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as-is-above-so-below · 2 years ago

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Cardigan - John Price x F!Teacher!Reader

Part 1: It Starts In A Bar

summary: your friends take you out to a local pub when you would much rather be grading assignments. a/n: hello! big surprise, me writing for john price! I don't know how long this will be, but I definitely have a general idea of where I want this to go. I hope y'all like it!

thank you @lethalchiralium for dragging me into the clubhouse kicking and screaming LMAO << Previous | Next >>

Why did they pick this place again?

Ah, right. “It’s a hometown pub, a staple to the community,” they said. That was clear from the couple dozen men and women, ranging from middle-aged to elderly, scattered about, and a few younger folks peppered into the crowd. It wasn’t run down by any means, just…a dive. You mindlessly picked at the peanuts and pretzels in little bowls, elbows perched on the edge of the sticky table, for hours. You chatted and occasionally laughed at the stories they shared about their homeroom students and the shenanigans the other grades got up to. You’d been teaching year thirteen for a while, students taking their A-levels in history.

It was supposed to be a quiet evening, spent with a stack of papers to grade, surrounded by glowing candles scattered around your apartment accompanied by soft white string lights stretched across the ceiling. Instead, your friends somehow managed to drag you out of your cozy home to a dark dive in town. You loved them dearly (really, you did), but you had a routine. Your ideal Friday night wasn’t in a damp bar.

Your kids could be challenging at times in their late teens. They occasionally cause trouble, known for getting into fights, interrupting class, or bringing drama into the classroom. Nevertheless, you’d never had a set of students that was more than you could handle. They turned their work in on time and were always nosy about your personal life, which – much to their chagrin – was uneventful. Your love life was stale, to put it nicely. And your friends tried everything in their power to set you up on dates, every single one striking out miserably. It didn’t feel natural to meet some guy at a restaurant for a blind date.

One of them talked about themselves the entire time, barely letting you get a word in. The next ordered about three more drinks than you and a meal that cost twice as much as yours but demanded you split the cost of the date. You were all for splitting the bill but on the first date? Not a good impression.

The rest were uninteresting and immemorable.

“Seriously? You haven’t been on a date since – Oh, what was his name again?”

“Zachary,” you pointed out, taking a long sip of your drink. “You should know; you set up the date.”

“I know, I know. I didn’t realize he was such a bore one-on-one.”

“Thanks for that, by the way. Loved talking to myself for two hours.”

You all laughed at the memory, starting to finish drinks and gather belongings. “Let’s get to the next spot to find you a man!”

Bar hopping was the absolute last thing you wanted to do, but you knew better than to resist. It would all be over much faster if you just went along. Your companions were much quicker on their exit, considering the nearly-full drink that you felt like you just bought, and they were already moving on to the next dig. You threw the rest of your drink back, flinching as the big gulp of alcohol burned down your throat, and hurried to catch up with them. You took one of their outstretched hands, giggling as they just about pulled you into the circle exiting the pub–

“Excuse me, miss!” a deep voice called out. You’re not sure why, but you turned, feeling like the man was calling out to you. Your assumption turned out to be correct, and a tall, dark-haired man with a beard and a soft smile approached you. “Sorry, you left this.”

He held your cardigan to you. You must have abandoned it in your haste.

“Oh! Thank you so much. That’s kind of you,” you said, taking the garment back and draping it over your forearm. “I’d forget my head if it weren’t attached,” you added, tapping your temple with a soft chuckle.

“Quite alright.” Behind you, an elbow nudged your spine; you barely caught yourself from making a face and snapping at whichever acquaintance decided to egg you on. “I’d offer to buy you a drink, but it seems you’re heading out.”

He certainly was handsome. His beard was well-groomed, just like his hair. It looked like he went to a barber fairly recently. He even dressed well, in a cream, ribbed polo tucked loosely into his jeans. Dark chest hair peeked out where the top two buttons were undone. It was an enticing offer…

“Um, yeah, but….” You looked over your shoulder and met expectant glances. Some looked like they were about to bust apart at the seams with glee, which made you roll your eyes. Clearly, you wouldn’t be missed. “I could hang for a little while longer.”

The man's smile grew, and his stance shifted to open a path toward the bar. “Are you sure? Y’don’t have to,” he amended, his hands in his pockets. His energy was warm and soft but still masculine. He held a confidence that not many people carried, at least not the men you’d been on dates with recently. And the Liverpool accent? Maybe things were starting to look up.

