#interesting to consider in light of the fact that most poems written today are ones i don’t feel compelled to memorize.

[apocryphics]

what is poetry to most of you? i get the sense that for some it’s about the cutting, the search for the visceral, the re-membering (or perhaps reopening) of the wound. i ask this because these days i wonder if people read poetry for the music of it all. the sound. the enchantment that comes primarily via the aural element of poetry. no judgement, just curious—i feel as if reading has shifted to becoming a mostly visual act, which could in the long run amputate poetry in some respects. would love to hear some responses, thank you and sending love.

[magiaordinaria]

In Defense of Frida Kahlo

◊please see my note on these images at the end of the post, because yes, this is a form of imitation for the sake of expressing desire to belong.

Frida Kahlo has become a difficult subject, some would argue an easy target- which to me is tragic because she was a person with a life and with struggles and today she can no longer defend herself.  I personally think she doesn’t have to. I understand her as a historical figure that shaped Mexican history and the Mexican image. Lately I found myself understanding her on a different, more personal level when in October 2020 I came across an episode of the Nerdy Latinas Podcast, who were responding to a Tweet by an Indigenous Mexican woman accusing Frida of cultural appropriation.  My interest was piqued.  

“Frida was Mexican. How is it appropriation?” I thought.  

In the episode, Chismeando About Frida Kahlo, the hosts explore Frida’s background and a bit of her social context. I listened and I recommend you do too.  I gave a few comments to one of the hosts and was later invited to share my thoughts on the episode.*  Below is bit of background and my response to the episode follows after that.     

Prologue

When I initially listened to the episode my gut reaction was to become defensive, protective of Frida, despite not having had a single artifact of hers (my stance on purchasing her work or her image is a different story).  I began to explore those feelings, and once I talked myself through this gut reaction, I realized this is actually very much worth exploring.  It’s important to take into account the complexity of the social, personal, and historical context that Frida was experiencing and a part of.  

One of the things the Nerdy Latinas brought up was the fact that Mexican schools during Frida’s childhood emphasized that the indigenous cultures of Mexico were the true cultures of Mexico.  Frida, it is well-known, is half german and half Mexican. This conflict in identity was something that I deeply related to as a Mexican woman born in the US.  

They pointed out that there were indigenous women who spoke out about Frida’s use of their clothing at the time, but were ignored. In the same episode, they talk about how indigenous women who make these clothes live off the sale of their indigenous clothing- Which makes me think,  who is allowed to buy or not buy these clothes?  It reassured me that there is more to cultural appropriation than simply wearing or using things “not intended for you”.  Does intent matter? How are we verifying a person’s, in this case Frida Kahlo’s, intent? Short answer is, we can’t really.

 Later in the episode, they ask the question, why aren’t other dark-skinned Mexican women artists spoken about?  There are many indigenous artists that were overshadowed by Frida.  An important example they bring up is Maria Izquierdo (ees-kee-ehr-doh). She was a contemporary of Frida’s and a student of Diego Rivera.  She was doing well in her time and “showing promise” according to Diego himself. But when she spoke out against Frida’s feminist group Izquierdo lost a prestigious art commission to Diego Rivera and his male artist friends.  I consider this claim of overshadowing pretty unfair, because it’s not entirely up to Frida who gets seen or not. And if we’re being perfectly honest, Diego and his friends probably jumped at the opportunity to take it for themselves.

She is still, after the paint dries, a woman in a white man’s world.  

In my response, I come from a personal perspective with a lifetime of identity crises to fuel it.  I focus in on the question of whether Frida can be accused of appropriation as well the concept of appropriation itself.  

Is it fair to say that Frida had all the cards in her hands?

Is it productive to be upset over her perceived appropriation when there is so much today that is so blatantly grossly appropriated and mocked from my culture? 

My Response:

“I definitely think it’s worth exploring Frida’s Use of clothing. I think, understandably, it brought up a lot of personal feelings because it’s something that I personally grapple with; this idea that my appearance could constitute  grounds for appropriation.

...I think when Hispanic*** Americans learn about negative criticisms of Frida Kahlo they take the criticisms personally because that’s what they and myself included..., understood it looked like to be Mexican. 

And if she’s wrong about her use fo clothing, it can’t easily be understood as an homage or as uplifting or as an act of rebellion against the whitewashing of the Mexican culture, which i think is something that is important when you live outside of Mexico.  I think hispanic people--we just want to take care that our culture and our identity doesn’t get erased. so without the clothing that Frida wore the rest of us have only what we are calling the colonizer’s version of how to present ourselves as Mexicans. 

Additionally, I didn’t really find her mixed ethnicity all that significant because since Mexico’s inception as a hispanic country most if not all non indigenous Mexicans are mixed.  

our DNA is a map of people having been invaded, transcontinental travel in Europe, and slavery, 

so i never really understood Frida as a white woman, even though her father was german. I’m 48% indigenous, the rest is North African, European--and on top of that I’m born in the US. That’s all to say that Mexican is a complex ethnicity but it’s Mexican all the same.  I do see Frida as separate from indigenous and I’m also understanding that the way a person lives the culture is important.  Personally, I feel sometimes I can’t consider myself Mexican if I’m not living the cultural practices. I find it hard to justify, for example, celebrating Day of the Dead. In contrast, I feel a responsibility to connect with those aspects of my culture in order to feel like I belong somewhere, or I know who I am, what my point of view is, and what I could do in order to impart a positive view of my culture to the Americans watching me now.  

My thoughts are maybe Frida [thought so] too.  In a way, maybe that was her intention. This episode brings up the idea of a crisis of identity for Frida and I think because she was born in a time when Europeanism** was being criticized heavily her schooling was perhaps in reaction to that.  To give you a very popular example, the poem La Calavera Garbancera° most commonly known as La Calavera Catrina was written by Jose Guadalupe Posada around when Frida was born.  That icon we have today (La Catrina) was actually a symbol of derision for Mexicans adopting European values.  And I think when you’re taught certain ideals in the wider space in which you’re meant to integrate, it’s going to create a conflict between the way you’re raised and how you would like to see yourself in order to fell like you belong.  So a personal example would be me growing up in the US.  Saying the word Mexican was like saying a dirty word. For a very long time I was convinced that I should be ashamed of saying that.  I tried more and more to become what was considered American- which was synonymous with being “correct” and for that I have been called a coconut or whitewashed by the same people who would deride me for being so Hispanic. 

Today I want to undo all of that, 

and i find myself [thinking] if I buy from indigenous craftswomen a handwoven dress to wear and to show to my wider audience that “this is Mexico, this is what indigenous women can do and it’s beautiful,” I fear I’ll face the same criticisms as Frida when I genuinely find [the dresses/clothing] lovely to wear and I only want to support the craftswomen of Mexico.  So I don’t think appropriation happens when you buy indigenous crafts directly from indigenous men and women.  As an artist myself, I would think they’d want to sell as much as they could, sharing their pride in their work.  I think appropriation is buying from American corporations that are making money off of a diluted form of culture from oppressed people, stealing those complex designs expertly executed by thousands of years of knowledge and skill.  To buy these goods from white companies, from huge manufacturers is to really whitewash culture.  And on the flip side, I think it would be way worse for me to say, 

oh no I’m not buying from indigenous people because I’m not indigenous.  

But then turn around and buy something cheap from a huge manufacturer instead.  

I think there’s room in this conversation to believe that Frida felt some kind of genuine desire and made a genuine attempt to connect to the Mexican identity she was taught in school. 

 I think she made a choice to embody what she felt was fundamentally Mexican but to what end, I honestly can’t say.  Was it to bring awareness? was it to feel like she belonged? was it a statement? And that’s the thing we just can’t be sure.  

All of this is not to say she didn’t offend people, and in the process took the light away from indigenous women.  Or that this topic isn’t worth confronting.  I was confronted with the question, though, of how much of that is or was  her fault or her intention and how much of that is the time she lived in and her society’s discrimination.  I’m glad you guys brought up her social milieu because 

it matters a lot who were and are the voices speaking of her and approving her for public consumption. 

