluto/Saturn

Prepping for Pluto/Saturn

By Dana Mkrich

After 5 months retrograde, Pluto stationed to go direct a week ago at 20 degrees Capricorn. When planets station to either go retrograde or direct, they create a powerful portal specific to their influence on your life. When it comes to Pluto, this can mean:

Deep scuba dives to get to the truth

Seeing your shadow more clearly or having confrontations with it via other people

The collapse of whatever isn’t working

Transformation

Death; can be the death of a person, or the ending of a relationship, role, identity, job, habit, perspective, pattern or timeline that ushers in a major life turning point

Issues related to power

Look back on the past 7 days. 

What main life theme stands out?

Did you have any significant interactions, realisations or events occur?

Has a line been drawn in the sand where you know:

no more can I tolerate/accept/keep doing that?

Do you have an awareness that ready or not, change is knocking on your door?

Is your own power knocking on your door? 

Pluto represents the Phoenix rising from the ashes, who knows before you do that rebirth will always come even though you feel like you can’t survive the intense process that deep, lasting change requires. It requires a surrender to the will of your Soul, allowing the falling away of what needs to be let go of – and the birth of what needs to be born. 

This Pluto Direct is particularly potent because Saturn is hot on his heels, getting ready to catch up for their big meeting on Jan 12, 2020 (at 22 degrees Capricorn). This is serious business in the serious sign of Capricorn…2020 isn’t mucking around. Anything that has been percolating is gearing up for a January climax. And just to make sure we are really ready for the Saturn/Pluto conjunction, and really ready for the “I’m not here to play games” year that will be 2020, there will be a Lunar Eclipse at 20 degrees Cancer right opposite the Saturn/Pluto meeting a couple of days before on Jan 10, 2020!! 

Pluto represents necessary transformation which usually requires some sort of death and rebirth process. It is also about power: where are we owning it or not? Where are we using it for good or abusing it to the detriment of others? Pluto shows us our shadow, that part of us that we project onto others because it is too uncomfortable to acknowledge or feel. It’s our personal blind spot that Pluto brings to our attention when we’re ready. 

Saturn is all about laying strong foundations, taking responsibility and growing up. It also represents authority, systems and structures. It’s the Father…who we often have to take down from the pedestal we’ve put him on and claim our own inner Father/inner authority. The Father in this case might represent your actual dad, but it also represents anyone who has had authority over us personally or collectively: work bosses, heads of companies, religious institutions, governments.  

Lunar Eclipses are about letting go, and seeing what we couldn’t see before.  They can represent the end of a chapter, closure, a realisation that you needed to have.  

So to have all of that happening simultaneously in Saturn’s home sign of Capricorn, well it’s safe to say that 2020 is making its intentions clear right from the start.  

There will be a LOT playing out on the global/political stage in 2020. Many of you have very specific roles to play whether it is “holding the light” for lack of a better term, sharing the darker truths, or supporting the awakening process in a million different ways. It is VITALLY important that you have a good relationship with both your Pluto and Saturn energy, have worked on these energies within yourself in an adequate way, and continue to work with them as allies over the next 3 months, and moving forward over the 12 months of 2020. Why? In short, that’s how you’re going to get stuff done with maximum power and minimum resistance from either yourself or others.

These two planets are hardcore to say the least. When we avoid or ignore them, it can seem like all life is working against us. When we open our eyes and ask “What do you want me to know/do/remember?” that’s when we more easily can go with the flow of Pluto’s transformation process. That’s when we pay attention to Saturn’s clipboard and to do lists, put our boots on the ground, and methodically do what needs doing.

Working with Pluto:

1) Am I resisting change in any part of myself, my identity, or my life? 

2) How do I view power? How am I using my power? How do I want to use my power? 

3) What part of me is ready to come out in a bigger way? 

4) What kind of person do I continually still bump up against, and what is that trying to teach me? 

Working with Saturn: 

1) Do I still have any “father” issues?

2) Do I still have any issues with “authority”? What is my relationship like with my inner authority? Do I feel connected to my inner sovereignty?

3) Where do I need to take greater responsibility for my life?

4) How does the energy of “control” show up in my life? 

5) What is it that I really want, and what step by step plans/strategies/to do lists/daily actions do I need to put into practice? 

6) What comes up for me when I think of stability and security? How can I cultivate a strong inner foundation that is always there for me no matter what? How can I create a stronger outer foundation that supports and sustains me? 

There’s plenty here to keep you busy in your journal for a while! 

Love Dana

*******

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[cupidsbower]

We called her the woman who did not care

Supernatural 12x19, “The Future,” and 12x20, “Twigs & Twine & Tasha Banes.”

These two titles have particularly strong word associations for me, and we’re at that point of the season where the foreshadowing could resolve in two very different ways -- onto a mostly tragic path as has happened so often in the past, or into a more optimistic future with just a bit of bittersweet for flavouring.

Before I start, I make note here that watching the deaths of three women of colour (one of them twice) and the damning of one queer man of colour, plus the attempted suicide of yet another woman, and the sadistic torturing of another woman-shaped being within two episodes... let’s just say I’m not happy about it. I feel it deserves more words, but I’m tired. So tired.

Anyway.