“No, no, I honestly need another drink.” You flashed your teeth back to him, folding your arms over your chest with your sweater in hand.

“In that case, after you.”

Before taking his arm, you realized you’d yet to even ask for his name. “Thank you…?”

“John.” John’s right hand hovered before you and he flashed his bright teeth. His hands were clean, nails neatly trimmed. Although, one nail bed was bruised.

Man, he’s pretty for a grown man.

“Y/N,” you replied with an easy grin. He kept a steady hold on your gaze, carefully examining the bright twinkle they held. You didn’t know it, but John had just returned from a long mission. One that had left him yearning for a shower, a haircut, and somebody to come home to. He’d never had anything to look forward to and stay alive for; no affection or comfort after a rough assignment, no one to care for and spoil.

And he wanted that.

“A surname to that, John?” you asked, sliding your hand through the loop he created with his elbow. Holy shit, he was strong. Your hand rested on the soft but well-built muscle of his bicep. You figured he must have a labor-intensive job, or he goes to the gym frequently. John didn’t seem like the type to spend hours at the gym in his spare time, so you went with the first option. You’d keep that in mind when making small talk later.

“John Price.”

“Very regal name.”

John scoffed but laughed nonetheless. “That’s the first time I’ve heard that.”

John couldn’t take his eyes off of you. You were unbelievably bubbly, especially for interacting with a stranger who only gave back your forgotten cardigan. He’d been watching you from his spot at the bar, laughing with your friends but zoning out every once in a while. He was no stranger to giving himself a mental break, particularly in a hectic environment like a packed bar on a cool, Friday evening.

“I’ll call you when I need a ride!”

You and John watched the giggly group exit the pub, happily waving as they piled into a cab. You waved back with your free hand, your other palm still pressed against his warm skin. They didn’t embarrass you too badly, thank god. You met John’s eyes, a dark color twinkling with mischief.

“Your friends seem chipper.”

“I’m so sorry. They’re just happy to see me talking to a man.”

“Oh? Is that right?” he chuckled, nodding to your previously held table. John broke away briefly to retrieve his unfinished drink and denim jacket from the bar.

You followed his lead back to the booth, attempting to keep control of the flush you felt beginning to heat your cheeks. “They’ve set me up on many an unfortunate date. Not saying I don’t get along fine on my own, but–”

“It’s rough out there?” he finished, sliding into the cushioned seat across from you. When you nodded in return, John smirked. “Believe me. I get it. My career makes it difficult to find time for much of anything.”

“Yeah, well, I have sixteen kids.”

The man sputtered, choking on what looked to be an old-fashioned. Possibly a bad joke, but it was such a great opportunity; you were feeling frisky, and you couldn’t help the giggles that erupted following his reaction. “I teach history for year thirteen.”

“Oh, thank Christ.” John wiped the cocktail off his lip with the back of his hand, shaking his head at your laughter. “You had me going there. Five minutes into our date, and I’ve made a mess of myself.”

You quirked a brow. “So this is a date?”

“Isn’t it?”

“Well, I would consider it light conversation. Getting to know each other.”

“That’s a date.”

“Mmm, I’d say it’s more casual than that.”

“I’m not looking for casual, love.”

You paused, examining his calm demeanor. He didn’t seem cocky, but honest, a welcome change to the pattern you’d observed over the last few months. None of your dates had been so bold as to know what they want and make their intentions clear. Especially not so quickly. It was refreshing.

“Me neither.”

“Good.”

You both sat in peace, pausing your conversation for the waitress. You ordered another drink, as promised, and folded your hands on the tabletop, fingers laced. “So, what do you do, John?” you asked, tapping your thumbs together.

“I’m in the military.”

You paused, expectantly waiting for him to continue, only to be met with silence.

“Care to elaborate?”

He tutted once with his tongue pressed against the back of his teeth. “I would love to, but I can’t.”

Interesting. Normally, resistance like that would be a red flag. On the other hand, his job could be “classified” or whatever is said in the movies. No alarms went off in your mind; your intuition told you that John was trustworthy, so you let it go. The pretty brunette dropped your new drink off and another for John.

“I can tell you that I’m a Captain.”

“So you have pretend kids too?”

