#i worked in costuming for theatre once and i cannot imagine the EFFORT put into her look

[granhairdo]

I DONT CRY OVER LES MIS MUCH ANYMORE BUT I SERIOUSLY MEAN IT WHEN I SAY I CRIED-

[im-not-shouting-im-projecting]

Some Seamster!Quinn Cooper HCs

I didnt intend for this to be this long, but my seamstress heart was inspired. I got kind of carried away, and had to refocus, so I'm going to do another post soon with some advice and anecdotes for wrighting costumers.

For the last couple of months I have been absolutely Obsessed with @poindextears 's Crickets, her SMH post-Waffle Frog OCs, and I have had a lot of headcannons about Quinn Cooper: a theatre kid extrordanare and Hoh icon who talks like he's from 50s and is the boyfreind of Nando (Cricket dman) as we have quite a bit in common. All of Mel's fics are amazing, and I would highly recommend! Give them a read on tumblr or AO3

--

I know Mel has said that Quinn's favorite place is Joanne's, which is completely understandable for someone who doesn't live near actual textile markets... but Joanne's (and similar chain craft/fiberarts supply stores) suck.

Like first of all, on a monetary level... I'm going to start with the assumption that high school Quinn didn't have a large project budget (reasoning: 1. his family is already tight with money, 2. I can't imagine his not-particularly-supportive guardians gave him lots of spending money (esp with theatre fees and materials) 3. I can't imagine he brought in tons of money on the side with a theatre schedule + grades good enough to go to med school + time with his old lady freind + time for sewing)

With that being said: Fabric is expensive. Way more expensive than people expect. Especially if you don't have expensive machinery (like overlock machines) that make cheap synthetic fabrics usable. Also I like to imagine Quinn is in the "fabrics made of plastic are itchy and bad for the enviornment" club like me.

All that is to say: Joanne's is absolutely the worst place that isn't actively upscale to buy fabric (or materials) on a budget.

- The shop's target demographic is stay-at-home white suburban moms who have the time to clip coupons, buy materials on a "when it's on sale" basis as opposed to a "my sister didn't notice the four seperate places I marked my shears 'fabric only' so now I physically cannot continue this project without buying new extra-sharp fabric scissors'" basis, and importantly: can stop by the store every day for a month because discounted items change on a day to day basis, all of which is not particularly conducive to someone a high school kids on a budget.

- Even with all the discounts in existance, the fabrics there are still super expensive and especially for the often lackluster quality (like... they are fine but if I'm paying literally $40/y for enough faux fur to make a big enough "mane" to cover the gap between the cowardly lion's padding and the actor's neck, we shouldnt have to sweep the fur bits off the stage at intermission)

- Additionally if you need a lot of fabric, say enough 7ft squares of heavy mustard yellow fabric for 30 lioness cape/pants? You might just need to run 4 seperate Joanne's out of two different fabrics that were close enough to each other to work

If you are putting in the time and effort to make something complicated,

- Also, and this is probably the most obvious: there just aren't that many options. If you want anything other than a cotton or fleece, than you better hope the single shade they have in the right color works

So I have established: Joanne's = Bad

So how does Quinn factor into all this?

Well first of all I would like to imagine that at some point Quinn helped out in SMH costuming, where they teach him the magic of using something that already exists. Samwell being as liberal as it is, I would like to think that the costuming people are aware of how awful the current state of fabric waste is, and, how his sewing skills are so much better used altering things at thrift shops beginning his journey twords my completeley basess headcannon that he one day adopts some vintage looks

While I think he would be down to adopt some of these practices in his costuming (a la my personal anectode below), I have a feeling that Quinn is one of those people who just likes to make things from scratch. (reasoning: 1 his general personality, but far more importantly, 2 THIS BOY WANTED TO MAKE EVAN HANSEN'S POLO BY HAND, WHY??? WHAT IS THE PURPOSE??? DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH TIME THAT TAKES???????? YOU ARE WILLING TO SPEND UPWORDS OF TEN HOURS OF YOUR LIFE ON A MODERN STYLE SHIRT THATS GOING TO BE SEEN 4 TIMES???)

I get it, especially for historical reconstructions, there are people who genuinely love sewing by hand, I love Bernadette Banner as much as the next seamstress, but I honestly don't know how they do it.

I like to think that Quinn would be wandering around some thrift store and out of the corner of his eye notice some curtains and have a vision of frolicking through a meadow like Julie Andrews in cloths made out of a curtain... metaphorically. But he def gets "Do a Dear" stuck in his head every time he wears it

Of course the SMH Costuming crew introduce him to some better places to at least get draping and mock up fabrics, but I think they would also introduce him to an actual fabric store.

Samwell is close enough to Boston that I'm sure there's an actual fabric warehouse within driving distance, so when Quinn can't find a suitable material at his beloved Joanne's, and is understandably skeptical about ordering fabric online, Ford is just like dude, go to the fabric warehouse, so he gives it a try.