“The Future” should, by all rights, be an optimistic title, but in the grand tradition of Supernatural, it can also be read as darkly ironic given what the episode is about.

The first association for me is with “The End” because we have returned to many of the themes and plot points of that season, including a reference to team free will, and the possible rise of Lucifer and destruction of the world. “The End” was also an episode about Castiel when he had lost all hope, and had turned to sex and drugs for solace.

The parallels are not exact, of course, but add in Kelly’s suicide attempt -- a despairing attempt to stop the future -- and the cultish fervour both Kelly and Castiel show about the nephilim baby (almost like they’re drugged), and there’s definitely more than a hint that the future ahead might be more of a dead end than a way forward.

On the other hand, as Whitney Houston put it, “I believe the children are our future,” so there’s that.

Greatest Love Of All, by Whitney Houston

I believe the children are our are future Teach them well and let them lead the way Show them all the beauty they possess inside Give them a sense of pride to make it easier

Let the children's laughter remind us how we used to be Everybody searching for a hero People need someone to look up to I never found anyone who fulfill my needs

A lonely place to be So I learned to depend on me

I decided long ago, never to walk in anyone's shadows If I fail, if I succeed At least I'll live as I believe No matter what they take from me They can't take away my dignity Because the greatest love of all Is happening to me I found the greatest love of all Inside of me The greatest love of all Is easy to achieve Learning to love yourself It is the greatest love of all

I believe the children are our future Teach them well and let them lead the way Show them all the beauty they possess inside Give them a sense of pride to make it easier Let the children's laughter remind us how we used to be

I decided long ago, never to walk in anyone's shadows If I fail, if I succeed At least I'll live as I believe No matter what they take from me They can't take away my dignity Because the greatest love of all Is happening to me I found the greatest love of all Inside of me The greatest love of all Is easy to achieve Learning to love yourself It is the greatest love of all

And if by chance, that special place That you've been dreaming of Leads you to a lonely place Find your strength in love

Season 12 is a season very much about the legacy that parents pass on to their children, nature vs nurture, and developing emotional maturity rather than toxic codependency. It’s about the greatest love of all, which Dean and to a lesser extent Sam have been making strides towards, but which Castiel has not yet learned at all. And it’s about the children of the past becoming the adults of the now, in time to raise the next generation.

See what I mean about the foreshadowing having a dual nature? It could literally follow either of these paths at this point -- the dead end, or the greatest love of all.

Right now, I’m leaning towards a more happy than not resolution to the season, because usually they’d be having more wins if the climax was leading to tragedy, in order to give it a bigger punch when it hits.

I also think (hope) that we are going to get several major inversions, because if the foreshadowing is firm on anything, it’s that.

I’m more convinced than ever that the nephilim is actually a girl. Such a point has been made of “son” that I think there’s a very good chance it’s a bait and switch, and the nephilim will not be what anyone expects. It would also shatter so much of the legacy of toxic masculinity that this season has been questioning. Everyone is so wrapped up sons, but this season is part of the arc of Amara and Mary, bringing more women into the Supernatural world.

I’m also very curious about the heterosexual coding of Kelly and Castiel in this episode. From the outside they invoke some very traditional expectations about pregnancy -- with the tummy touching, the focus on the baby and impending (defacto) parenthood, clasped hands, male-coded protectiveness, and the fanatical belief that everything will be okay. So much of this is out of the het romance script, but it’s all surface, and underneath it’s wrong, wrong, wrong. So, is it the baby that’s wrong? Or is it the heterosexual coding that’s wrong?

Again, we’re in the season of questioning and inverting the past, and last time around this particular block was season 6: Dean’s failure as a (heterosexual) partner and dad to Lisa and Ben; soulless Sam who wasn’t acting right; and queer-coding for Castiel signalling he was about to go darkside (he was in Dean’s ass).

*squints at the foreshadowing*

How exactly do you plan to invert that, show? Because once more I’m seeing three male-shaped beings and a little nephilim as a very real possibility for next season, right alongside the greatest love of all.

Let’s talk about the greatest love of all for a minute. Whitney Houston is singing about self-respect, not romantic love -- the self-respect both Kelly and Castiel were lacking in this episode. Where does that kind of love come from? The show has been focused on re-framing familial love this season, rather than either toxic codependency or romantic love. So can acceptance by family help with self-love? Can the nephilim be part of healthy familial love? Can Castiel?

Given that theme, I do think we might get another declaration of love before the season ends. But it might not be the one we expect.

“Twigs & Twine & Tasha Banes,” is a title that niggled at me for days, until I finally figured out what it reminded me of -- The Vampire by Rudyard Kipling.

The Vampire, by Rudyard Kipling

This poem was written in response to the painting you see there, by Philip Burne-Jones (not Edward as it says in the image, but Edward’s lesser-known son), which shows a woman as the vampire -- very much in the gothic tradition that was the focus of season 10 (the Steins, the Werther Project, Don Quixote etc).

It’s this line -- “a rag and a bone and a hank of hair” -- that the title of this episode reminds me of, not only because it’s in the poem, but because it was the title of a Fiske novel with very similar themes to both Kipling’s poem and "Twigs & Twine & Tasha Banes.”