His eyes crinkled at the corners as he hummed, swirling the whiskey in his glass. A slight tinge of the citrus notes from the expressed orange peel wafted across the table. John’s laugh was distinctive, chesty and rumbly, inviting. “Of course. Mine are bigger, though, I’m sure.”

“Oh? They’re not scrawny little soldiers?”

“No. One’s almost two meters tall.”

“Jesus. How many?”

“Five. Gaz, Ghost, Soap, Alex, and Farah.”

“Well, I for one can’t wait to meet them.”

“Likewise.”

You fussed with your hair for about the thousandth time in your bathroom mirror and huffed when it wouldn’t settle right. John was to meet you in about fifteen minutes. Knowing him, that meant he would be buzzing up to your apartment any second. You’d been on a few dates and knew his date habits pretty well. If you’re not fifteen minutes early, you’re late. You had been out to dinner, grabbed coffee once or twice; you even grabbed an ice cream. So, it was a surprise when John suggested a trip to the museum. It didn’t seem like his thing, but you weren’t about to turn down a trip to the history exhibit.

As you expected, a familiar BZZT BZZT reverberated through your flat, signaling his arrival. The first time he picked you up, you let him into the building without using the intercom. You tried explaining that the speaker broke and your landlord had yet to fix it (shocker), but John wouldn’t hear it. You could have been letting in a random creep pressing buttons until some tenant unlocked the door. He insisted on creating a little system, so you would know it was him downstairs and not a kidnapper. From then on, he always rang the bell twice.

You gave up on your hair, switched the light off, and paged him in. Your unit was on the first floor (which wasn’t ideal), so it only took John a few seconds to reach your door. When you heard a knock at your door, you peered through the peephole (as promised) before unlocking the deadbolt, revealing a very well-dressed captain. John’s hair was a bit shaggy, but it suited him well. Your heart fluttered helplessly at the bright smile that appeared when he laid eyes on you, his gaze obviously taking in the sight before him.

It was a weeknight, and you didn’t have time to change between school and your usual errands. You threw a plaid skirt, thigh-high socks, and loose sweater together; just a sliver of skin showed between the top of your socks and hem of your skirt. You felt underdressed compared to John, but there wasn’t much you could do about it.

“Hi,” he said, leaning to kiss your cheek. “You look lovely.”

“Same to you. You always clean up well.”

“If you saw the state I’m usually in at work – you’d understand why.”

John kept a watchful eye to make sure you turned both locks for your door before guiding you outside to a waiting taxi with a hand on the small of your back. He held the door to your building and the car open for you. The drive was short, but the weather was starting to catch a bit of a chill, and you didn’t want to walk too far.

Ever the gentleman, the captain followed closely behind you up the steps to the gallery. Even if he weren’t perceptive, with years of experience reading people, he could tell you were excited to be there; however, he wasn’t so experienced in the ‘romance’ department. John honestly couldn’t even remember the last time he visited any museum, let alone a dedicated history exhibition. But when he suggested it and assured you that he would have a good time, he was only being partially truthful. Secretly, the man just wanted an excuse to listen to you talk. What better place to bring you than an exhibit where he knew you would talk his ear off for hours?

You slowly worked your way through each exhibit, explaining some pieces you recognized and their significance to the period; at displays you weren’t familiar with, you both quietly hovered closer to the title cards, reading through the description. While that kind of date wasn’t John’s usual cup of tea, he was glad he planned it; it helped him figure out how to slow the fuck down and try to be normal outside of a military setting or a pub.

His breath nearly stuttered every time you laid a gentle hand on his arm and drew his attention to the next section, beaming as you animately but quietly pointed out the tiny details in a Renaissance painting hung on the wall. The man couldn’t help but stare at how your lips curved at every syllable, wide eyes glued on the intricate scene portrayed. John hadn’t spoken much so far aside from the occasional affirmation that he was listening; he was very much in his head, unsure if you were excited to be there with him or just excited to be there. But, standing in front of the big painting, you went quiet. You met his gaze, and his lips pulled into a lopsided grin, which you returned before you both shifted back to the artwork. It was peaceful, absorbing the atmosphere and just existing together. Suddenly, John was jolted out of his reverie by the feeling of something brushing the side of his palm.

You were itching to hold his hand all night but were too nervous to take that leap. What if he rejected you? That wasn’t likely after so many dates, but still. Your nerves got the better of you for the better half of the self-guided tour. Regardless, you had managed to work up the courage, cautiously grazing your pinky against his wrist and hand before wrapping it around his. You didn’t look away from the illustration, but he did, moving to you, then down to your hands.