Ok his fist thought when he gets there is omg everything is so big. Ok, that's his second thought, his first thought is ugh this smells like the SMH locker room, bc a giant block of concrete with no internal climate control in the New England humidity stuffed to the brim with moisture-holding fabric is def gonna make some kind of funk.

But after that like...

Ok, on the left is your average Joanne's while on the right is your average fabric warehouse

I can totally imagine him physically getting lost. He is tiny, and those places are total mazes, absolutely ginormus, they are all stacked literally 8 feet tall, and all the rows look the same.

Fabric in warehouses is stored for maximum capacity as opposed to places like Joanne's where it is purposely stored in ways that display the whole selection at once. Additionally, while hobbyist bolts face out as much as possible so you can see it at a glance, professional grade bolts face in for protection

...If it's on the shelves at all, the hallmark of a textile warehouse is just dozens of bolts leaning haphazardly in precarious places

This tiny boy is just absolutely surrounded by rows upon rows of fabric, stored in ways that are absolutely not conducive to being looked at easily, and is incredibly frusturated bc Aggghhh I can't look at any of this without moving all of it around, and I can't reach any of it!!!

BUT!

Guess what he has?

Nando to the rescue!

Quinn's big strong dman boyfriend is more than willing to move around and carry the bolts for him and when need be he'll just straight up plop Quinn on his shoulders so he can see the stuff at the top :)

Ok, that's the gist of what I had to say, some other little seamster!Quinn hcs:

his old lady friend taught him the absolute basics, and his wedding gift from her is her 70 year old sewing machine that he first learned to sew on and he treasures that thing FOREVER

bc of his apparent love of hand sewing he is one of those people that swears by genuine leather thimbles, idk why it just feels like him

whenever people compliment his outfit he is just casually like "Oh thanks, I made it" (bc non sewers are always astounded by that and we get to gloat) because I said so

he makes Nando cute crop tops

[doyouneedtorant]

april 29, 2019 (time unknown)

This is an old piece that I wrote for an English assignment. It is entitled “The Missing Fairy Princess”. 

It’s backpacking season at the University of Michigan. For those of you who are unaware of what that means, “backpacking” is the process of choosing classes to put in your “backpack” before registering for them at a later date. It involves many hours of obsessing over the course guide and worrying about what the future will look like if you do not get the classes that you need for your major. With that in mind, it’s an extremely stressful experience for someone as manic and worried as me. At this point in my college career, I am bombarded with adults telling me “Oh, you’re just a freshman! You don’t need to know what you’re doing with your life quite yet!” when in reality, this question of “what do you want to be” is single-handedly eating away at my heart. I am a person of many ambitions and yet in a school full of aerospace engineers, aspiring business men and women, medical students, and overachieving triple-majors, I feel as if my creativity has been pushed to the side for a more practical pursuit. In these times, I cannot help but look back at the young girl I used to be who wanted to be everything.

At my preschool culmination, the teachers all asked us what we wanted to be when we grew up. All the boys and girls said they wanted to be firefighters and police officers or dentists and doctors. Yet when it got to me, I said I wanted to be a fairy princess. One of the parents laughed at me and my dad essentially told them “Hey, if my daughter wants to be a fairy princess, she can. It’s more original and creative than being a police officer, like your kid.” Now, this is just something my father has told me over and over; I can only really trust him and his memory skills to assume that this retelling of the story is actually an accurate depiction of what happened. Same goes to the time that he told me that the mothers that led our Girl Scout group had to pull him aside, because during arts and crafts, I tried to make a mind-control device to brainwash the other girls. Although I can’t remember a single thing about these events, I’ve heard these stories so many times that I can seriously see them - well, at least in my own imaginative way. I see me shrieking “I want to be a fairy princess!” at the culmination and suddenly I’m in this cute, little purple fairy costume laughing as my dad has his altercation with the other parent. I can vividly see this “mind-control device,” a black-and-white pinwheel that spins as if I was some engineer who could have actually made that at the age of eight. Over the years, these tales have deeply embedded into me that I could be whatever I wanted to be and I had the drive and ability to be or create something inspiring. And at that young age, I could have been a fairy princess. I could have made a mind-control device. And as I got older, I found myself in love with so many things - writing, singing, teaching, learning, math, English, science, animals. I wanted to be everything and when you’re eight, the idea of being everything seems achievable.