 I think Frida’s international travels and being on the cover of Paris’s vogue at the time, and the mystique she built around herself coupled with the fact that her skin color was internationally acceptable made her the icon that she is today around the world.  That much is true, but can it also be true she made an honest attempt to honor Mexican heritage in defiance of those popular racist attitudes? I think there’s room for that. 

 I don’t think it’s entirely fair to say Frida is guilty of appropriation not really today, especially because we have much more blatant and grossly offensive forms of appropriation happening in our time.  I’m sure I don’t need to go into that if you do a simple google search of “Mexican Costume” you can actually find white people dressing up as caricatured versions of Mexicans.  

So I think a more productive conversation regarding appropriation in our world and in our culture today would be how to teach our diaspora across the globe to value handmade crafts. sure it can be more expensive, but you’re not buying a single object, you’re buying hundreds of years of knowledge and tradition.  I would even argue that homemade is preferable to buying cheap, ready made stuff from corporations that have no regard for tradition or quality and who are actually drawing attention away from indigenous communities and diluting our cultures.”

Further Musings/Conclusion

I think that we are learning a valuable lesson in what is done is done, but what do we do now?  My main concern is that there is outrage over the women that Frida Kahlo “overshadowed”,

 but the simplest solution is to stop talking about these indigenous artists within the context–in the shadow– of Frida Kahlo.  

They should be spoken about in their own right.  If the dialogue about these women doesn’t revolve around or rely on Frida and her history, it would do these women justice.  They are out there and they can exist.  The problem is, how to talk about them without drawing comparisons to Frida? Should we avoid placing them in the same context? Questions for which I personally lack the answers right now.  

What I do know is that I think we should avoid turning this into a situation where we tear down one woman- 

who in the grand scheme of things accomplished a lot- in order to raise another.  No, no mijita, as my mom would say.  Eso no se hace, that’s not something we should do.  

This feels too much like a situation in which someone like Frida becomes the target of appropriation because it’s easier than confronting really tough situations like white companies selling “ceremonial grade” chocolate.  

Let’s tackle that sometime.

Personally, as you may have been able to tell,  I understand Frida from the perspective of a person caught in the middle of two worlds.  I don’t exactly feel like I belong in my American homeland nor in my familial, ancestral home of Mexico.  I am part of a community that feels a sense of disconnection from our roots and therefore, lack meaning; we lack a true sense of self.  But the more I interact with others like me, the more I create a community for myself, the more I understand that my place is where I want to be seen.  I think it’s possible that that’s what Frida chose.  

notes

◊This set of pictures is a type of homage centered around a very conscious  imitation.  I created these images back in September 2020 about a month before I learned of the Frida Kahlo tweet or the podcast episode.  They were created in an attempt to portray a desire to belong to the culture I come from.  Everything worn is a symbolic imitation in search of identity.  In contrast to the last set of images where I wear the braid headband again.  Here it is inspired by, rather than imitation; a carrying forward of traditions (like those seen here) into a more understandable form for myself.  The evolution of the outfit is taking me one step closer to figuring out what my place is and what my voice is within the greater scope of my Mexican heritage. 

*I recorded a few thoughts in audio format, sent it off to Short Latina and that was that.  To what extent my comments were included, I’m not sure, I haven’t had the chance to listen to their follow up episode.  Perhaps I was proven completely wrong! 

**Europeanism- I know it’s not a real word, but It felt right :P

***I imagine Frida is important to a lot of Latinx, but for the purposes of this argument, I specifically mean Mexicans and Mexican-Americans because of the specific ties to cultural attire.

°It’s actually called: Remate De Calaveras Alegres y Sandungueras; Las que hoy son empolvadas Garbanceras pararan en deforme calaveras

[rumbelleshowdown]

Author: Overpraised Lasagna

Prompt: Aphrodisiac; room full of chests

Group: A

A/N: This is a continuation of my Round One fic, The Book's the Thing

-

The Legend of the Dark One’s Dagger

“You wanted to see me?”

Weaver looked up at the police officer peering in at him from his office door. “Yes, come in.”

Rogers entered the room, his nerves on full display despite his best effort to hide them.

“Get rid of that uniform. We have work to do,” Weaver growled.

“What?”

The look of pure confusion on Rogers’ face put Weaver at his ease for the first time that morning. He hadn’t been himself since the previous afternoon when he’d met Belle French, or rather, when his murder investigation had intensified.

“You’ve been promoted to detective,” Weaver informed him. “At my request.”

“I, uh, I don’t know what to say.” Rogers stood shell-shocked by the news. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. This job’s about to take us into some very dark places… Now let’s get moving.”

Rogers hesitated before replying. “I was just on my way to the Pirate Cove Amusement Park. They were vandalized overnight.”

Weaver rolled his eyes. “Well, unless there are occult books involved, I don’t want you wasting a lot of time there. Get that squared away and get back here. I have an appointment with Miss French this morning to review photos of the usual suspects. I expect to see you by the time I’m done.” He felt the heat rising up his neck when he mentioned Belle by name.

“Yes, sir.” Rogers replied without moving. “The librarian?”

“Yes, the librarian,” Weaver answered curtly without looking up.

As Rogers started to leave after what seemed an eternity, he suddenly stopped. “Is that a new shirt you’re wearing?”

Weaver glared at him. “Is there a point to your question, detective?”

“Uh, no… just an observation.” The corner of his mouth twitched upward ever so slightly.

“Then go use those observational skills of yours to solve a case.”

“Yes, sir,” Rogers replied and left without further ado.

Weaver sighed. It was pointless to be irked by the very skillset that made Rogers such excellent detective material. So what if he was wearing a new shirt? It was practically a replica of every other white shirt that he owned. He’d purchased it over a year ago and it had been sitting unused in his closet. It’s not as if he’d been influenced by the thought of seeing the lovely librarian again today or by the fact that he’d fallen asleep to visions of her and awakened this morning to the same.

The memory of the morning jolted him back to reality. He almost blushed at the state in which he’d found his mind and body. Desires that he’d successfully subverted for years had resurfaced. He’d been convinced that the tea he’d shared with Miss French the previous afternoon had acted as an aphrodisiac on him. There was no other explanation for the desires that had overwhelmed him and the urgency with which he’d had to attend to them. Just thinking back on the pleasure he’d felt at his release made his body twitch with desire again.

Weaver pushed back from his desk and rose abruptly. He needed to concentrate on the case right now and nothing else. Once the librarian had reviewed the photos, he would have no reason to see her again and that was for the best.

He put on his leather jacket, grabbed the mugshot photo albums and headed out the door.

_________________________________________________________

Weaver cleared his throat as he approached Belle French’s office.

“Detective Weaver! Good morning!” He turned to his side to find the librarian waving to him from the acquisition room.

“Good morning, Miss French,” he said, relieved that the sight of her was not triggering his body to react in any unwelcome ways. In fact, the warmth that seemed to engulf him was more of a balm than a stimulant.

“I just finished taking inventory and I have something to show you.” She beckoned him toward her with a smile that seemed to exert an unmistakable pull on him.

Weaver shook his head to clear it. Obviously the pull was his impatience to see what she had uncovered. This could be the very evidence he needed to crack the case.

“Were you able to identify any missing books?” he asked.

“Unfortunately not. Everything is accounted for…” She bit down on her lower lip and looked at him with a hint of shyness in her eyes. “But I did find something that might be connected to your case.”

Weaver was immediately interested. “As I mentioned yesterday, sometimes the least obvious detail can be the most helpful.”

“Oh, I remembered,” Belle replied. “That’s why I thought this might be important.”

The detective noted the slight blush that had risen to her cheeks reminding him of just how attracted he was to this beautiful woman. He smiled to encourage her to continue while attempting to squash his attraction.

“There was one book that I recognized immediately because I’d read it many years ago. It ends with a mystery and a poem that I wanted to read again, but when I turned to the last page of the book, it was missing. Someone had torn it out.” She looked at him to gauge his reaction.