He simply stared for a moment, surprised but positively giddy at the same time. Surely enough, John took your hand in his, interlocking your fingers and leaning just a bit closer to you. He could stand there forever, basking in your warmth and energy, the sound of your voice sinking into his every thought–

“Oh no,” you said, breaking the silence. You looked up at him worried, wrinkles forming between your brows. “I-I’m sorry. I was teaching again.”

He immediately gave you a reassuring squeeze, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Don’t be. I like hearing you talk.” Jesus, did he have a way with words. He liked hearing you talk? With that accent, he could spew nonsense, and it would still draw you in. But hearing John Price give you compliments and praise? Flattery? You were a goner. “Tell me more about the next one?”

As if he could get any more fucking perfect.

“Okay.”

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gremlinmodetweeker · 7 months ago

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Circles of Stars in Cosmic Waltzes

Okay this is just a feel-good fuzzy fic of dealing with self esteem. There is a lot of negative talk in the beginning, but König's always there to help remind us of our potential. He's a very good eldritch horror husband. Junji Ito would be proud of him.

Anyways!

TWs: Self esteem issues, feelings of being useless and unworthy of love, feeling like you're not worthy of your parents (even if there is a hint that they're actually a bit abusive)

Wordcount: 2K

Art from This Post

Story below the cut

Circles of Stars in Cosmic Waltzes

You looked at yourself in the mirror. What glared back at you was nothing but shameful.

You looked wrong in your summoner robes. These robes, intricately woven out of enchanted wool and cotton, were naught but circus costumes on you. The elaborate gold and silver designs that had been embroidered into the front and along the sleeves looked gaudy on the black cloak. What was meant to be clean, professional, respectable looked almost like an elaborate joke somebody had crafted out of the scraps of a crafts room.

Looking at yourself pained you. It didn’t seem fair. You, born of great and noble blood that had coursed through the veins of some of the greatest summoners to ever live, were incapable of doing so much as taking control over a weather imp that you conjured from the first layer of the other world. You were nothing but a humiliating mistake to your family’s name. Once, maybe you embraced being the black sheep, but on nights like these you couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to have the shepherd’s care.

The tattoo on the back of your hand once made you proud, but lately it had only drawn ire. A high ranking officer had commented on how strange it was for a summoner to need a mark to copy, to not have their summons’ symbols firmly embedded in your mind’s eye. You had laughed it off at first, but the longer you sat with the thought the lower you delved into the depths of your mind.

You closed your eyes, shielding yourself from the horrible vision. You couldn’t bear to look any longer. The image of you playing as a summoner haunted you. You were simply a fake. You were a laughable excuse for a summoner, anyone could tell that at a glance. Your work was shoddy and unfinished, your memory was poor, your mental fortitude was as strong as a sandcastle in the face of the ocean’s tides. You would wash away, immemorable. You suspected that your name would be scrubbed from the family tree. You couldn’t blame them; you knew you were nothing but a disgrace to anyone who ever cared for you.

You opened your eyes again. You never were good at hiding from fate, were you? What a waste of space… Your parents were usually sympathetic, but you could see how they envied your cousins. They hated what you were. There was nothing but emptiness in the words they spoke to you. They could offer you kind smiles and hopeful praise, but you would never be able to reach up to greet their kindness. Instead, you’d stay on the forest floor and watch the trees grow tall and mighty above you, reaching up to grasp the clouds in the arms of their boughs. You, little ant that you were, could only watch in awe.

In some ways, what was most humiliating about your state was the only summon you had managed to make bend at the knee, and even then it wasn’t even with your force, but rather by their will. König was something beyond your comprehension, both literally and metaphorically. He’d long since made you aware that you were nothing but a speck under his foot.

What was the worst aspect about being König’s summoner was how he treated you so kindly. He was nothing but revenant with you, almost as though he actually treasured you. It was completely beyond your ability to comprehend why König was so interested in you. He’d explained once before, but it didn’t make much sense. Or, well, it did, but that didn’t help make the misery disperse. Instead, you were lost in a nebulous fog of shame, fear and guilt.