Whether or not those stories were true, there’s clearly a path of imaginative behavior that trailed off from then. Starting in elementary school, I was starting to write my own books. Yes, crappy by default, but true pieces of art in the eyes of my younger self. (My debut story was Pretty and Paris, a book about two poodles that discovered they were sisters and then one was kidnapped by a jealous ex-best friend who planned to sell her on the black market. Iconic.) I was making short films about pineapples with jobs and reality shows about my stuffed animals. I started writing music about the food in my fridge and the boys I thought were cute in my second grade class. I learned how to play the guitar and piano by my own hand and I realized I loved to write poetry. In high school, I was in theatre and started writing plays and when adults told me they were good, it encouraged that childlike creativity that had always followed me throughout the years. I was bound for amazing things and that eight-year-old girl could look in the bathroom mirror and recognize it.

But now I am 19. And, yes, that’s ridiculously young and I am fully aware how bizarre it is for me to be saying I can no longer be creative or that I cannot be whatever I want to be. But at this point in my life, there definitely is a limit on the possibilities. I came into college thinking that I would take all the classes I was interested in, that I would be in multiple clubs, that I would have internships lined up for me. But that’s not actually how reality works. There are GEs (the “general education” credits that the school swears you must take to be educated) and prerequisites that you are forced to take as stepping stones. You have a job because the cost of living in a college town is extremely exaggerated, so now the time you have for clubs is cut short. There are internship opportunities over summer but you are so tired from a demanding semester that you cannot even imagine putting in a minimal level of effort until you have to next semester. I think most importantly that the biggest shock was that if you do not do certain tasks, you absolutely cannot be whatever you want. If you do not take Biology 172, you cannot be a doctor; and if you decide halfway through your college career that you want to pursue medical school, the amount of time and effort that you would need to just catch up with the intense checklist of classes for the MCAT would probably kill you. Not to mention if you want to attend graduate school at all, the competitive nature of students today requires you to get an extremely high GPA, despite the fact that classes are gradually becoming more difficult and teachers praise themselves when they fail a whole class with an unreasonably unfair exam.

Not to mention, the stigma around being a humanities major is hard to avoid. My friends joke about me being homeless after college when my useless degree creates a jobless and unsuccessful life. Growing up in Los Angeles and attending a performing arts school warped my view on how people saw art, especially in a school that worships STEM. Where I came from everyone was going to be some sort of creative when they grew up: a performer, a dancer, an actor, a photographer, a playwright. And to be honest, I believed that. I saw my peers achieving great things while they were still seniors in high school and it made that dream seem much more realistic. With that in mind, that creative eight-year-old flew two thousand miles away from her home, destined to achieve these amazing feats, just to be told creativity is only allowed when it is flirting with practicality. Maybe I could have gone to a liberal arts school instead or somewhere more understanding of arts-oriented students, but how can one do that when the University of Michigan has so much to offer? An amazing reputation, a sense of pride that no other school could match, an incredibly talented and intelligent body of students that collaborate to increase the chance of success, a campus that looks like it was plucked from a catalog. I mean, it was a no-brainer. I knew any program I decided to go into would be academically rigorous and extremely insightful. Now, do not get me wrong, the humanities classes I have attended were exactly that, but the fear of not doing enough has become a very heavy weight on my shoulders. Everyone I meet is a future doctor, engineer, material scientist, epidemiologist, dentist, or nurse. Where were all the fairy princesses?

I decided that I needed to do more and went into what I like to call: “Phase I: I am going to be a doctor!” The idea of becoming a pediatrician was attractive; I always adored children, I wanted to find a career where I helped people, medicine and health continuously peaked my interest. So, with this in mind, I launched my pre-med phase and started to plan out the next three years of my life, the classes I would take, the medical schools I liked, what internships I would do over summer. (It’s sufficient to say I am an overthinker.) I registered for, you guessed it, Biology 172 and a statistics class, making my way through the advised pre-med checklist. Things were going pretty smoothly and then I failed two exams, started missing lectures, and had to explain to my father that for the first time in five years, my grades were not amazing. I came to the conclusion that the root of my stresses was Biology 172 and I withdrew from the class two- thirds through the semester.

No more doctor.

Right now, I am looking at pre-health or pre-social work, trying to find something realistic to pursue and the question “Where are all the fairy princesses?” haunts me. I like to ask people what they wanted to be when they were a kid and what they would want to be now, but often the answer makes me sad. My friend who just graduated with a degree in sociology told me he wanted to be a teacher when he was younger. Teachers, unfortunately, are not paid well and so many kids turn their cheek to education, unless it means becoming a professor at a high- paying university. My friend instead got his degree in sociology, but has no idea what he would ever do with it, so he is applying for reception jobs at local hospitals and clinics instead. Another friend told me he wanted to grow up to be a basketball player, but the skill required and the sheer realistic nature of the dream steered him in a different direction. If money or impracticality remained out of the picture, my dream would be performing on Broadway, or being a cast member on Saturday Night Live, or winning a Tony for Best Play, or singing my own songs in front of a giant crowd. However, the fear of failure or not having something to fall back on is honey for my anxiety.