A fool there was and he made his prayer (Even as you and I!) To a rag and a bone and a hank of hair (We called her the woman who did not care), But the fool he called her his lady fair (Even as you and I!) Oh the years we waste and the tears we waste And the work of our head and hand, Belong to the woman who did not know (And now we know that she never could know) And did not understand. A fool there was and his goods he spent (Even as you and I!) Honor and faith and a sure intent But a fool must follow his natural bent (And it wasn't the least what the lady meant), (Even as you and I!) Oh the toil we lost and the spoil we lost And the excellent things we planned, Belong to the woman who didn't know why (And now we know she never knew why) And did not understand. The fool we stripped to his foolish hide (Even as you and I!) Which she might have seen when she threw him aside -- (But it isn't on record the lady tried) So some of him lived but the most of him died -- (Even as you and I!) And it isn't the shame and it isn't the blame That stings like a white hot brand. It's coming to know that she never knew why (Seeing at last she could never know why) And never could understand.

Tell me that first verse isn’t a pithy encapsulation of Max’s arc this episode.

There’s two ways to read this poem. The first is the sexist reading that the Femme Fatale sucks a decent man dry of his worldly goods and then callously dumps him. The second reading, and the one I personally think Kipling was going for, is basically saying this attitude of male entitlement is predictable and stupid and has nothing much to do with the woman. The commentary in the brackets, in particular, makes me think this. It’s a major burn for the artist who did that painting in other words, but done with enough nuance that a gormless young man would probably not realise it.

Why am I spending so much time on this tangentially related poem?

Because I think we see four different iterations of the theme of the focus of male attention which is actually a figment -- a rag and a bone and a hank of hair, or twigs and twine as the case may be.

The first is obviously Max. He chooses to create a golem of his sister rather than live into the future alone, and damns himself in the process. There’s already been a lot of meta about how Max is a parallel for the brothers (Sam’s magic, Dean’s queerness, or love of bartenders and cars if you prefer) and their toxic codependency, so I won’t retread that. But let’s consider Alicia for a moment. There are parallels here too (Soulless Sam, Demon Dean). Is she a person? Does the vessel matter? What makes a person a person? And should she get a say in her life or death? After all, she’s the one that has to live as a golem. Does Max have any right to do that to her? (Cliff Notes: No, no he doesn’t.)

(As an aside: how much of Max’s choice was nature and how much nurture? Dean thought Tasha Barnes was a good mother, and yet Max made the same kind of codependent choice as the Winchesters in the end. Or was this simply bad judgement in the face of grief, which wouldn’t have happened if he'd had a friend with him?)

The second is Mary and Ketch. We see another “false women” in the shifter wearing Mary’s face, which then tellingly shifts to Ketch’s face, and then finally is replaced by Mary herself. Ketch feels he has a proprietary claim to Mary’s body, that supersedes her own rights and choices. This is the BMOL’s philosophy all over -- they couldn’t be less Team Free Will if they tried. Their agenda is to kill everything they don’t like, and the ends justify the means, even if the means produce no ends.

The third was given to us last episode: Kelly. She’s a broodmare, a disposable womb that Lucifer covets as a means to an end. Rosemary, complete with baby, and we all know how that ended. Rosemary’s Baby is, after all, a parable of women’s enslavement to motherhood under patriarchy, in which she has no say in her impending motherhood.

And finally, we have Castiel. An angel in a human vessel, object of Dean’s intense concern, and receiver of valuable mixtape gifts.

Yes, one of these things is not like the others. But consider this. Dean and Sam’s solution to the threat that the nephilim potentially poses was to strip it of half its identity. It’s not allowed to be human and angel, it has to be one or the other to be “safe” and allowed to live.

Soooooo, conversion therapy or death? They are the options? That is supposedly the better way?

(As an aside, my comments here are not taking a stance on the ethics of real-world abortion. I’m pro-choice. I would have liked if the text explored the question of abortion from Kelly’s perspective in more depth, but it hasn’t, and the nephilim is clearly now showing agency, so the ethics have changed.)

Something I have long been interested in is the conversation in fandom about how Castiel should get to “choose Humanity” rather than having the choice made for him. There is something appealing about this notion, but I have always wondered, why must he choose? Can he not be both? Is that an invalid choice? Does he have to be human to belong in the Winchester family? Can’t he be loved for who is already is?

In other words... are people not allowed to be bi in the Supernatural ‘verse?

Because, you know, that question is relevant to my interests.

With that concern on the table, I come back to the idea of the “rag and a bone and a hank of hair.” Does Dean project his feelings onto Castiel the way Max/Ketch/Lucifer have been projecting them onto women? Does he expect things of Castiel he’s never actually asked for? Does he really understand what Castiel wants from Dean, or does Dean only think of the relationship in terms of what he wants himself?

I think that’s a pretty interesting set of questions, don’t you? I’d like to think the answer is no. I’m not so sure, though. Dean’s performance of masculinity/family has kind of gummed up the emotional works pretty well over the years. How far are we from the point at which he’s ready to let it go, and shift his relationships to a better way as well? He’s come a long, long way this season, but is he ready to know and be known?

I do think this may be the direction in which the climax is heading -- the characters allowing themselves to be known.

I hope so.