Weaver’s senses were on high alert. “This could be a mere coincidence, but in my experience that’s quite unlikely. May I see the book?”

Belle appeared pleased with herself as she retrieved the volume and handed it to him.

“The Legend of the Dark One’s Dagger,” Weaver read aloud before raising his eyes to hers. “Do you have an interest in the Dark Arts, Miss French?” Every one of his instincts told him she wasn’t a suspect, but he had to consider everything to do his job thoroughly.

“Not if you’re referring to practicing something that’s truly evil! But I do like myths and magic and legends and fairy tales. The book is about the legend of the dagger that controls the Dark One, a being who’s cursed with extremely powerful dark magic. It’s just a legend of course, but the story is so real that it gives you pause.”

“Do you have any recollection of what was written on the last page?” He knew the question was a long shot.

“I do. The book is about the various people who were the Dark Ones over the centuries, but the book ends after mentioning the last Dark One. He was supposedly a very poor spinner who took on the curse to save his young teenage son from the certain death that would come from fighting in the Ogre Wars.”

Belle giggled when she saw the incredulous expression on Detective Weaver’s face. “Yes, I know this is all far-fetched.”

Weaver laughed at her observation.

“But, anyway,” Belle continued, “the last page contained a poem about the whereabouts of the dagger.”

Weaver was once again on high alert. There was no doubt in his mind that the thieves were looking for this dagger. God only knew why. “You wouldn’t remember anything about the poem, would you?”

“I remember every word of it. I wrote it out for you.” Belle gave him a sheet of blue paper with the words to the poem written in beautiful script.

Once again he read aloud:

Deep within a room of chests

the dagger can be found

To she who holds it in her hand

the Dark One shall be bound

A cold draft passed through him, making his whole body shudder.

“H-How did you remember this?” he asked in an attempt to shake the unsettling feeling that had gripped him.

“The poem was a mystery beckoning to be solved. Something about it fascinated me and I read it over and over again. I always wondered if the dagger itself really existed even if there was no Dark One. There’s always some grain of truth to these legends.”

As he’d expected, her voice and words soothed his nerves. He attributed the chill that had gripped him to the realization that his case was even darker than he’d anticipated. The thieves most certainly believed that the dagger existed and they wanted it enough to commit a murder to find it.

“Thank you, Miss French. I can’t tell you how helpful this is. Would you allow me to take the book with me as evidence or do I have to sign up for a library card and check it out?” He grinned at her even as he admonished himself for his pathetic attempt at flirting.

Belle beamed. “Well, I can allow you to take it, but I’d much prefer it if you’d sign up for a card. There are many other good books in the library that may be of interest to you. I’d be happy to recommend some.”

Weaver’s heart stuttered when she chewed on her lower lip again. Was she flirting with him?

A harsh buzzing sound shattered the mood. It took Weaver several seconds to realize that it was his phone. He fished it out of his pocket.

“Excuse me, Miss French, I have to take this call.” He held the phone to his ear and turned the other way. “What is it, Rogers?”

“I’m going to be delayed. The vandals destroyed all of the treasure chests in the hull of the pirate ship at the amusement park and it looks like the same gang also vandalized all of the caskets in the showroom at the Sunset Funeral Home.”

Weaver’s heart almost stopped beating. These weren’t vandals; they were murderers looking for the dagger in rooms full of chests - just as it stated in the poem.

“Don’t move until I get there!” Weaver barked. “Both incidents are related to our case.”

“They are?” Rogers sounded as confused as he’d looked earlier that day.

“Yes, I’ll fill you in when I see you.” With that he hung up and turned back to the librarian.

“I’m afraid I have to leave, Miss French. There are new developments in my case that need my immediate attention.”

“Oh, I understand, detective. I’m just sorry we didn’t get a chance to fulfill our deal. Maybe we can share a cup of tea and I can tell you my story another time?” Her eyes pleaded with him.

“Of course. I was looking forward to it,” he admitted to both her and himself. “I can come by tomorrow at the same time.”

“That would be perfect! And you can sign up for a library card while you’re here and I can review the suspect photos.” She rewarded him with a smile that was like a beacon of light amidst all of this darkness.

His heart, which was already beating rapidly from the break in his case, seemed to threaten to burst from his chest. He thanked her again for her help and abruptly took his leave.

He drove recklessly to the amusement park, anxious to try to tie these events together. But even in his urgency to get to the scene of the crime and gather new clues, he couldn’t stop thinking about Belle French. There was no doubt that the woman had bewitched him - and she’d done it all without the aid of magic or a spell or a crazy dark curse.

[chan-yolo]

Control

A/N Hi guys! This is another Baekhyun, and another requested from my lovely @byunfirstlady who i miss dearly! this request was made so so long ago, but I went on hiatus when finishing my degree, and now i’m finishing i’m slowly coming back.

I’ve twisted the ask a bit, but I hope you like it my love.

I just wanna say its unedited, and i apologise if it’s bad haha

Pairing: Byun Baekhyun / Reader

Genre: fluff? playful? i don’t know Lucifer!Baek Nerd!Baek

Warnings: implied smut? 

Word Count: 3769

Requested.

Oversleeping was something you were good at, very good at. And even though you knew that most morning’s you had to be up for lesson’s, you still pushed it to the last minute to leave, just for those few extra seconds in bed. Today was no different. Even though it was in fact your day off, you still had somewhere to be, a study date in fact, with none other than your boyfriend, the boyfriend you hadn’t seen in a couple of days. And you were late. Brilliant.

Rushing through campus, you weaved through people, trying to get to the library as fast as you could. Though today everyone wanted to dawdle, and if this was your 9am Shakespeare lecture, then yes, you wouldn’t mind. But you were going to see your beautifully nerdy boyfriend, and you were in a hurry.

You tried not to elbow people out of the way, your eyes scanning the crowded entrance of the library for your boyfriend, trying to spot his light brown hair in the crowd. Finally your eyes landed on him, leaning against the front entrance, his foot tapping away to whatever music was playing through his headphones.

Sneaking up behind him, you grabbed onto his arm, making him jump and clutch on to his chest, his expression forming one of shock. You giggled at him, your index finger looping into the belt loop of his worn-out jeans to pull you a little closer to him. When he had removed his headphones, you ruffled his hair smiling up at him.

“Sorry I’m late.”

“You should be sorry about nearly killing me.” He pouted, making your smile widen.

“I’m sorry.” You pouted up at your boyfriend. He pulled you into a hug, his hands settling in their designated space on your hips to pull you further into him.

“It’s okay Jagiya, I’d die a million times if it was by your cuteness” Your boyfriend’s hand came up to pinch your cheek, smiling down at your disapproving face.

“Yah, Baekhyun! You’re too cheesy for this time in the morning.” Looking up at him you noticed how tired his eyes seemed behind his round glasses, the light shadow of sleep being casted beneath them. You could tell he’s been up again playing online with the campus gaming society he was so proud to be a part of. Resisting the urge to reprimand him, you pushed your face into his soft yellow jumper, snuggling your face into the material.

“I missed you.” You sighed out, voice being muffled by the material of his jumper. Above you, you heard him chuckle, his hand coming to stroke the top of your head adoringly.

“I missed you too my love.”

Meeting Baekhyun was far from exciting and adventurous, there were no parties, no coffee spilling’s, no enemies to lovers. The beginning of your love was so unfulfilling of your hopeless romantic heart you almost refused to pursue your interest of him, because how dare the world not give you a beginning of a love story that is swoon worthy right?  Baekhyun was not in any of your classes, you never even knew the kid, but a friend of yours shared a class with him, and she didn’t like him so why would you give him a second thought? Honestly you didn’t really interact with people outside your friendship group because… well that’s just got anxiety written all over it. But one day you were with your friend and he had come to pass her some group notes they needed to work on as a project, and well… you did always have a weakness for boys with cute smiles, and his might’ve been the cutest.