Once again, I want to make it extremely well known that I understand how young I am. I am going to live a long, luxurious life and the worries I have now will all fit into place, and in my fifties I will be laughing with my husband and children about how silly my troubles actually were. But for now, they are real and they are daunting. It feels like everyone knows what they are doing or they are committed to suffering through the difficult classes they need to succeed. And frankly, I’m not. Every time I look in the mirror, I still see my younger self in the reflection - a purple fairy dress on, stuffed animal in hand, smile plastered to my face - and it is hard to not feel disappointed. I want to look back at that little girl and tell her that we did it. I want to tell her we became everything we dreamed of - a writer, a performer, a doctor, a veterinarian, a teacher, a psychologist, an artist, a chef. And although I cannot predict the future, I understand some of these options have been eliminated just by major choice.

To tell sixteen-year-olds that they need to have some basic understanding of what they want to do with their lives by the time they apply to college is utterly ridiculous. The way we have been taught to push ourselves to absurd heights has left no time to breathe in between class breaks. My fellow classmates are either not participating in any social scene so they can study, or they are engaging way too much and developing some form of alcoholism or drug problem before they hit twenty. Those of us who plan to go to graduate school have stopped learning in order to save space for short-term memorization, when in reality, we all went to college in hopes of learning more than we did in high school. No one seems to be super happy about what they are doing in college because despite the fact that adults have raved on about how in college you get to study exactly what you want to study, the opposite has proven itself true. I may be a speck of dust on Michigan’s campus but the alarming rate of students that feel the same way tells me that something is wrong with the whole process. During these next three years, I hope to catch a glimpse of my younger self by diving into activities and classes that excite me, but I worry that one day, she’ll fade away and I’ll just have to wait for my dad to tell me more stories about her.

[ooihcnoiwlerh]

The Dirt!Tommy Lee imagine Pt 1

So I made a post a week ago mentioning a dream I had that inspired this very long fic of which I’m posting this first part.  I want to preface this by saying that while I really enjoyed The Dirt as a movie, I also don’t want to glamorize or ignore the faults of the men behind Motley Crue.  I’ve also never written fanfiction about a musician, let alone fanfiction about a slightly fictionalized version of a musician.  And this is definitely more about the film version of Tommy Lee than the man himself.

She was fresh out of college and brand new in LA, applying for work and living on someone’s couch when she first heard them, and she was hooked.

Sher certainly enjoyed the sound, which reminded her a little of the independent punk scene back in New York, but the look of it—the theatricality of it—inspired her.  Four years studying production design with the hopes of applying it to a film and theatre career, she decided, led her here to these people.  They had massive budget ideas with limited money for a limited space and she wanted to help them expand.

She kept trying to work up the courage to speak with them, and found herself choking up every time.  She, unlike they, was not a performer, not comfortable inserting herself into a group.  She lacked the confidence of some of the other women in the crowd who slipped their way into dressing rooms and raised their skirt just so.  Part of her had thought about emulating them—after her first concert she found herself paying more attention to the gangly, animated drummer over the strutting blond lead singer before dismissing the thought. She had something these other women couldn’t offer.  The band wouldn’t take her seriously if she offered to fuck them first.  She continued on sending her resume out, and, just to widen her prospects, started applying to record labels.

Tom Zutaut sought her out first—he felt that her youth and interest in the music scene would lend her some credibility with the band once they signed over to Elektra.  He assured her that they would appreciate her vision.

She sat down and spoke with them for the first time at a restaurant with her portfolio tucked under her arm and her nerves ringing as she prepared her speech on how she appreciated the band’s vision and how her visual style would work well for them on tour.  She glanced between every face: Mick Mars and his aloof, unimpressed demeanor and folded arms; Nikki Sixx and his quirked brow and slight smirk; Vince Neil and his smug grin; Tommy Lee and his frenetic energy and eager smile.  She focused on him and what she saw as a friendly, open face as she opened her portfolio to show her rough sketches…

…and felt a pair of hands slide along the inside of her thighs and push her knees apart.

She flinched and rose, but not before the men at the table snickered and a woman poked her head out from under the table.

“I’m used to sucking dick,” the woman said, grinning, “but I could go either way.”

Y/N glanced at the men at the table and realized this was a test of sorts.  Could she handle this environment?  She was certain of it.  She also knew she didn’t want a stranger to go down on her in semi-public.

Y/N cleared her throat.  “You know, sweetheart, I am so flattered.  But these are leather pants I’d have to push down to my knees and I just don’t know if I want my bare ass on this seat,” she said as she sat back down.

It was the best she could do, and apparently it was enough.  After a round of shots and some cursory glances at some of Y/N’s plans, Motley Crue had an artist ready to go on tour with them.

………..