Guilt? Guilt. Guilt for wasting your parents’ resources, guilt for tricking others into thinking you were a capable summoner, and the most burning ember in your fire, guilt for chaining König to your side. You were nothing but cruel in how you bound him to you, weren’t you? But did you really decide this fate for him, or was it rather he who chose to shackle this yoke to his neck?

König was incredible. He was a light that shone within your darkest hours. He was the sun that shone down upon your skin, the moon that watched over you at night. He was with you at every moment, always at your beck and call. You’d grown used to his evening conversation, his playful banter as he helped ease you into bed, his warmth as you curled into his side at night. He was the daylight’s greeting and the night’s retreat. Ultimately, he’d become your home.

The lights flickered above. You may not have spoken his name, but he came regardless.

“You doubt yourself. Again.”

You ripped your eyes away from the mirror to look at the figure crouching under the doorway.

“You’re late,” you replied monotonously.

“Am I?” König asked as he stepped in behind you, watching you in the mirror.

“I think so,” you said.

“Then I must be,” König agreed, “I had hoped you might be able to see your light, however, even I am merely a subject of fate.”

“And fate says I’ll hate myself forever?” you scoff.

“Fate says you need a reminder of your worth,” König replied as he situated himself directly behind you.

“I don’t want it,” you spat.

“Fate does not care for your desires,” König droned.

“If fate doesn’t care about me, why should I care about it?” you argued petulantly.

“Fate is not so kind, Summoner,” König raised his hands to place them on your shoulders, “now, tell me, why does my mark cause you pain? Is it not imprinted on you to inspire comfort and hope? Does it not make you warm?”

You looked down at the intricate design on the back of your right hand. You raised it up to take a better look at the darkened skin. The pattern was truly beautiful, full of constellations and ocean waves sweeping into one another. It was one of the most intricate designs you’d seen, a testament to your summon’s strength and abilities. Everything about him exuded power and prestige. He was hammered gold, shaped into intricate arcane art. You were coal burning at the bottom of a pit.

“It’s a reminder,” you told him coldly.

“It is,” König acquiesced, “but I suspect it is more.”

“It is,” you traced the linework with your pointer finger.

“Then tell me, Summoner,” König softly ordered you.

“I shouldn't’ need it,” you said quietly.

“You value the words of the lesser far too much,” König grumbled, “what weakness is there in keeping a symbol of us with you?”

“You only gave it to me because I couldn’t draw your summoning symbol properly,” you cradled your hand to your chest.

“That was what I told you, yes,” König leaned his mask over your shoulder as he looked into your eyes in the mirror.

“You say that like there’s more to it,” you snorted.

“Summoner,” König tsked at you, “do you truly believe that I speak freely and openly?”

You smiled bitterly, “You’ve got me there.”

“Summoner, I like seeing my mark on you,” König chuckled as he leaned over you, caging you in between him and the counter, “when I see it on you, it is but a mark of my ownership of you. I own you, mind body and soul, it all belongs to me. When I put my mark on you, I was binding you to my side.”

You looked down at your hand, where the mark tingled on your skin. This mark seemed less of a reminder of your simple mind and now more a reminder of your fixture in König’s life. Strangely, the idea didn’t seem so disagreeable.

“You believe you are weak,” König drew you from your thoughts, “and there is merit to this, but you are not doomed to a life of fragile floundering. You are, rather, destined for greatness. Your blood gave you a promise on birth, and it has not lied to you. Your blood is simply dormant, but not lost on you.”

König took a taloned hand and brushed it through your hair, careful so as not to accidentally nick your skin with his hooked claws, “When I see you, I am reminded of the cosmos. There is emptiness, yet if you pull back to see the full picture, there circle planets around stars as they dance Azothoth’s maddening waltz through the universe. You are simply experiencing growing pains, of a sort.”

“You keep saying that, but how long do I have to wait?” you sighed as you matched his gaze through the looking glass, “when do I actually get to be strong?”

König shook his head, “To tell you that would be to ruin your potential.”

A frown crawled across your face. König’s prophecies sometimes seemed so far away that they sounded more like myths and legends than they did your fate. At this point, you were beginning to loathe this concept of fate. Had you a chance, you’d take their scissors and drive them through the eye those three witches shared. You had the suspicion such thoughts were thoroughly blasphemous in nature. You didn’t particularly care anymore.

“I wish I could punch fate,” you finally stated.