Though he never acknowledged you, and you had forgotten about the boy with the cute smile, until you met him again. The town you studied in always had a spring festival, one filled with street food and flowers, and even though it sounded romantic it really wasn’t, it actually meant you were stuck in humidity, surrounded by loads of tourists and locals, whilst your eyes were watery, red and puffy from the hay fever you were experiencing. How very romantic.

Your friends dragged you around as you complained about the heat, damning the weather for forecasting light showers, causing you to dress in a hoodie. It was right by a flower stand when you saw him again, giggling with two of his friends, one around the same height as him and one marginally taller. He spotted your group next to his own, sending out polite, yet giggly greeting to his classmate, each group bowing a greeting to each other, though as Baekhyun looked at you, his forehead scrunched into an expression you though was confusion, making you tilt your head at him, unfortunately the ha fever was also an enemy of his, and the scrunch of confusion was actually one of displeasure, as he let out a violent sneeze, sneezing directly onto you in horror of himself, you and your friendship group. But surprisingly because of that meeting Baekhyun seemed to turn up more in your life, charming his way in until you were the loved u couple you were today.

 * * *

The library was surprisingly busy for the morning. Normally students were too hungover from the night before to even consider stepping out of the house, but exam season called for them to crawl their way out in hopes they can find their way to a free computer to avoid the embarrassments if looking like meerkats seeking out places for their group to sit and study.

You and Baekhyun were sat in the back-right corner of the second first floor, laptops out with notes from your respective classes, trying to study the material you needed to pass. But you couldn’t help but think that you were the only one actually doing the studying. Whilst you were trying to memorise the stanza of a Blake poem you couldn’t seem to get down, you could feel a hard stare coming from the left of you, coincidentally from where your boyfriend was sat.

“Baek are you actually going to study? You have a test in four days.” Your eyes never left your poetry book, reading the lines over and over again.

“I am studying.” His voice quietly answered back, gaze never wavering from you. You scoffed, rolling your eyes at his lie.

“Oh yeah, because it totally looks like it.” You hit back sarcastically.

“I am. I’m studying every little feature of your face, so when we don’t see each other for a few days I have this image of you in my mind, it keeps me going when I don’t have you to study with.” You could feel your cheeks heat up with the blush that overtook your face. In your peripheral you could see some girls staring at the two of you, giggling at what your boyfriend had just said. Turning to your left, you took in your smiling boyfriend, messy hair and tired face, making you want to just take him home and cuddle with him all day.

“Yah, Baekhyun, stop being so sloppy, people are staring.” The boy next to you hummed, resting his head on a pile of books that had accumulated next to you, never once looking away from you.

“I just missed you, that’s all angel.” You blushed harder at the pet name, smiling down at your notes once again. You left him to look at you, accepting he wouldn’t be getting any work done anytime soon.

“Come over later?” Baekhyun asked, well metaphorically knowing you would always say yes to coming over to his place anytime of the day. You let your mouth twitch upwards with a smile, underlining a sentence, letting your gaze linger back to his own soft one that had mischief hidden so far in them you had to squint to see it if you didn’t know him.

Yes. The answer was always yes.

 ***

 Later that day, after you had reluctantly said goodbye to your boyfriend, you found yourself in a café with the friends you had made in the first year of you attending this university. You zoned out as everyone started talking about the gossip from their courses, absentmindedly sipping on the chai latte you decided to order to calm your stress levels. That was until your friends turned the conversation to you, specifically your relationship.

“So Y/N, how’s Baekhyun?” Your friend Carly sipped at her tea watching you. You simply hummed back nodding your head, not making eye contact with her, looking at your own cup.

“He’s good you know, busy with his work.”

“He always seems to be busy with something.” Your other friend Jen replied.

“What do you mean?” Looking up, your head tilted, looking over the three friends in front of you.

“Well, he always seems to be off playing those weird computer games, do you even go on dates?” You could tell Jen was judging your boyfriend, she always thought it was weird how much Baekhyun liked playing video games.

“Of course we do!”

“Babes, watching him play games and sitting in the library aren’t dates.” Carly countered.

“We don’t just study, and I like going to his when he plays games, we play together, it’s cute. Besides we don’t always have to be on top of each other, we can just be in each other’s company, doing separate things, I like that about us.” Stirring the liquid in your cup, you looked down at your cardigan covered hands, trying to defend your relationship once again.

“I just don’t understand why you’re with him… I think you should’ve said yes when Chanyeol asked you out, that boy is packing.” You rolled your eyes at Jen, tuning out on her gushing over your boyfriend’s tall classmate.

“You don’t know him like I do, he’s different to how you see him. All you have to do is give him a chance, for me.” You pleaded your two friends. Just as Jen was about to say something, Becca spoke up for the first time, clearly trying to avoid an argument.

“Guys just leave it alone, she can date who she wants.” Luckily that was enough for them, not wanting to carry on with degrading your boyfriend when they have more gossip, leaving you to sigh into your drink, knowing you were going to need more than one chai latte to get rid of the new round of stress.

 ***

 6pm you finished class, managing to break away from your class mate. 6:43pm you turned up outside Baekhyun’s apartment. Fishing the key out of your bag, you let yourself in, knowing from the little grunts of annoyance Baekhyun was gaming again. Smiling to yourself, you walked into the kitchen setting your bag down, in the other hand was a take-out bag filled with Baekhyun’s favourite Japanese dish, ready to surprise him, knowing he’s probably not eaten properly today.

Walking to his room, you smiled at him sat in his gaming chair, eyes fixated on the brightly lit screen inf front of him. Placing his food down on his desk, you straddled his lap, placing your head in the crook of his neck, inhaling his scent. You felt him place a chaste kiss on your head, moving his hands around you to reach his keyboard.

“Jagi, how was coffee with your friends?” Kissing your head once again, you groaned at your boyfriends’ question. “They still don’t like me huh?” He chuckled out at you, eyes never leaving his screen. Your hand moved up to play with the hair on the back of his head, sighing once again.

“They just don’t know you.” You grumbled. Baekhyun’s hands moved to your back, stroking patterns into your skin.

“I think they’d like me even less if they did.” Moving back you looked at your soft boyfriend, features highlighted by the blue glow from his game. You took his glasses off, placing them behind you, moving to stroke his long fringe from his forehead.

“I’ll make them understand.” Pouting, your eyes followed the movements of your fingertips, not noticing the amused gaze in Baekhyun’s eyes.

“I don’t think they’ll accept it sweetheart.” His hands moved to your hips, squeezing lightly.

“It’s okay, I don’t need it.” You shrugged. Smiling, Baekhyun picked you up, abandoning his game, laying you down on his unmade bed, probably from a nap he had when he came home. Straddling you, his fingertips moved to trace the outline of your lips, down your neck, just to the curve of your breasts, before moving back up to your neck, his hand brushing over the front before moving to tuck your hair behind your ear.

“I love you y/n” His voice was sincere, his lips brushing your own as he moved down to place a teasing kiss on your lips, you moved to grasp his hair again as he nipped at your lips, his tongue joining your own in the longest kiss you had shared in a while. Your head spun, and your chest tightened. Pulling him closer you never wanted him to pull away. Though breathing was essential.  Pulling away, his eyes were dark staring into your own, his smile mischievous.

“Let’s go out tonight”.

 ***

 When you’d left Baekhyun’s about two hours later, after food, cuddles and maybe some more making out, you wandered into the house you shared with your course mate, leaving her a not saying you wouldn’t be back tonight before getting ready for the night. You stood in front of your wardrobe, hair and make up finished, looking at the new dress you’d had for a while, never knowing when to wear it. No one had ever seen you in something like that. The dress was short, a deep forest green colour, and tight. You knew the satin would hug your curves just the right way, but was it appropriate? You thought about Baekhyun, a smile adorning your face. It definitely was. The dress came to mid-thigh, a small slit on the right side exposed some of your thigh, you felt amazing.