“You sure you can handle this?” Doc asks as they get ready; the boys have their own accommodations, better rooms and first class on the monstrosity that the company calls a tour bus.  There are no other women present save for Vince’s latest girlfriend—all seamstresses and make-up artists are present at each venue.  They don’t travel with the band.

Y/N laughs.  “I’m from New Jersey, Doc.  I’ll be fine.”

Doc doesn’t look convinced.  “Listen, obviously I spoke to the guys and they do have some respect for you; see you as more than, you know...”

“A groupie.”  She hopes there’s no venom behind those words; she doesn’t hate any of the women that cling to the band and she imagines it would be pointless to get angry over how frequently they stay and how disposable they become.  To get angry with a band for having groupies, she reasons, is like getting angry at a Western movie for having horses.

She doesn’t hate them, at least, she thinks she doesn’t.  But she likes Tommy’s unmatched energy and lanky body and playful grin.  She hears stories about his stamina and size and it is more difficult to ignore the whispers about him than it is about Vince and Nikki.  Mick, it seems, dismisses any sort of physical contact. Y/N imagines it would be prudent to do the same.  She’s the only woman on the production team and is fully aware how easy it would be for everyone to resent her more than they already do.

“Yeah.  Exactly,” Doc says. “You’re not like them.  You’re here to work.”

“I know, Doc.”  Y/N gestures towards her books of sketches and layouts.  “I know.”

……..

None of this is to say that Y/N doesn’t interact with the band at all. As she anticipated, it’s something of a collaborative effort.  Nikki in particular has a lot of ideas about staging and costumes that go into effect. Granted, Motley Crue itself appears to be his brainchild, and he’s in charge of most of the creative decisions. He’s smart (although he’d be loath to describe himself as such) he’s attractive; he’s talented.  Y/N imagines that in another world she would be more drawn to him than she is.  But she’s not; she appreciates his mind and the work, and she hopes that he thinks the same of her.  

She wears long pants and jackets most of the time; she seldom wears more than the slightest bit of makeup on tour and she doesn’t try to give the appearance of curves to her slight frame where there aren’t any.  She never gives off the impression that she is sexually available, and as a result she’s left alone.

Vince ignores her.  Mick is about as pleasant towards her as he is capable of being towards anyone, and Y/N appreciates his candor.  She’s told he has a condition that causes constant, often excruciating pain and isn’t sure how to design a set to accommodate him, as if he’d ever accept the help.  Nikki is usually somewhat well-behaved around her, even as he knows he doesn’t have to censor himself and that Doc will sometimes complain to her about his coke binges and public indecency.  She doesn’t need him to tell her; she stays in the same hotels and when one or more is up to a set of antics she can plainly hear it from her room.

Tommy is playful; there are times she could swear he was flirting, and she cannot tell if he’s joking or not.  She also can’t tell if, if he is flirting, whether it’s because he’s attracted to her or because any woman of an appropriate age and decent appearance is a potential one-night stand. A cum dumpster.  

She should separate herself.  She should keep a professional distance.  

She goes to parties with them sometimes and does shots with them that have her staggering and slurring her words long before they’re down for the count and wakes up with hangovers that make her fear opening her mouth. She’s still tamer than they are and abstains from hard drugs and day drinking. She wishes Tommy luck before shows and listens to all of his ideas, good and bad.  There’s no greater feeling than his excitement when she puts one of his ideas into practice.

She has sex one night with a tall man with long dark hair who isn’t Tommy but in the dark and after whiskey could be close enough for a few minutes.  She can pretend, for a moment, that it’s he who’s inside her, gasping as he comes and holding her hips in a bruising grip.  She sneaks out of his room at five AM and heads back to her hotel.

When there she pulls her pants down and brings her fingers to her clit and thinks about him; his tongue, his cock inside of her and his lips on her clit everything finally being right. Alone in a hotel she finds the release she couldn’t get with a pale imitation of what she wanted.

The shame sets in seconds after her climax.  She groans as she wipes her fingers off on her inner thigh and tries to ignore the pull in her gut as she kicks her pants off the rest of the way and somehow manages to sleep.

……….

Tommy starts dating a girl named Roxie.  Tommy has had casual girlfriends as long as Y/N can remember. He seems to fall for every girl who shows him attention and soon forgets each one.

Y/N could say that she doesn’t like Roxie because it’s clear Roxie doesn’t really care about him, that she doesn’t know him and just wants to cling to someone with fame and power.  And all those things are true; she doesn’t trust Roxie nor does she expect her to stick around.  She says nothing, though, because what really eats at her is how much she resents the hell out of Tommy being so devoted to her.

Tommy introduces his parents to Y/N first, though.  Not because she’s the most important, of course, but because she’s the first familiar face he sees after Doc as he’s giving his parents a tour of the set.