König laughed heartily, throat warbling with ocean currents and cosmic storms. His head kicked back with mirth, and so warm was his cold laughter that you couldn’t stop yourself from giggling. The two of you shared in the light of the laughter, a beacon in a sea of self doubt and fear. For a moment, the fates seemed to smile upon you, despite your surly nature.

“You do amuse me, Summoner,” König chuckled as he managed to wrangle himself back under control.

“I don’t get why you find it that funny. Don’t you know what I’m going to say before I say it?” you pointed out with a final laugh.

“I only see the potential of what you’ll say. Seeing what you decide upon is a constant welcome surprise,” König leaned down to brush his cheek against your own, “you may think I know everything before it occurs, but I assure you I am in awe with your choices.”

“What else would I have said?” you smirked knowingly.

“Must I tell you?” König sighed with exasperation.

“I command it,” you sniffed haughtily.

“You command! My Summoner, you are certainly growing into your role, aren’t you?” König chuckled before pressing a pinching kiss to your temple before deftly avoiding your retaliatory swat, “I believe another thought was rather depreciatory of your character, another was optimistic in nature. That response, however, was the one I expected the least. And that, dear Summoner, is what I appreciate most about you.”

“What you appreciate most?” you asked.

“You consistently amaze me,” König’s eyes crinkled with sunlight warmth, “and for that, I love you more.”

You didn’t think, and for that you paid the price of turning your head to press a kiss to König’s cheek. For once, both of you were as equally surprised as you were delighted.

König pressed a hand against his cheek briefly before bringing the hand back to circle over your chest, “You may not realize, but each and every kindness you gift me is cherished.”

You ducked your head into his forearm to avoid showing your blush, knowing full-well that König was quite aware.

He was, thankfully, merciful in how he addressed you, “Summoner, it is late and tomorrow does not bring much in the ways of rest. Do you wish to rest?”

You thought for a moment. You knew König was right, tomorrow would be strenuous in how it played itself. Your friends mentioned something about a physical test and something about a wilderness survival trip, but in that moment, König’s hold was greater than any expense the next day brought.

“Not yet,” you told him, “can you just hold me for a bit?”

König encircled you fully in his arms, guiding you into his dark cloak to press you into his form, “Always, Summoner.”

AU Masterlist

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falcemartello · 11 months ago

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5 maggio 1821, muore Napoleone Bonaparte.

Passato alla storia per essere stato grande un stratega, conquistare e legislatore, in realtà fu anche altro: il primo mitomane moderno a mettersi in testa di fare dell’Europa un mega stato unitario e poi invadere la Russia.

Poco più di un secolo dopo sarà emulato da un mediocre pittore austriaco, con più o meno le medesime conseguenze.

Stesso sogno imperiale, stessa bruciante sconfitta. Anzi decisamente peggiore.

Ebbene, difronte alla perentorietà della storia uno si aspetterebbe che i governanti successivi agiscano con un briciolo di senno, realismo e cautela in più.

Invece no. E nel 2024 ci ritroviamo con l’unione europea pronta a far nuovamente guerra alla Russia.

Per i più attenti l’esito è già scritto, ma non voglio rovinare il finale a tutti gli altri.

-----

Ei fu. Siccome immobile,

dato il mortal sospiro,

stette la spoglia immemore

orba di tanto spiro,

così percossa, attonita

la terra al nunzio sta,

muta pensando all’ultima

ora dell’uom fatale;

né sa quando una simile

orma di piè mortale

la sua cruenta polvere

a calpestar verrà.

(...)

A. Manzoni

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solosepensi · 4 months ago

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Leopardi prima di scrivere a Silvia, una delle poesie più belle e commoventi al mondo, visse il momento peggiore di tutta la sua vita. Ma poi gli successe una cosa straordinaria.

No, non era depressione. E neanche disperazione. Ma qualcosa di peggio: INDIFFERENZA. Sì Leopardi, il poeta delle emozioni, non sente più nulla. La donna di cui si è innamorato lo ha respinto, suo fratello è appena morto. Le stelle e la luna sono mute ai suoi occhi, non gli suscitano più sospiri, fremiti o rimembranze. Quando un’alba o un tramonto non ci danno più emozioni, significa che l’anima è malata.