Baekhyun turned up a minute before time, knocking on your door softly. Opening up, the air was knocked out of you. It never failed to surprise you how different he looked in the night. His blonde hair was slicked back, showing his undercut, his eye make-up was smoky with a hint of glitter. But what you couldn’t take your eyes off was the leather pants hugging his thighs. You looked at each other, both full of hunger. Knowing tonight you wouldn’t hold back, tonight Baekhyun had no reason to not be himself.

***

 The first few months of knowing Baekhyun, there was nothing in the way he acted that told you he was any different to any other guy in your university. Though as you got closer in your relationship, and more intimate, the change happened. Baekhyun started to become distant, he was acting weird, refusing to sleep at yours, or have you stay at his. He’s ditch on late night dates, choosing to stay in on his own. At first you thought it was his course and the video games, your friends always went back to this time in your relationship, using this as the reason why they didn’t like him. but confronting him one night, you found out exactly why he couldn’t be around you.

Knocking on his door, you knew he would be awake at midnight, he always was. You knocked until he opened the door. He was dishevelled, his hair pushed back, he didn’t look like the Baekhyun you were used to. Wearing a satin shirt tucked into jeans, this was completely different from his jumpers and soft blue jeans.

“Where are you going?” You assumed he was going out, you didn’t even know he owned these clothes. He rolled his eyes, turning around and moving to the glass of red wine on his counter.

“Nowhere.” You were taken aback by his harsh voice, but followed him nonetheless.

“Then did you just get back?” You watched as he swirled the wine around in his glass.

“Yes from seeing my father actually.” His eyes met yours briefly over his wine glass, they were darker than normal, but you couldn’t quite make out the meaning within them. Standing cautiously near the table, puzzled by his change in demeanour. “He called to talk about you actually.” His eyes never left you, looking over your face before scanning over your body, a large jumper and some pyjama pants covered you, his gaze came back up to meet your eyes.

“M-me? Why me?” Baekhyun placed his glass down, the red liquid gone from his glass.

“He says we shouldn’t see each other, it’s not why I’m here.”

“But I’m not disrupting your studies Baek, I- “His chuckle cut you off, his smirk making you forget the words you wanted to say.

“It’s not my studies he’s worried about darling.” H made his way around the table, coming to stand in front of you. The smell of him was intoxicating, something you’d never smelt before, making your gaze hazy. “He sent me here to look after the night.” Your head was filled with confusion as you felt an unnatural heat radiate from him, his eyes looking almost red as he bent down to whisper in your ear.

“You’re dating Lucifer’s son darling.”

That night Baekhyun talked you through everything from his birth to his reason for being on this land. Telling you over and over again he was bad news, but you refused to believe that, knowing there was more to him than this other person. You’d seen it. You took Baekhyun’s face into your hands, not caring about anything he had told you.

“You’d never hurt me, I know it.” You assured him. That night you both shared your first I love you’s.

***

 The night took you to so many clubs you had never heard of before you’d met Baekhyun, but you’d by now they had become almost homely to you, getting to know the different characters that frequented them. Tonight though, your exploration of the bars and clubs were cut short By Baekhyun taking you somewhere new. You had ended up in an old house, it almost looked abandoned, though it was still filled with possessions, though the only inhabitants were the spiders.

You were hidden between bookcases, holding your breath hoping you wouldn’t be found. Your pulse quickened as you rounded the corner of the bookcase looking out for the demon, trying to sense him in the till air. You couldn’t help but feel like prey, as you hid away from Baekhyun. As you rounded the corner to another bookcase, you didn’t see the figure behind you, spinning you around and pinning you against the dusty books.

“Gotcha.” He whispered into your ear, biting down on your neck, marking your skin. You let out a whine of frustration, pushing him back. “Hey, don’t get whiny, it’s not my fault you suck at hide and seek.” He laughed at you.

“This is unfair, you’re using your devil powers.” You pushed his chest. His hand came up to push the satin material of your skirt further up your legs, an amused smile in his face.

“Well it’s not like I can turn them off, besides it’s hard not to know where you are when your pulse is beating so hard, and you smell so good.” His nose brushed your neck, his lips once again attaching to your collar bone. You let out a moan, fisting his shirt. He was swift in picking you up, wrapping your legs around his waist, one hand moving to your centre.

“You really want your friends to know who I am? Tell them this story.” He moved your panties to the side. You were in for a long night.

 ***

 A few days later you were back in school, back to your daily self. Baekhyun had been hanging out with his friends a bit more, which let you alone to actually study. Even though you missed him you were behind on your reading. Though it was as if he could sense you were caught up, as you were walking past the seminar room, you were pulled into one of the quiet rooms, being pulled into your cheeky boyfriend.

“Hello stranger.” Baekhyun’s head rested in the crook of your neck, leaving a kiss before inhaling your scent, a little something that had become a habit of his. “Do you know how good you smell?” Pulling him back, you left a kiss on his lips, nibbling on his bottom lip.

One of the abilities your boyfriend had was being able to transfer his thoughts to someone else, as well as reading thoughts, and he loved teasing you about what people were thinking. Today your friends had agreed to study with Baekhyun and his, (They all just wanted to look at Chanyeol), though even with him this close, it never stopped them from badmouthing him.

“He just looks so innocent, I’ve never seen him out, doesn’t it get boring?” Jen asked. You glared at her, wondering why you still hung out with her. That’s when he decided to make an appearance in your mind.

I’m guessing she knows nothing about our session in the book cases, or even the seminar room 20 minutes ago.

You widened your eyes at Baekhyun in warning, only receiving a smirk back.

Jagi if you could read her thoughts you’d be so jealous. She thinks I’m cute, she’s actually angry you’re the one sleeping with me. Oh! It’s not PG13 in here baby she wants to…

“I need to leave.” Abruptly you stood up, packing your things and making your way outside to Baekhyun’s car, it didn’t take long for him to meet you there.

“Why? Why do you have to keep reminding me that’s what she wants to do to you?” You huffed at him. Gripping your waist, his hand moved down to cup your ass.

“I like how you get when I tell you, so possessive, anyone would think you’re the devil on nights when you’re like that.” His eyes glowed red, and you knew tonight would be one of those nights, one where he didn’t hold back. “Besides, you should hear how Chanyeol thinks about you, obviously he doesn’t understand you’re mine, I hope you don’t have anything planned this weekend baby, because we’re going to hell and back.”

With Baekhyun it was all about control, but now you had lost all of it.

[raendown]

Fourth entry for the @naruto-rarepair-bingo. Today’s prompt: pining.

Pairing: SakuraHinata Word count: 2429 Rated: G Summary: Accept Ino's offer to hit the clubs or spend the evening pining over Hinata for the millionth time? It was an easy choice for Sakura.

Follow the link or read it under the cut! 

KO-FI and commission info in the header!

A Year Gone By

If she had gone out with Ino tonight like her friend asked she would have had loud music blaring through oversized speakers and dozens of screaming drunken voices all drowning out her unwanted thoughts. She could have had a half dozen shots and danced on the bar top until she got their whole group kicked out to throw up in the Naka River before stumbling home. A year ago she would have taken that invitation in a heartbeat, young and stupid and all too willing to cure a hangover with the medical jutsu she herself had invented during Tsunade’s reign as Hokage.

A year ago she would not have been caught on her walk home by Hinata – armed and dangerous with her shy smile and her pretty new haircut – asking if Sakura would please come to her poetry recital tonight as moral support. That alluring mix of hesitation and confidence in a nervous young woman who had finally learned she was worth something could go down in history as Sakura’s single ultimate weakness.  So far she had yet to come up with any sort of defense against it and Hinata had been able to charm her in to several extended lunch hours and after work activities all without even knowing the effect she had on other people. How could someone so cute also be so unaware of it?

The poetry recital went fine, not a big surprise when Sakura had been gifted the pleasure of reading some of Hinata’s work on occasion and already knew the other woman’s talent for twisting words together to make chains of wonder, to paint beautiful worlds of aching emotion. Mostly what her friend had been worried about was her delivery but it seemed having someone there in the crowd that she knew supported her was all she needed to stay strong, delivering her lines in a voice that was quiet yet captivating. Sakura nearly burst with pride to see the way others in the venue were leaning forward in their seats to hang on Hinata’s every word.