Tommy has mentioned his parents; his mother, a Greek immigrant and former beauty contestant and his father, an army vet.  They seem too polite, too conventional for this place and yet Y/N can immediately see how someone like Tommy was able to emerge from what appeared to be a typical suburban upbringing; they clearly love him for everything he is.  So she likes them and tries to stay composed when Tommy brushes his hand along the small of her back to introduce her.

“This is Y/N.  She makes the magic happen.  The lights, the dancers, the backdrop, all her ideas.”

Y/N laughs.  “Not entirely true; it’s more collaborative than that.  I just draw up the plans and make sure we have the right people and equipment to make them possible.”

“You storyboarded our first music video.  Take some credit!” Tommy insists.

Y/N preens under the attention even as she tries to avoid what must be Mrs. Bass’s knowing gaze.  “If you insist,” she says.  “The business card says ‘production designer,’” she adds for the parents’s benefit.

“And you’re not married?” Tommy’s mother asks.

Y/N can feel herself blush.  “Oh, no.  Not at all!” she tries to laugh it off.  “Got hired for the portfolio and I’ve been on board since.”  She hears distantly Tommy gently admonish his mother and it doesn’t quite register.  She should get out of here.  His mother can probably tell what she thinks of her son and could easily bring it up. “Well, it was wonderful meeting you both,” she adds before finding an excuse to leave.

………..

“Did you hear Tommy proposed to Roxie?” Nikki asks as Y/N shows him several plans for the next leg of their tour.

Y/N feels like she’s been kicked in the gut.  She keeps her face in repose and manages to speak.

“You think it’s gonna last?” she asks.

Nikki sighs.  “I didn’t think it was gonna last this long.  You know Tommy’s mom called her a groupie to her face?”

Y/N laughs; it’s cruel and she relishes in it.  She has so few petty comforts she’s sure she can have this. “She’s not wrong,” she says as she packs up her drawings.  “I mean, it’s not like she’d be interested in him if he wasn’t famous.”

Nikki sits back and watches her.  “You would, though,” he tells her, and of course he notices her pause.  Of course he noticed how she looks at his bandmate.

Y/N can’t look back at him.  She manages to find her voice.  “Does Tommy know?” she asks.

“Nah.  He’s completely oblivious,” Nikki says.

“Well, good,” Y/N says faintly, and after setting everything into her portfolio briefcase, stands.  “I think I need a drink.”

Nikki grins.  “You joined the right band for it.”

……………………………

Tommy calls off the engagement as abruptly as he began it. Y/N didn’t see it, but apparently there was a fight involving him being stabbed in the back with a pen, him punching his fiancée in the face, and liberal use of the word “cunt.”  Specifically, Roxie referring to Tommy’s mother as one. The driver drops Roxie off at a Phoenix bus stop with a bag filled with her clothes and no one speaks of her for the rest of the trip to the next venue.

The show goes off without difficulty and Y/N manages to find Tommy afterwards before he can disappear with a mountain of coke, a bottle of Jack, and a girl who looks nothing like Roxie to take his mind off of the dumb decision he’d been about to make.

“Hey, you alright?” she asks.  She’s closer to him than she’d normally dare and as he turns around, she remembers just how much taller he is than she.

His eyes are wide but he seems neither upset nor inebriated.  He looks her over once and asks, a little louder than Y/N would like, “Are you wearing make-up?”

Y/N shrugs and takes a step back, forcing herself to meet Tommy’s gaze.  “One of the ladies was bored and offered to do some work on me before packing up,” she says.  “Anyway, let me buy you a drink.”

“You don’t need to do that,” Tommy says, and for a moment, Y/N shrinks back, gets ready to apologize, to back away, to hide in her hotel room. It lasts only a moment.  “But yeah, I’ll grab a drink with you.”  He smiles at her and it seems genuine; everything he says and does feels earnest.

He leads her to the bar closest the venue, and packed as it is the patrons and bartenders make room for the two of them as they sidle up to the bar.

“A Jameson and ginger ale for me and whatever this guy wants,” Y/N says, and glances over at Tommy, who orders a double shot of Jack Daniels. They won’t have much time to themselves, of course.  The other guys will join him and drag him to a private table, and before that fans are already lining up and getting ready for autographs.

“So, I guess you heard what happened,” Tommy says.

“Yeah.”  Y/N takes a sip from her drink.  “How are you holding up?”

“Fine, I guess.”  He finishes his shot and signals for another.  Y/N waits for him to say something else; Tommy always has something else to say.

He looks down at the bar, at his right hand as it rests against the polish wood.  “I hit her,” he says, finally.

“I know,” Y/N tells him.  Tommy glances up, looking alarmed.  “I also know she screamed at you, cursed at you, cursed your mother, and tried to stab you with a pen before you did.”  Y/N rubs her thumb along the condensation forming on the outside of her glass.  “I’m not saying you did the right thing; I don’t condone punching people in the face. I am saying she provoked you, that she would have continued trying to provoke you, and that it’s good that you’re not together anymore.”  She takes a sip from her drink.