Previously:

The Ministry of Information vs Wayward Sons Carrying On (12x01)

My, my, how can I resist you? (12x02) and follow-up about Bohemian Raphsody

So what am I so afraid of? (I think I love you) (12x03)

I’ve got the joy, joy, joy, joy Down in my heart (Where?) (12x04) and a follow-up about the codependency and about Dean’s self-flagellation and issues with space

There can be only one! (12x05), and a follow-up conversation with elizabethrobertajones on Freud vs Schwartz.

They shall fall by the sword: they shall be a portion for foxes (12x06)  

Presenting the Immaculate Heart Reunion Tour (12x07)    

I’m still living the life where you get home and open the fridge and there’s half a pot of yogurt and a half a can of flat Coca-Cola. ~Alan Rickman (12x08, 12x09)

When the sons of God came in unto the daughters of men (12x10)    

in re (12x11)

Making the most of teachable moments (12x12) and an added thought, In-and-out-laws

Don’t fuck with the branches on my family tree (12x13)

To Protect and to Serve (12x14) and some more thoughts

Hiding in the shadow of love (12x15) and some further thoughts in response to @elizabethrobertajones‘ meta.

You’re living in the past, it’s a new generation (12x16)

I’m still the same old me, that’s all I’ll ever be (12x17 and 12x18)

[pantology]

The Cosmic Perspective

The Cosmic Perspective

By Neil deGrasse Tyson

Natural History Magazine

April 2007

The 100th essay in the “Universe” series

Embracing cosmic realities can give us a more enlightened view of human life.

Of all the sciences cultivated by mankind, Astronomy is acknowledged to be, and undoubtedly is, the most sublime, the most interesting, and the most useful. For, by knowledge derived from this science, not only the bulk of the Earth is discovered… but our very faculties are enlarged with the grandeur of the ideas it conveys, our minds exalted above [their] low contracted prejudices.

James Ferguson, Astronomy Explained Upon Sir Isaac Newton’s Principles, And Made Easy To Those Who Have Not Studied Mathematics (1757)

Long before anyone knew that the universe had a beginning, before we knew that the nearest large galaxy lies two and a half million light years from Earth, before we knew how stars work or whether atoms exist, James Ferguson’s enthusiastic introduction to his favorite science rang true. Yet his words, apart from their eighteenth-century flourish, could have been written yesterday.

But who gets to think that way? Who gets to celebrate this cosmic view of life? Not the migrant farmworker. Not the sweatshop worker. Certainly not the homeless person rummaging through the trash for food. You need the luxury of time not spent on mere survival. You need to live in a nation whose government values the search to understand humanity’s place in the universe. You need a society in which intellectual pursuit can take you to the frontiers of discovery, and in which news of your discoveries can be routinely disseminated. By those measures, most citizens of industrialized nations do quite well.

Yet the cosmic view comes with a hidden cost. When I travel thousands of miles to spend a few moments in the fast-moving shadow of the Moon during a total solar eclipse, sometimes I lose sight of Earth.

When I pause and reflect on our expanding universe, with its galaxies hurtling away from one another, embedded within the ever-stretching, four-dimensional fabric of space and time, sometimes I forget that uncounted people walk this Earth without food or shelter, and that children are disproportionately represented among them.

When I pore over the data that establish the mysterious presence of dark matter and dark energy throughout the universe, sometimes I forget that every day—every twenty-four-hour rotation of Earth—people kill and get killed in the name of someone else’s conception of God, and that some people who do not kill in the name of God kill in the name of their nation’s needs or wants.

When I track the orbits of asteroids, comets, and planets, each one a pirouetting dancer in a cosmic ballet choreographed by the forces of gravity, sometimes I forget that too many people act in wanton disregard for the delicate interplay of Earth’s atmosphere, oceans, and land, with consequences that our children and our children’s children will witness and pay for with their health and well-being.

And sometimes I forget that powerful people rarely do all they can to help those who cannot help themselves.

I occasionally forget those things because, however big the world is—in our hearts, our minds, and our outsize atlases—the universe is even bigger. A depressing thought to some, but a liberating thought to me.

Consider an adult who tends to the traumas of a child: a broken toy, a scraped knee, a schoolyard bully. Adults know that kids have no clue what constitutes a genuine problem, because inexperience greatly limits their childhood perspective.

As grown-ups, dare we admit to ourselves that we, too, have a collective immaturity of view? Dare we admit that our thoughts and behaviors spring from a belief that the world revolves around us? Apparently not. And the evidence abounds. Part the curtains of society’s racial, ethnic, religious, national, and cultural conflicts, and you find the human ego turning the knobs and pulling the levers.

Now imagine a world in which everyone, but especially people with power and influence, holds an expanded view of our place in the cosmos. With that perspective, our problems would shrink—or never arise at all—and we could celebrate our earthly differences while shunning the behavior of our predecessors who slaughtered each other because of them.

Back in February 2000, the newly rebuilt Hayden Planetarium featured a space show called Passport to the Universe, which took visitors on a virtual zoom from New York City to the edge of the cosmos. En route the audience saw Earth, then the solar system, then the 100 billion stars of the Milky Way galaxy shrink to barely visible dots on the planetarium dome.

Within a month of opening day, I received a letter from an Ivy League professor of psychology whose expertise was things that make people feel insignificant. I never knew one could specialize in such a field. The guy wanted to administer a before-and-after questionnaire to visitors, assessing the depth of their depression after viewing the show. Passport to the Universe, he wrote, elicited the most dramatic feelings of smallness he had ever experienced.