When her friend stepped down from the small stage it was to thunderous applause from those gathered and her face was a brilliant shade of red almost bright enough to hide the pleased grin lighting up her features. Sakura gladly allowed Hinata to hide against her upper arm until attention diverted to the next presenter.

“You were amazing,” she praised, trying her hardest not to stroke the silky dark hair spilling over her shoulder. Hinata squirmed to make certain no one was looking at them anymore before sitting up to reply.

“I was so nervous!”

“We couldn’t tell, I promise.”

Hinata beamed and fiddled with the drink she’d ordered before being called for her turn. “Thank you for coming tonight, Sakura. I don’t know what I would have done looking out at all of those strange faces. It was so much easier to pretend that I was only talking to you and – and you’ve been so kind!”

“No, I really didn’t do much. This was all you.” Sakura smiled and hoped that her heart wasn’t showing in her eyes. What she wouldn’t give to ask her friend to lean in close again, to breathe in the floral scent of all that pretty hair or to feel the warmth of their bodies pressed together. Not even in a dirty way! If all she had was the feeling of sitting close enough for their thighs to pressed against one another she would call herself lucky to have even that much.

As it was, all she could do was continue to deflect Hinata’s thanks and praise the other woman for how far she had come in the years since the war. Hinata insisted on buying her another drink while they listened to a young man bring himself to tears over the words he had written, poems of yearning and heartbreak, longing for the touch of someone who would never know what lay in his heart.

Sakura related to him just a little too much to sit easily; she was glad when he finally closed his book and nodded gratefully to the applause of the crowd.

“I have something to ask you,” Hinata told her when the MC finally announced that the event was at an end and thanked them all for coming. “Can I walk with you on the way home?”

“Nonsense, let me walk you home,” Sakura insisted, if only to let herself pretend that this was a date for the fifteen or so minutes it would take to escort Hinata back to the Hyuga district. Her friend nodded gratefully and left to pay her own tab. Once they were outside and turned down a side street where they had a slight illusion of privacy Sakura waved for the other to go ahead with her question.

Hinata hummed and poked the tips of her index fingers together the way she used to when they were children, when the whole world made her nervous. Back then she hadn’t had a clue of even half her own value. The strides she had taken in the years between, the incredible changes they could all see in her now, Sakura could not be more proud of her friend. She only hoped Hinata was as proud of herself for it all as well.

With a bit of effort she shook those thoughts away and refocused herself on the present. There was no point in getting all mushy right now. She could save that sort of thing for later when she was alone and dwelling on the things she didn’t have, things like Hinata’s hand in hers or warm lips to kiss or – no, that wasn’t helping either.

It was a relief to see her friend finally gathering the words for what she wanted to say.

“You’ve been such a good friend these last few weeks,” Hinata began, not seeming to notice Sakura wince at the word ‘friend’. “I would hate to impose but I was hoping you would be able to help me out with something else that’s very important to me.”

“Of course! All you have to do is ask and I would be happy to help. It’s no imposition, I promise!”

“If you’re sure it won’t be trouble…”

“Well I promised, didn’t I?” Sakura offered her warmest smile and stopped to put one hand on the other woman’s arm. She was rewarded with a smile that put her own to shame.

Looking down at her own hands wringing together, she asked, “Will you teach me…how to flirt?”

“Beg pardon?”

“You see, there’s this…person. A person that doesn’t see me the way I see them. But I would like them to! So I thought maybe you could show me how to talk to people like you do; everyone thinks you’re amazing a-and everyone wants to be like you! Please?” She offered such a sincere look of pleading that Sakura felt her heart thump painfully in her chest, knowing she was going to do this even as she also knew that doing it would hurt her in ways she could never ever let her friend know about.

Concealing her reluctance was the easy part. Actually forcing herself to say the words was more difficult. “Sure. I can do that. I, uh, didn’t realize there was anyone new after you finally got over Naruto.” Sakura braced herself. “Who’s the lucky guy?”

She was surprised to see Hinata bite down on her lip and turn away.

“Actually, it’s a not a boy. She’s…a girl.”

“Oh.” If she tried very hard Sakura was sure she could think of something more painful than this moment right now but, honestly, she couldn’t concentrate well enough to try.

Until now she had never known Hinata was also attracted to women. Falling in love with someone and knowing they could never see you that way was already hard enough to swallow. Survivable, of course, and she was the last person who would ever hold someone’s sexuality against them, but that didn’t change the fact that it was a quiet pain even in the midst of their most pleasant afternoons together. Finding out that Hinata was interested in women? That changed things.

Not much. It changed nothing about her as a person. What it changed was the way Sakura saw herself, no longer doomed to simply fall for the ones who couldn’t love her but instead to fall for the ones who couldn’t see her. Hinata considered her a good friend – and nothing more. No matter how many times she told herself that no one could ever help who they fall in love with she knew exactly what she was going to see the next time she looked in the mirror: girl who was just never good enough. But also a girl who was better than dumping her own self esteem issues on someone else.

It was hard but she managed a supportive thumbs up.

“Alright, so who’s the lucky girl?” With her heart breaking so loudly in her chest it was hard to tell but she was pretty sure she even managed to achieve an upbeat tone.

“She’s someone amazing,” Hinata mumbled, smiling at her twisting hands. “Confident and beautiful, smart, funny, kind and caring. I’ve never met anyone else like her. Maybe she won’t ever see me like I see her but I have to try don’t I?” She looked up with such a hopeful expression that all Sakura could do was nod.

“That’s all any of us can do.”

“Right! So, um, will you help me?”

Sakura bit her lip, firmly told her heart to break a little more quietly, and said, “Of course! Haven’t I always told you that if you need something all you have to do is ask? Don’t worry, Hinata. If she doesn’t see you for the amazing person you are then she’s stupid.”

“Oh, you’re not stupid!”

“What?”

“W-what?”

Both women stared at each other, stunned, neither wanting to speak first. Sakura dared not break the spell in case she misunderstood what she had just heard but even if she wanted to she couldn’t, dizzy with the rush of maybe-maybe-maybe, the chance that all this time she might have been pining away in silence for nothing. The longer Hinata stared at her with wide horrified eyes the more she couldn’t help but believe it could be true.

“I didn’t mean to say that,” her friend squeaked.

“Did you mean…it sounded like…am I the ‘lucky girl’?”

“Please don’t be angry! I didn’t mean to be sneaky or anything! I just thought if I asked you to help me learn to flirt then you would be teaching me things that you would like to have someone say to you and – oh dear. This is terrible.” Hinata ducked her head like a shamed child. “You weren’t meant to know until I could…until I could…be more interesting.”

“More interesting!?”

Hinata flinched and Sakura immediately felt terrible for shouting. Careful to keep her movements slow and gentle, she reached out to take hold of Hinata’s hands with her own.

“I already told you that anyone who didn’t see you for the amazing person you are is stupid. And, like you said, I’m not stupid.” The grin fighting its way on to her face felt like it was cracking at the seams of the bitter yearning she had been drowning in for months, ever since she realized why she couldn’t seem to stop thinking about Hinata long after they had parted from a friendly lunch or an afternoon spar.

“Does…so…but…huh?”

“Maybe I’m not being clear.” Both of them were wearing incredible shades of red across their cheeks when Sakura leaned in close enough for the tips of their noses to brush together. “I really like you so instead of teaching you how to flirt I think it would a lot nicer if you stayed exactly how you are and come to dinner with me tomorrow night. Just us two.”

“L-like a date?”

“Yeah, as a date.”

Sakura bit down on the inside of her cheek just to make sure this was actually real, feeling so light she feared she might float right up in the starry sky above them. From the look on Hinata’s face she hadn’t read the situation wrong. They really had been pining after each other. Knowing that gave her the confidence to duck her head and very slowly lean forward to steal a soft first kiss.