Tommy keeps looking at her.  “You didn’t like her, did you?” he asks.

Y/N leans her elbow on the bar and faces him; his eyes are very blue. “You’re right.  I didn’t.”

“Why’s that?”

Y/N exhales.  “I didn’t believe for a second that she loved you,” she says.  “I thought she was using you.  

“Listen, I get it.  I get that you guys sleep with whoever and it’s no big deal.  It’s casual and that’s how it’s supposed to be.  But that’s for all the times there isn’t an emotional investment.  When there is, though, if you decide to give that to someone, they sure as hell better deserve it.  And she didn’t.”

It’s then that Y/N realizes she doesn’t remember the moment her favorite part of the job ceased to be seeing her designs and sketches put onstage, but instead every moment she gets to see Tommy.  The crazy lifestyle, the weirdness, it doesn’t matter.  She can take it.  She wants this, wants every part of him.  If she says anything else she’ll burst forth and say everything.  For a few agonizing moments they sit in silence and she wants to lean forward, wants to bridge the inches between them. She could kiss him so easily.

“T-Bone!”

Why did neither of them notice Nikki come up to them?

“Come on, man.  We got a room set up back.  Bottle service, strippers, the works.”  Nikki claps Tommy on the shoulder.  “Gonna get you back on the horse in no time.”

Tommy looks over at Y/N.  Y/N feels her throat constrict, wonders how she can possibly speak, and simply raises her glass in cheers and forces a little smile.

“I…” Tommy stands and motions for the bartender.  

“I want you to put this on our tab.  This and anything else the lady might want tonight,” he says, patting Y/N on the back.

“Have a good night,” he tells her as he follows Nikki to the back of the bar, and Y/N raises her glass once again before knocking back the rest of her drink.

“Another?”

Y/N pushes her glass forward.  “Please.”

The bartender gets to work.  “You know those guys?” he asks.

“I work for them,” Y/N tells him.  

“Sounds like fun.”

She forces a smile.  “It has its moments.”

She leaves two hours later after making very small talk with the bartender, ignoring horny barflies, and ordering several more drinks. She eventually gets a cab to the hotel before stumbling to her room and collapsing fully clothed on the bed.  Good thing sober her made sure to schedule a wake up call with the front desk, because drunk her wouldn’t dream of waking up at eight AM—in five hours and presumably hungover.

[rogeramir]

To Live Authentically, Confront Yourself

I wrote earlier about authentic living (see my earlier post 'Authentic Living'). And, as presumptuous as it may seem, I am going to quote something from my own post, not because I think it contains pearls of wisdom (I am sure it does not), but because I feel that I need to go deeper into some parts of the post, for my own sake. I think there is a message in there that I need to learn and to give to myself again and again in a deeper, stronger way. Here is the relevant portion from the earlier post:

Life cannot be compromised even for a single day. Otherwise, there will be conflict and that conflict will create hell. Life has to be authentic today. No compromises.  

What was I trying to say? Allow me to zoom in on this:

Firstly, at some point in our lives, we realize certain things so clearly that it becomes a part of our belief system. It becomes a part of our 'truth'. We know in our heart that there is something there which is beyond the ordinary, that we have accidentally caught on to something extraordinary which applies to all of us. (If there is a god, then such realizations probably come from god. But that depends on how you define god.)

Anyways, this realization could be that we do not want or need to be dishonest or to be a liar. Or, if someone is a smoker, it could be a realization that he or she does not need to smoke. Or it could be the realization that true love does not pertain to a particular individual or set of individuals. Or it could be a realization that human greed, possessiveness and attachments have created a very messy world. Or it could be the realization that religions are being used to divide and rule the masses. Or it could be a realization that it is OK to be ordinary. Or it could be a realization that I need to be Buddha not a buddhist, a Christ not a Christian, a Mohammad not a Muslim, a Lao Tzu not a Taoist. Or it could be a realization that this life is just one of the short journeys I will be taking and that this journey is about to end.

And so on and so forth.

Such realizations happen deep inside us and becomes a part of our core values. And, once that happens, then that realization has to be actualized in the real world, in the outside world. If it is not so actualized, there is or will be a problem. There will be an unease in our sub-conscious which will keep gnawing away at our minds and keep telling us that we are missing something, that we are not doing something we need to be doing. And no matter what we do, we will remain uneasy as long as that conflict exists. No matter how much alcohol we drink, no matter how much weed we smoke, no matter how much TV we watch, no matter how many vacations we take, no matter how much shopping we do, no matter how many new restaurants and fantastic foods we discover, we will remain conflicted, agitated and uneasy. And many times, for the sake of sheer convenience (we hate doing serious work to change our lives) or to avoid giving up our attachments, we will try to convince ourselves one way or the other that we don't need to take any action and that that realization can be pushed under the carpet and made ineffective. But, sometimes it will happen that after ignoring it for years, we will find out that it is still disturbing us.