How could that be? Every time I see the space show (and others we’ve produced), I feel alive and spirited and connected. I also feel large, knowing that the goings-on within the three-pound human brain are what enabled us to figure out our place in the universe.

Allow me to suggest that it’s the professor, not I, who has misread nature. His ego was too big to begin with, inflated by delusions of significance and fed by cultural assumptions that human beings are more important than everything else in the universe.

In all fairness to the fellow, powerful forces in society leave most of us susceptible. As was I … until the day I learned in biology class that more bacteria live and work in one centimeter of my colon than the number of people who have ever existed in the world. That kind of information makes you think twice about who—or what—is actually in charge.

From that day on, I began to think of people not as the masters of space and time but as participants in a great cosmic chain of being, with a direct genetic link across species both living and extinct, extending back nearly 4 billion years to the earliest single-celled organisms on Earth.

I know what you’re thinking: we’re smarter than bacteria.

No doubt about it, we’re smarter than every other living creature that ever walked, crawled, or slithered on Earth. But how smart is that? We cook our food. We compose poetry and music. We do art and science. We’re good at math. Even if you’re bad at math, you’re probably much better at it than the smartest chimpanzee, whose genetic identity varies in only trifling ways from ours. Try as they might, primatologists will never get a chimpanzee to learn the multiplication table or do long division.

If small genetic differences between us and our fellow apes account for our vast difference in intelligence, maybe that difference in intelligence is not so vast after all.

Imagine a life-form whose brainpower is to ours as ours is to a chimpanzee’s. To such a species our highest mental achievements would be trivial. Their toddlers, instead of learning their ABCs on Sesame Street, would learn multivariable calculus on Boolean Boulevard. Our most complex theorems, our deepest philosophies, the cherished works of our most creative artists, would be projects their schoolkids bring home for Mom and Dad to display on the refrigerator door. These creatures would study Stephen Hawking (who occupies the same endowed professorship once held by Newton at the University of Cambridge) because he’s slightly more clever than other humans, owing to his ability to do theoretical astrophysics and other rudimentary calculations in his head.

If a huge genetic gap separated us from our closest relative in the animal kingdom, we could justifiably celebrate our brilliance. We might be entitled to walk around thinking we’re distant and distinct from our fellow creatures. But no such gap exists. Instead, we are one with the rest of nature, fitting neither above nor below, but within.

Need more ego softeners? Simple comparisons of quantity, size, and scale do the job well.

Take water. It’s simple, common, and vital. There are more molecules of water in an eight-ounce cup of the stuff than there are cups of water in all the world’s oceans. Every cup that passes through a single person and eventually rejoins the world’s water supply holds enough molecules to mix 1,500 of them into every other cup of water in the world. No way around it: some of the water you just drank passed through the kidneys of Socrates, Genghis Khan, and Joan of Arc.

How about air? Also vital. A single breathful draws in more air molecules than there are breathfuls of air in Earth’s entire atmosphere. That means some of the air you just breathed passed through the lungs of Napoleon, Beethoven, Lincoln, and Billy the Kid.

Time to get cosmic. There are more stars in the universe than grains of sand on any beach, more stars than seconds have passed since Earth formed, more stars than words and sounds ever uttered by all the humans who ever lived.

Want a sweeping view of the past? Our unfolding cosmic perspective takes you there. Light takes time to reach Earth’s observatories from the depths of space, and so you see objects and phenomena not as they are but as they once were. That means the universe acts like a giant time machine: the farther away you look, the further back in time you see—back almost to the beginning of time itself. Within that horizon of reckoning, cosmic evolution unfolds continuously, in full view.

Want to know what we’re made of? Again, the cosmic perspective offers a bigger answer than you might expect. The chemical elements of the universe are forged in the fires of high-mass stars that end their lives in stupendous explosions, enriching their host galaxies with the chemical arsenal of life as we know it. The result? The four most common chemically active elements in the universe—hydrogen, oxygen, carbon, and nitrogen—are the four most common elements of life on Earth. We are not simply in the universe. The universe is in us.

Yes, we are stardust. But we may not be of this Earth. Several separate lines of research, when considered together, have forced investigators to reassess who we think we are and where we think we came from.

First, computer simulations show that when a large asteroid strikes a planet, the surrounding areas can recoil from the impact energy, catapulting rocks into space. From there, they can travel to—and land on—other planetary surfaces. Second, microorganisms can be hardy. Some survive the extremes of temperature, pressure, and radiation inherent in space travel. If the rocky flotsam from an impact hails from a planet with life, microscopic fauna could have stowed away in the rocks’ nooks and crannies. Third, recent evidence suggests that shortly after the formation of our solar system, Mars was wet, and perhaps fertile, even before Earth was.

Those findings mean it’s conceivable that life began on Mars and later seeded life on Earth, a process known as panspermia. So all earthlings might—just might—be descendants of Martians.