It was no surprise how soft Hinata’s lips were. Sakura had seen her use enough lip balm to have guessed that much. What startled her was the way Hinata immediately sank it to it, pressing them closer together and tightening her grip on the hands clasped between them. She was, as it turned out, an amazing kisser. If Sakura wasn’t already so dizzy from excitement she was sure this alone would have made her head spin with unexpected pleasure.

“That…wasn’t at all what I was expecting,” Hinata whispered.

“Uh, yeah, me neither.” Sakura laughed. “I thought I was going to have to help you pick up somebody else and – I mean, I would have done it! But I’m really glad I don’t have to.”

Her companion giggled quietly. “I’m glad too. It was a good surprise.”

“So. Dinner. How about you come over to my house and we can cook together, then maybe watch a movie?” The idea of a private night together was much more appealing than letting whoever happened to be nearby witness their first fumbling steps. Luckily she was not alone in that opinion.

“Any evening would be wonderful as long as I spend it with you.”

“Oh.” Sakura swallowed against the sudden lump in her throat, unprepared for the raw sincerity in those words. A couple of coughs cleared the lump enough for her to ask, “Can I still walk you home?”

Hinata graced her with a shy smile. “I would like that.”

As they turned to continue on towards the Hyuga district, fingers entwined and hanging loosely between their hips, Sakura couldn’t help but thank the gods that she hadn’t accepted Ino’s invitation to hit the clubs that night. If she had she would have missed out on the one opportunity she had been waiting for and it was anyone’s guess whether either of them would have found the courage to ask another time. A year ago she would have taken Ino’s invitation.

But a year ago she had not been in love.

[aj-the-satyr]

Echoes of memory

(Day 9 of @thenightofthelivingwriters series of prompts for October. I have to smile about how many of these are leading to me writing snippets about one of my D&D Characters, a Ratkin Bard. Since the word for today is Music it’s not hard to tell who this will feature is it? :) Onward with the words!)

Maximus huffed as he picked himself up brushing aside yet another daily interaction with fellow students. Why him? He frowned as the answer very easily presented itself. Unlike some of the other odd students like the Dragonborn he was weak, easy to bully. He’d never been strong like his clan mates and was overlooked by the elders so never got to do more than dabble in their arcane teachings. He thought that by going his own way he could find a way to overcome this weakness of body, find a way to gain strength, to overpower others. A smile crept across his rodent features as he remembered his first meeting with Noxwell......

...

The music was there. The snow sought to soften it, hide it almost but it was definitely there. It was a faint plucked instrument of some kind playing a rather lonely melody. The Ratkin brushed snow off his fur and sought out the source. Someone was playing a sad song in the snow and he certainly knew what it was like to be ignored in the cruel world, perhaps he might find a friend in this place.

It took a while but eventually he came across a young girl playing some kind of handheld instrument. She continued to pluck out a rather sad song as he stood nearby. Eventually when the song came to an end she looked up at him. He offered a smile. “That was.....” He paused. “That was a sad song, but it was also beautiful.”

He got a smile in return. “Thank you.” He noticed her teeth were pointed.

He reached into his knapsack and pulled out half a loaf of bread. “Are you hungry?”

A frown creased her features. “Why are you offering me this? You seem to have little yourself.”

“I have enough to share and that is what matters.”

She blinked slowly as if taking this in, before jumping to her feet. “Come!”

“What?”

“Come!” She repeated holding out a hand.

He shrugged and took her hand, entrusting his life to this strange little girl. If this was to be his end then so be it. Life had been nothing but misery since leaving his clan and going back wasn’t an option anymore. She led him through back alleys and darkened streets that the snow hadn’t quite managed to blanket yet. It was strange. He remembered walking past people but none reacted to him and the girl. Where were they headed?

Eventually they stopped at a doorway that looked just like many others they had walked past. The girl knocked a strange pattern and the door swung back revealing a rather warm looking interior. He noticed that none of the light seemed to spill past the threshold. What was going on?

“Come!” The girl said again before skipping inside. He shrugged and followed.

“Ah! A guest. Giselle tells me that you have an ear for music. Play an instrument yourself?”

The Ratkin blinked at the immediate question from someone he couldn’t yet see. “No.... I..... I try and write poetry.”

“Poetry? Interesting. And what inspired this?” The voice was getting closer.

The Ratkin sighed. “Looking at the arcane books I was forbidden from touching. The way things seemed to always be written in odd ways and not straightforward instructions.”

A laugh. “Ah! Some of the old coots never tire of making their books into more riddle than magic. Loosing some wonderful spells and tinctures that way, because they feel more inclined to keeping their secrets than making sure others learn the craft. Name’s Noxwell. And you are most certainly the most interesting person I’ve had enter my little shop in a long while.”

“Er.... Prekk..... that is.... I’m called Prekk, at least in Skritt.”

“Skritt? Not familiar, but unlike some of those old coots I mentioned I never bother to pretend I know it all. A fine name for a fine gentleman.”

“I....”

“Nonsense. Giselle excels at reading people Prekk, no denying your heart or the fact that a great capability for malice lies within you also.”

Prekk slumped a little. “I’m sorry...... I...”

More laughter. “Nonsense. You are who you are. You did not need to offer Giselle your food yet you did so. I sense the Malice will only be turned against those that truly deserve it.” The voice finally came into the light and Prekk could see a rotund man, balding but with a long white beard. “Well? Do I look like I sound?”

Prekk considered this. “With what you have told me I think you and Giselle can look like whatever you wish. Plus I’m a giant rat trying to make my way as a poet. Nothing in this world is what it seems.”

More laughter. “Good, good. Now here’s the thing would you gift us with one of your poems and in return we shall grant you something that will help you.”

“Do I get to know what it is beforehand?”

Noxwell seemed to consider this. “Worried about making deals with strangers?”

Prekk smiled. “You have basically confirmed yourselves to be shapeshifters, Fae I would suspect at this point, and that would make you notorious for offering deals with unexpected downsides.”

“Well. Aren’t you quite the clever mortal? Why follow Giselle then?”

Prekk shrugged. “Curiosity, a lack of care for what happens to me, some mad urge? Who knows? I am just glad to be out of the snow, if only for a little while.”

“You are most curious.”

“Thank you. Guess with what I’ve said it makes my questioning the deal all the more..... moot. I will trade my art for yours.”

“Art?”

“Is that not what was offered?”

Noxwell smiled broadly, his teeth were just as pointed as the girl’s. “Art thou sure of this mortal?”

Prekk nodded. “Yes.”

“Then by all means. Show us your art.”

“There are those that while away, In shadows and in between, The very threads that Fate tries to weave, And would rather be unseen.

Beauty have they that live this way, But far beyond the norm. Cold as Ice, cruel as fate, Yet somehow remaining warm.

Deals they make, trades they like, But be wary for they try, To catch you while you’re unaware, But they never lie.

Power lies within those hands, And if you are nice, It will be granted to thee, But for a terrible price.

So wary be of deals you make, With those that hide this way For lives will change when you doth meet, A member of the Fae.”

Prekk bowed a little after finishing and looked at Noxwell trying to gauge his reaction. The old man’s grin seemed to grow wider.

“Splendid. Well remembered.”

“Not remembered. Written, well spoken. I suppose I should write that down.”

Noxwell frowned. “I thought for sure......” He waved a hand and a book leapt into it. He flipped through its pages. “Well.....” He lowered the book. “Master Prekk.” He bowed low. “That is indeed a fine example of your art. I’m afraid that you will never be able to write that down, part of the deal I’m afraid.”

Prekk nodded. “Well I am glad that you are happy.”

“Indubitably. That was wonderful and not rehearsed. No, it is true art that thou hast given us this day. You have earned yourself a boon today. What do you seek?”

“To be successful with my poetry and be strong enough that no one will be more powerful that I.”

“Interesting. The first is easy, I shall merely give you a starting point. As for the second Giselle has something for you.”