E sapete cosa lo ha salvato? «Chi dalla grave, immemore quiete or mi ridesta? (…) Chi mi ridona il piangere?» No, non è stato l’amore. Non è stata la bellezza e neanche la conoscenza. Anche se non smise mai di creare la bellezza e di inseguire la conoscenza. Ma fu un’altra cosa: il ricordo degli occhi «ridenti e fuggitivi» di Silvia, la figlia di un umile cocchiere, una comunissima «tessitora». Leopardi interrompeva il suo studio «matto e disperatissimo» soltanto per ascoltarla cantare. Ma poi Silvia morì, stroncata dalla tisi a soli ventun’anni.

E fu questo a salvarlo. Al ricordo di Silvia il suo cuore morto rinasce. Il cuore irrigidito si scioglie, il cuore assopito riprende a battere. E di colpo «ritorna a vivere la piaggia, il bosco, il monte». Perché a volte la stessa emozione che ti spezza il cuore è anche quella che te lo guarisce. Non è il sentire, ma il non sentire nulla la vera tragedia. Cosa vi sta dicendo Leopardi? Che le cose davvero importanti non possono essere viste e nemmeno toccate. Bisogna sentirle con il cuore.

Non si ricordano i giorni, si ricordano gli attimi. E gli attimi sono fatti di emozioni. In quest’epoca che ha fatto della freddezza un vanto e dell’essere anaffettivi uno stile di vita, Leopardi ci torna a parlare dei sentimenti. E no, le persone emotive non sono ingenue. Né stupide. Né tantomeno indifese. «Anzi, sono così forti da potersi permettere di non indossare alcuna maschera. Libere di essere vulnerabili, di provare emozioni, di correre il rischio di essere felici.» Perché senza cuore, ecco cosa vi sta dicendo Leopardi, non c’è vita.

DA LA STORIA E....

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singinginthecar · 15 days ago

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just finished watching 'anora'. this is the plot of an average tamil movie - 2 people fall in love, get married or want to, parents of the richer or higer social status one find out, get mad and object and rip them apart. uhh ok? you do not need to be the son of a russian billionaire to see this dynamic play out in a family tbh. you need to only be born in an upper middle class family in india. even that's not required mostly. you need only be born in india for this. and so this is a common theme in indian cinema. so this isn't new to me? i just... don't get why this got the biggest award at the oscars. it's a good movie, don't get me wrong. but it's not even oscar worthy? i mean what is oscar worthy honestly? ask me in a couple years what this movie is about and i probably won't remember. it's very immemorable.

#i did actually like this movie i promise. i just don't see the hype. that's my only gripe.#it's not ahhh omg this is amazing. this is very much an unremarkable movie.#anora #k*

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gregor-samsung · 9 months ago

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" Di fronte a noi abitava la Lola, una delle prime persone transgender della città, con grave scandalo dei benpensanti del circondario. Una volta la incontrammo dal macellaio e mia madre la salutò dicendole: «Ciao Antonio», scatenando l’incredulità della nostra beata innocenza. Lei, comprendendo la situazione dal mio sguardo confuso, le rispose: «Lucia, per favore, davanti ai tuoi figli chiamami Lola». Le cose cambiano e oggi Lola si fa chiamare Frate Antonio, veste un saio e si è ritirato a vita spirituale da decenni, una storia che farebbe la gioia di gente come il generale Vannacci e Simone Pillon, per cui per favore non andate a raccontargliela, grazie. Al campetto di via Compagnoni oggi non ci sono più i ragazzini, le strade dove giocavamo gliele hanno rubate ormai da tempo immemore. Nelle case sopravvissute alle recenti demolizioni restano gli anziani e i nuovi inquilini di antichi assegnatari poi diventati proprietari e infine locatori. Ogni volta che passo da via della Canalina in macchina guardo da lontano il mio balcone, immagino mia madre che mi chiama e sento che se sono diventato quello che sono è perché ho potuto vivere in quel luogo e in quel contesto, perché quel luogo e quel contesto insegnavano, anche senza l’uso di strumenti complessi, il materialismo storico, la politica, la società, la socialità, la solidarietà, la povertà, la dignità. In breve: la coscienza di classe. In quel luogo diventavi antifascista prima ancora di imparare a leggere e a scrivere. "

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Brano tratto da:

Storie di antifascismo senza retorica, a cura di Arturo Bertoldi e Max Collini, prefazione di Francesco Filippi, People editore, Busto Arsizio (VA), 2024¹, pp. 57-58.

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parmenida · 3 months ago

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L' officina dei pensieri.