Again and again across the centuries, cosmic discoveries have demoted our self-image. Earth was once assumed to be astronomically unique, until astronomers learned that Earth is just another planet orbiting the Sun. Then we presumed the Sun was unique, until we learned that the countless stars of the night sky are suns themselves. Then we presumed our galaxy, the Milky Way, was the entire known universe, until we established that the countless fuzzy things in the sky are other galaxies, dotting the landscape of our known universe.

Today, how easy it is to presume that one universe is all there is. Yet emerging theories of modern cosmology, as well as the continually reaffirmed improbability that anything is unique, require that we remain open to the latest assault on our plea for distinctiveness: multiple universes, otherwise known as the multiverse, in which ours is just one of countless bubbles bursting forth from the fabric of the cosmos.

The cosmic perspective flows from fundamental knowledge. But it’s more than just what you know. It’s also about having the wisdom and insight to apply that knowledge to assessing our place in the universe. And its attributes are clear:

The cosmic perspective comes from the frontiers of science, yet it’s not solely the province of the scientist. The cosmic perspective belongs to everyone.

The cosmic perspective is humble.

The cosmic perspective is spiritual—even redemptive—but not religious.

The cosmic perspective enables us to grasp, in the same thought, the large and the small.

The cosmic perspective opens our minds to extraordinary ideas but does not leave them so open that our brains spill out, making us susceptible to believing anything we’re told.

The cosmic perspective opens our eyes to the universe, not as a benevolent cradle designed to nurture life but as a cold, lonely, hazardous place.

The cosmic perspective shows Earth to be a mote, but a precious mote and, for the moment, the only home we have.

The cosmic perspective finds beauty in the images of planets, moons, stars, and nebulae but also celebrates the laws of physics that shape them.

The cosmic perspective enables us to see beyond our circumstances, allowing us to transcend the primal search for food, shelter, and sex.

The cosmic perspective reminds us that in space, where there is no air, a flag will not wave—an indication that perhaps flag waving and space exploration do not mix.

The cosmic perspective not only embraces our genetic kinship with all life on Earth but also values our chemical kinship with any yet-to-be discovered life in the universe, as well as our atomic kinship with the universe itself.

At least once a week, if not once a day, we might each ponder what cosmic truths lie undiscovered before us, perhaps awaiting the arrival of a clever thinker, an ingenious experiment, or an innovative space mission to reveal them. We might further ponder how those discoveries may one day transform life on Earth.

Absent such curiosity, we are no different from the provincial farmer who expresses no need to venture beyond the county line, because his forty acres meet all his needs. Yet if all our predecessors had felt that way, the farmer would instead be a cave dweller, chasing down his dinner with a stick and a rock.

During our brief stay on planet Earth, we owe ourselves and our descendants the opportunity to explore—in part because it’s fun to do. But there’s a far nobler reason. The day our knowledge of the cosmos ceases to expand, we risk regressing to the childish view that the universe figuratively and literally revolves around us. In that bleak world, arms-bearing, resource-hungry people and nations would be prone to act on their “low contracted prejudices.” And that would be the last gasp of human enlightenment—until the rise of a visionary new culture that could once again embrace the cosmic perspective. https://www.haydenplanetarium.org/tyson/essays/2007-04-the-cosmic-perspective.php

[tanmath3-blog]

How old were you when you first wrote your first story?

The first story I wrote was in middle school and it was about a rogue vampire clan who killed a young girl’s parents, which then caused her to spend the rest of her life tracking them down so she could avenge her family. It was super violent, and my teacher actually sent the story, and me, to the guidance counselor. *smirks*

  How many books have you written?

I’ve written five poetry collections with Raw Dog Screaming Press (Hysteria: A Collection of Madness, Mourning Jewelry, An Exorcism of Angels, Brothel, and Sheet Music to My Acoustic Nightmare) and my debut novel, The Eighth, is published with Dark Regions Press.

  Tell me about you.

I’m 29 years old, obsessed with dogs, and recently married to my best friend. When I’m not writing, I work as an Adjunct Professor at Point Park University (Composition, Literature, and Creative Writing) and then I teach/lecture in two graduate programs: Western Connecticut State University’s MFA Program for Professional and Creative Writing and Southern New Hampshire’s MFA Program for Creative Writing. Also, if I can spare a few hours here and there, I work as a writing tutor at Point Park as well.

  What’s your favorite book you have written?

This is a really tough question for me. I think I’m most proud of The Eighth because it was my life’s goal to write a novel, and Sheet Music to My Acoustic Nightmare was my bravest foray with writing. But honestly, writing Hysteria was so much fun that it’s hard for me not to show favoritism towards her. I mean, that book allowed me to explore abandoned lunatic asylums, sit in the jail cells of prisons, and walk through the hallways of a haunted geriatric hospital. It doesn’t get much better than that!

  Who or what inspired you to write?

I’ve always been a voracious reader, so in a lot of ways, it seemed natural to start to want to tell my own stories. Furthermore, as a kid, I was obsessed with mythology, particularly Greek and Egyptian history, and reading stories about the underworld and Hades and mummies buried in decorative tombs was clearly a gateway drug to me when it came to writing horror and dark fantasy.

  What do you like to do for fun?

I love to travel, read, and be in nature, take pictures, garden, and write every chance I get. I’m a big wine fan, and Dennis and I are total foodies, so trying new cuisines and cooking is high on my list as well. I also really enjoy art, music, and theatre, and I collect rare copies of Alice in Wonderland.