Once something becomes part of our 'truth', our belief system, then it cannot be shunted out. It cannot be hidden. It is not like a candle or a light bulb which can be snuffed out or switched off. No, that light inside, once lit, cannot be switched off. We can refuse to act in that light. We can try to cover it up with excuses and other ideas and fake beliefs, but it cannot be switched off.

Secondly, why does there have to be a conflict?

The kind of realizations we are talking about are ones that go to our core being. They cannot be avoided. They can either be fulfilled or implemented in our lives or they can be put aside. But they cannot be done way with. And till such time that we are able to fulfil or implement them and to make them active parts of our personality, rather than hidden / inoperative parts, they will keep gnawing at us. And till such time that we take action to implement them or fulfil them, we are living fake, unauthentic lives. And conflict will be unavoidable. The conflict is between a fake reality and the actual reality, between the ego and the universe itself, between the creation and the creator, between the temporary self and the eternal self, between the world of images and attachments, on the one hand, and the world beyond all images and attachments, between the world of man and the world of God, between the world of money, possessions and property, on the one hand, and the world of love and oneness, on the other hand.

It is the eternal conflict raging within men. And man, the human race, is the only specie afflicted with this conflict. And that is because the human race is the only known race (and here I am not going to talk about other intelligent species - aka aliens, etc; for the purposes of this post, we'll just assume that there are none) which has developed an ego.

The ego is a fake 'personality', an entity that goes beyond what is and exists in imagination, in thought, in theories and ideas and images. When this fake entity comes across what is, i.e., the actual reality, obviously there is going to be a conflict. The two are mutually incompatible. Imagine that you are a stage actor and you are playing a fictional part in a theatrical play, but when the play is over, you refuse to take off the costume and  the make-up and go out into the real world pretending to be the same fictional character that you were playing on stage. What is going to happen? Well, obviously, a conflict, to whatever extent, between your life outside of the theatre, i.e., your so-called 'real' life (which also btw is not so real) and the life of the character you were playing on stage. That conflict is inevitable.

The same thing happens when you come across core realizations. You have this ego-based life that you think is real and then you come across something that goes beyond this ego-based life and immediately the conflict starts. And if and when this happens, you might insist that there is no conflict and that everything is under control. But, with time, you will see your life or certain aspect(s) of it coming apart. Things will stop making sense. All of your efforts to regain control of the situation and to calm your mind will be futile. You will go to a guru or a coach or a psychologist or you will read a spiritual or self-help book that will tell you to 'empty your mind' or 'focus on the positive' or some such thing and you will try to do that and find that to be impossible.

It is a clash of two incompatible worlds. One is the world of silence, stillness, love, bliss and oneness. The other is the world of the ego, with its divisions, separateness, individuality, hatred, competition, greed and possessiveness.

Thirdly, why are most of us unable to resolve these conflicts within ourselves? Because of the force of habit and because of the strength of the ego. We have been living the ego-based lives for years and years and there is a momentum which keeps us going in the same direction. And unless another greater force acts upon us, we are going to continue moving in the same direction (akin to Newton's First Law of Motion). And then there is the hold of the ego on our daily thinking. No wonder then that over the millennia, only a few individuals have been able to see and go beyond the conflict.

Finally, what then is the hope for an authentic way of life? How could that come about?

Confront yourself everyday. Make regular and adequate alone time for yourself, when you can just sit and be with yourself and slowly the ambient noise and images of the world around you will subside and you will see and hear your core self. And you will realize the conflict between your core self and your everyday self. And you will know clearly what needs to be done.

Adopt a zero tolerance policy for laziness and waiting. Do it there and then. Make plans and implement them. Don't let your life be in a limbo anymore. Nothing is going to come out of this limbo.

Be honest in looking at the excuses that have kept you from your core self. Banish these excuses. It is a crime against yourself (not a legal crime, but a spiritual crime, a personal crime) to not live out your core beliefs, your core learning. The only 'sin' in life is not to live it authentically and to live it as others want you or need you to live it.  

Start implementing one by one in the personal / professional / emotional / financial or any other aspect of your life. Yes, there might be a few things  you need to do in order to get there, but if you have decided to live authentically, then I can promise today that there will be no insurmountable hurdles in your way.

It will not be easy initially, but nothing meaningful in life is ever going to be easy at first. However, with time, when you have practiced it long enough, living authentically (living from your core) will not be a choice but the easiest and the only way for you to live.

Start now. Start today. Zoom into yourself and find one core lesson that you have already learnt in life (may be you learnt it many years ago) but have not implemented yet. Implement it today, right now. Make it an active part of your life today. Make a plan to live according to it.  

   And you are on your way to authentic living!