Un paese ci vuole

.....Qualche giorno fa, il caso ha voluto che mi recassi nella parte vecchia del mio paese, Castelnuovo della Daunia. Realizzai in quel momento che, non ci andavo da decenni, fui preda di ricordi. Incantata dal luogo mi addentrai nei vicoletti, giù per le scale, mi fermai in una piccola piazzetta, con al centro un grande albero frondoso, sotto al quale c'erano delle panche, messe lì dagli abitanti della strada. È evidente che servono per sedere all' ombra nelle calde giornate d'estate, un tavolino abbandonato in un angolo, mi fa immaginare dei vecchietti che siedono al fresco per giocare a carte nelle afose sere d'agosto. La mia attenzione viene attratta da un arco, lo attraverso e.....mi ritrovo in un cortile. All' interno una scala di pietra che porta all'ingresso di una vecchia casa, un portoncino smaltato di verde, come usava un tempo. Chiuso! La terra portata dal vento ha creato dei mucchietti, sui quali sono nate sparute piantine. Sulla facciata di pietra cresce la parietaria l'erba dei muri, così la chiamavamo da bambini. Questa pianta, tra l'altro urticante, ha le foglie che, attaccavamo sulle nostre magliette. Facevamo a gara a chi attaccava le più belle. Gli infissi verdi delle finestre, come il portone erano rovinati dagli anni e dalle intemperie, oramai all' abbandono come il resto del cortile.

Una mi ha attratta!

Piccola,dietro ai vetri oramai opachi, una tendina di pizzo che, ricordava tempi migliori, sostenuta da una cordicella, uno stretto davanzale dove si poteva sistemare un solo vaso.

C'era un vaso.

Un grosso barattolo di alluminio, uno di quelli dove una volta si vendevano le alici salate, ancora evidente tra la ruggine un disegno che mostrava una scena di pesca, con una barca di pescatori in un mare blu. La meraviglia non fu solo questa, bensì la pianta di garofani che ci " viveva dentro".

Certo! viveva.

Dopo anni ed anni di abbandono, non mi spiego come possa vivere e ri-fiorire questa pianta di garofani. Tra qualche foglia secca ed altre verdi, erano fioriti radi garofani rossi. Da tempo immemore, non vedo più quel genere di garofani sui balconi del mio paese. È una pianta che raggiunge una bella dimensione, coltivata nei vasi, non ha vegetazione eretta, tende ad essere cascante, come certi geranii. I fiori, crescono verso l'alto. Hanno uno stelo lungo e, dritto, in cima al quale, fiorisce il garofano, qualche volta più di uno.

Le meraviglie della vita!

In quel cortile dove tutto è abbandonato e vittima della incuria, una pianta sopravvive e fiorisce.....

Il ricordo del paese come era, come si viveva, della mia fanciullezza mi assale, ma viene ostacolato dallo scorrere del tempo che, inesorabilmente ci allontana da quella età felice. Tutto è cambiato,nello stesso centro storico, c'è un fiorire di cemento,infissi in alluminio, vasi di plastica, c'è una sorta di gara a chi li mette più grandi e più belli... Si può dire belli?

Che bella quella solitaria tinozza di zinco con un piccolo nespolo.

Allora mi chiedo..... Dove eravamo quando hanno-abbiamo distrutto il fascino delle case, dei vicoli, delle piazzette, delle scalinale?

Quel fascino che sembra sopravvivere solo in quel piccolo cortile ricco di storia. Di quella storia che abbiamo perso nel tempo. Perso una identità che, ci collocava come paese più bello del Subappenino, dove esisteva la banca, piccole aziende e negozi .

Una buona economia.

La scuola, palazzi padronali, una biblioteca, il teatro, il cinema.

La cultura.

È già..... Abbiamo perso anche quella!

Senza cultura non c'è più neanche la capacità di sperare e, di credere in una rinascita di questo nostro paese. Ci resta il ricordo che,diventa un conforto, inevitabile con i cambiamenti subiti dalla realtà.....

<< Un paese ci vuole , non fosse che per il gusto di andarsene via. Un paese vuol dire non

essere soli, sapere che nella gente, nelle piante, nella terra c'è qualcosa di tuo, anche

quando non ci sei resta ad aspettarti.....>>

La luna e i falò, CESARE PAVESE.

Edito da CONTATTO

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