  Any traditions you do when you finish a book?

I like to buy/do something that represents either the theme or the research I did for that particular project. For instance, when I finished writing Mourning Jewelry, I went out and bought a gorgeous 19th century Romanian Gypsy portrait of two children that hangs in my office. I researched and looked through a heavy amount of wake photography while working on that collection, so this seemed appropriate, and to this day, it’s one of my favorite pieces of art I own.

  Where do you write? Quiet or music?

For the most part, I write in my office at home, but sometimes I’ll write on campus between teaching classes. Regardless though, I always write on my laptop and I have to have music on, sometimes even a movie playing in the background. I work better in chaos, and if that’s not enough, when I’m home, my dogs are usually in my lap or asleep on my feet, too.

Anything you would change about your writing?

I’ve spent the bigger portion of my writing career writing poetry, which is something that I will always do no matter what, but I made myself a promise last year (my new year’s resolution) to write and concentrate more on prose, so that’s what I’m aiming for moving forward. Once I tied up the few projects I’m working on now, I’ll be diving back into the sequel to The Eighth.

  What is your dream? Famous writer?

My dream is to travel. My husband and I have a huge list of places we want to explore, and I pretty much want to go everywhere and see everything, all the while writing, drinking good wine, eating great food, and taking fabulous photographs. Plus, I think traveling and going to places you aren’t familiar with is good for the soul, not to mention good for your writing.

  Where do you live?

Pittsburgh, PA.

  Pets?

Oh yes! I have two dogs: an English Bulldog named Edgar Allan Poe and a Pit bull named Apollo. They’re my world.

  What’s your favorite thing about writing?

I love the world building. To me, it’s so much fun to create the landscape, history, and rules of a place that only I know about and control. It feels a lot like playing pretend as a kid, and I like to think I have an even bigger imagination as an adult.

  Where do you get your ideas?

Everywhere. Music, art, other stories, conversations I have with people, the weather, an injury I might get, nightmares, death, birth…there are stories all around us just waiting to be picked out of the sky and grown into something. It’s all about finding what calls to you.

  What is coming next for you?

I’m about halfway through with my next poetry book, an apocalyptic science fiction collection titled The Apocalyptic Mannequin. I’m also finishing up a weird horror novelette that I’m been working on for about three years now. Aside from that, I have a story titled “The Girl with the Death Mask” coming out in Fantastic Tales of Terror, and another story “The Monster Told Me To” appearing in Tales from the Lake, Vol 5, both out this year from Crystal Lake Publishing.

    Author Bio:

Stephanie M. Wytovich is an American poet, novelist, and essayist. Her work has been showcased in numerous anthologies such as Gutted: Beautiful Horror Stories, Shadows Over Main Street: An Anthology of Small-Town Lovecraftian Terror, Year’s Best Hardcore Horror: Volume 2, The Best Horror of the Year: Volume 8, as well as many others.  Wytovich is the Poetry Editor for Raw Dog Screaming Press, an adjunct at Western Connecticut State University and Point Park University, and a mentor with Crystal Lake Publishing. She is a member of the Science Fiction Poetry Association, an active member of the Horror Writers Association, and a graduate of Seton Hill University’s MFA program for Writing Popular Fiction. Her Bram Stoker Award-winning poetry collection, Brothel, earned a home with Raw Dog Screaming Press alongside Hysteria: A Collection of Madness, Mourning Jewelry, An Exorcism of Angels, and Sheet Music to My Acoustic Nightmare. Her debut novel, The Eighth, is published with Dark Regions Press. 

    You can connect with Stephanie M. Wytovich here: 

Follow Wytovich at http://stephaniewytovich.blogspot.com/ and on twitter @SWytovich​.

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Latest release: Sheet Music to My Acoustic Nightmare

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  Some of Stephanie M. Wytovich‘s books: 

  Getting personal with Stephanie M. Wytovich How old were you when you first wrote your first story? The first story I wrote was in middle school and it was about a rogue vampire clan who killed a young girl’s parents, which then caused her to spend the rest of her life tracking them down so she could avenge her family.

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ON MODERNIST ETHOS IN CONTEMPORARY ARCHITECTURE  / Reiner de Graaf

New Book → vivid, uncompromising narratives contextualised with shrewd essays about architecture’s lost ideals, its false pretentions, and utter dependence on forces far more powerful than design.

“In essence, I don’t think humour is ever depressing. It can, of course, be a sign to conceal a tragic reality.”

Russia → where there was a desire to progress and an inherent inability to do so. It is deeply tragic, but also almost admirable to see how skilful they were in crafting that tragedy. I’m wondering to what extent that is symptomatic of our profession as a whole. In its current form, architecture is an elaborate ritual to avoid the inevitable, namely if history continues the way it does, our ongoing and increased marginalisation in the future.

“The book is a wake-up call, which I felt could only be written with a light touch and with funny stuff in it. The alternative would have been a highly moralistic book. There are highly moralistic issues that I address, but I haven’t been raised to preach, and I don’t think preachers make very good writers.”

Notion that thought production by the architectural profession has come to a standstill...

Your book is an engaging intellectual product, but I’m left wondering what your intention is because it refrains from setting an agenda → I think the architecture profession is in such a state of denial that providing a quick fix solution would almost be like letting them off the hook, and allowing them to collectively run towards that answer. I thought it was more productive to analyse the state of affairs without sugar-coating things. Ultimately the solution to every problem begins with the frank acknowledgement that there is a problem. I don’t think our type of people are anywhere near ready to acknowledge the extent of the problem or even that there is a problem...

Professional daily reality is also tainted by very banal setbacks, by very mundane, and sometimes quite deflating behaviour on the part of clients or the world at large.

Notion that the circumstances in which you work seem incredibly mundane, but all the while world history is a kind of tumultuous spoilsport of ongoing affairs. My recommendation is that architects become more aware of the context in which they work and take more time to look around at the world that asks them to do what they do so that they can for instance recognise the motives behind it.

The essay about Thomas Piketty deals with something else to consider, namely that modern architecture was once based on efficient, rational, fast industrial production to give as many people as possible a decent home. It made buildings cheap, so they were available to many people.

→ That same ethos is still very present in modern architecture, but it makes buildings – cheap not to be sold cheap or to be rented cheaply – it makes buildings cheap so that they generate the highest possible return on investment! → That same aesthetical ethos of saving, of an economic minimalism, now serves an entirely different purpose. It serves not the happy many, but the happy few. 

In other words it’s the same architecture in the context of a different system. I don’t think anybody who practices modern architecture is even vaguely aware of this. They were all educated with Le Corbusier and Gropius, and they consider themselves the heirs of those heroes when they actually operate in a system where they are complicit in things completely at odds with the ideals of that movement and those heroes!

All that is left of modernism are the stylistic principles? → the stylistic and organisational principles help very different interests at the moment. So it’s not just that the original modernists once were a positive force and the current ones are simply a neutral force. By continuing that legacy under current circumstances, today’s modern architects are contributors to negative forces...

“An architect is not supposed to be nostalgic but forward-looking. But I’m nostalgic for a time when mankind was a lot more forward-looking than it is today; for a gradual optimism about the future. That’s the paradox.”

Notion that from a sociological perspective, 2100 might look dangerously like 1900...

Look at the social housing estates from the 1950s and 1960s: they are either vilified and demolished, and social housing is eradicated, or they are preserved as historic monuments and converted into luxury apartments that are unaffordable for ordinary people. So even if the buildings stay, the social housing is no longer there.

“We need very different politics. I think it is essential that the left reinvents itself so that it acquires a new mass appeal. I’m quite jealous of the appeal that populist right-wing movements manage to have with big groups of people. If the established left-wing parties would only have ten percent of that same appeal, they would be in a lot less trouble.”

“I deliberately wrote the book in a type of language that is understandable. A lot of writing about architecture is pretty dense, and that is a friendly description. But I also wrote like that because I wanted the book to be accessible to more people than just architects.”

Architects don’t generally like the idea of having too many people meddling with their labour, and I understand this instinct.

Essentially, a reconnection with users, even if those users are not the ones financing the buildings per se. Buildings are now speculative tools for users we don’t know. Since we don’t know them, there’s also no dialogue with them and that’s where I think the crux is. We should try to break the almost unbeatable cycle of architecture merely being real estate, being a tool of capital.

“After making a convincing case of being for the masses in the twentieth century, architecture will have to be with the masses in the twenty-first.” →  idea of participation is less about asking people what kind of window frames they would like and more about.. It’s about mobilising the people as a political force. They can say what window frames they want, but ultimately, the architecture is a detail.

Any realised project is inevitably only a percentage of what you intend, and whether the percentage is above or below 50% determines the project’s success...

interesting to see what kind of role architects can play in the trench warfare, the shadow boxing, between public interests and private greed. You are almost forced into the role of a manipulative mediator, to make sure that greed, at least to some extent, works for the public good. But that’s a far cry from the role of the heroic building master who triumphs over his uncompromised vision.

our wake-up call. It makes you realise that architects have very little power. And what you have power over, you can wonder how much it matters in the end.

Was it worth it, becoming an architect? → I would not advise my children to go into the profession. There are more interesting topics to pursue in this day and age, and architecture is ultimately an old-fashioned discipline. There is nothing wrong with that, there is a need for an arriere-garde. 

I get very tired of an architecture that desperately tries to stay up-to-date with computer forms → The essence of the digital is that it is the digital. It is a revolution in another domain, and not per se in building materials. When there is a revolution in building materials, there will be a revolution in architecture again. → Until that moment, we ought to be happy being the enablers of other intellectual and technological revolutions. The most forward-thinking thing to do about architecture today is a kind of reflection on what it actually means.

Parallel to Rem Koolhaas noteing in the context of preservation that abstinence, doing nothing, is hardly ever considered. How do you think about that regarding the production of space? → I agree with that. It would probably not be bad to take a time-out as a profession, to stop the mad and meaningless race that we are caught up in, and simply introduce a pause where you look around and assess situations.

That’s probably a different kind of abstinence than the one Koolhaas is talking about, but I do think that the unintended by-product of abstinence could be a bigger realisation of context.

Notion that “Freedom has been sacrificed in the name of freedom.”

“The market is a mundane pursuit of the radical, but I’m interested in projects which revert that relationship; a radical pursuit of the mundane.”