Prekk spotted the girl again and she had in her hands a box. She offered it to him. He took it. Inside was a bracelet made to look like a coiling snake. “What is this?” He asked.

Giselle smiled. “A tool to teach you about power.”

“Ok. How do I put it on?”

“It’s magic. It will fit you.”

“Ok.” he looked a little unsure but plucked it from the box with his right hand, it immediately slithered around his wrist and grew tight. “AHH!” He dropped the box and collapsed to his knees as the snake seemingly tried to squeeze his hand off his arm. His breath came in gasps but eventually the pain subsided and the bracelet settled into a better fit. “How......?” he began.

The girl just smiled. “You will learn in time.”

Prekk just nodded. He had just made a deal with the Fae. Who knew where his life would lead next.

Noxwell helped him back to his feet and gave him a sealed letter. “Take this to the Bard college in Weirvas this will get you started on the path you seek, but be warned this path is hard and will try to break you.”

“Nothing is ever easy is it?”

Noxwell laughed. “No it is not. Beware though you have entertained me and thus I may well call upon you again.”

“More art trades?”

“Perhaps, we shall see. For now you need rest and food. That we shall provide, free of any bargains or plays for power. There will be much time for that later in your life.”

...

He reached out and touched the snake bracelet on his right wrist. It had indeed taught him a great deal, it may prevent him from getting physically stronger but that merely taught him to rely on his other strengths. He smiled as the memories faded away slowly, an old life complete with an old name. He was Prekk no longer. Now he was Maximus Delapore and no amount of idiotic bullying would prevent him from achieving his goals.

(Right..... that took an interesting turn and made me write a brief poem. Cool. I am definitely liking writing for Maximus a lot. Thanks again to @thenightofthelivingwriters for the prompts and the usual tags for Maximus of @the-bearded-hylian and @jaimistoryteller and a big thanks to all the writers out there creating worlds and characters. Keep on kicking words and taking adjectives!)

[redslilstories]

Little Pieces of You

Author: lilyme (aka. redslilstories aka. me ;)) Summary: Set in New York. Was it wise to be clinging to the past, to memories of an old them? Or should it all have been abandoned long ago? Pairing: Callie/Arizona Rating: PG Disclaimer: I do not own the characters in this story, nor do I own any rights to the television show "Grey's Anatomy". They were created by Shonda Rhimes and belong to her and the ABC network. No copyright infringement intended!All mistakes are mine.

A/N: Happy Valentine’s Day to all Calzona shippers!

There were things that she wasn't very good at.

And didn't like doing very much.

Organizing her closets and dressers was surprisingly such a thing.

She found that she sucked at keeping everything in its intended place, with shirts and pants roaming out to find themselves new spots to live in.

This happened whenever she had too much space to go around. Not because her closets were so huge they could fit an entire apartment block. But because she was using the room that was meant for two with the clothes of only one person.

Too much empty space that made clothes wander in desperate need for companionship, trying to compensate a loss.

But her clothes didn't have to suffer much longer. And today Callie had some much loathed reorganizing to do. For a very good reason.

"Sorry it's such a mess in here," she said to the approaching footsteps behind her, as she stood on the tips of her toes, rearranging her sweaters on the topmost shelf of her closet. "I didn't find the time to get everything ready".

"Come on, it's okay," the other woman said with an audible chuckle in her voice, as she carried a box into the bedroom. She found it endearing how anxious Callie could become over something like this. On any given day, the brunette's home probably looked way tidier than your average person's.

And even though she currently spent way more time than usual in her research lab at Heartmond Hospital in New York to get the finishing touches on her exoskeleton project, which was bound to revolutionize the world of medicine, her home in no way resembled a place of angst-inducing disorder and chaos.

And that could also be said about her wardrobe.

"So, um, I've got socks and underwear in this one. At least the box says so," the woman laughed as she placed said item on the ground. She was not always a hundred per cent certain which items had made their way into which box in the last steps of packing.

After Callie had asked her after four months of dating if she wanted to move in with her, she had not hesitated for one second.

There were so many advantages. Callie's apartment had more space than the one she herself had been able to find upon moving to New York a year ago. It was much closer to both their work places. And moving in together meant saving a lot of money.

But these were only the cold, economic facts.

What was even better was the prospect of them living together.

Again.

After all these years.

There certainly were jitters to be had about this step, considering their past.

But this was a new them. And this new them definitely deserved a new start into a home life together.

"Mm, sounds enticing," Callie laughed in return, referring to parts of the presumed content of the box.

She was so excited to be sharing her home with Arizona again. As was Sofia, who had been very open their rekindling relationship from the start and couldn't wait for them all to be living together again.

For now this apartment was perfect for the three of them. Barring the fact that they could hardly fit any of Arizona's furniture, so several things had to go into storage for the time being.

At some point they would probably start looking for a bigger place to accommodate them all, but that was not a priority right now.

"So, you said second drawer from top, right?" the blonde tried to recall as to where Callie had told her to stow her undergarments and went ahead to open said drawer.

Callie, temporarily distracted by her own task, only noticed with delay that Arizona did not remember all that correctly. And was about to open...

"Oh, no, wait, not that one," Callie hurried over with a movement of her hand that was to say Arizona should stop what she was doing.

But it was already too late.

And Arizona came face to face with... nothing much suspicious, really.

It was Callie's sock drawer.

"Hmm, nothing I haven't seen before," the blonde smirked, confused by the adorably abashed redness suddenly grazing Callie's features.

She turned her attention back the drawer, and on second glance noticed a black velvety box, about eight by ten inches sitting next to the assortment of socks on the right side of the drawer.

"It is about this?" she questioned. "If it's toys, you really don't have to worry," she shrugged seductively at her lover. "We're all humans. And it's not like we didn't use some before. Don't see why we shouldn't again sometime."

Callie was temporarily baffled by Arizona's alluring suggestion, and guffawed in amusement. "No, that... they're actually over there," she roughly pointed towards the nightstand, which was also equipped with several drawers.

"Valuable information," Arizona nodded in delight, while her hand subconsciously traced the smooth the surface of the mysterious box.

She had to admit... she was pretty curious to get to know more about the content. Solely due to Callie's peculiar reaction. But she wasn't going to push it. They each deserved their secrets – even living together, of course.

She was about to shut the drawer when Callie suddenly spoke. "Okay, you know what? Go ahead. Open it," she smiled cautiously, not having missed the woman's interest in this.

It was not something she was ashamed of or tried to hide. It just was something... she wasn't sure how Arizona would react to.

Chances were she would eventually see it anyway, and it was something... really, really not bad.

So why not do it now? Couldn't be weirder now than it would be at a later point, right?

"You sure?" Arizona wondered, wanting to reinforce Callie's permission.

"Yeah!" Callie nodded and sat on the bed to wait.

Arizona lifted the box from its hiding spot with tender hands, her curiosity piqued as she sat next to the brunette.

After a few moments of deliberation she removed the lid... and found herself perplex.

Because she caught sight of memorabilia of a time long years ago. And personal items she had almost forgotten even existed.

She found concert tickets from a Taylor Swift concert in 2010. The first concert she and Callie had went to together. It was their guilty pleasure. One they would certainly not admit to everyone.

She found one of the several scrap books she had made when she was a teen. This one being from the period she referred to as her punk rock era. It had little drawings, magazine clippings from singers and other celebrities she had fancied back then and even some poems the blonde had written. But most important of all it held pictures of her with unusually heavy eyeliner, dark t-shirts and ripped jeans. Once Callie had found this book, she had been unable to put it down. Mesmerized by Arizona's cuteness seeping through despite the appearance. And beyond fascinated by this unique insight into the mind of young Arizona. So fascinated that the blonde had not thought long about giving this book to Callie.

She found this really thick pair of knitted socks, which sported the most hideous green, gray, blue and red striped pattern ever. She had given it to Callie a few months into their relationship as a well-meant joke. Callie was the one with the ice cold feet in their relationship, and Arizona had often found herself fighting the urge to complain about icy toes against her calves whenever her lover held her as they slept. A part of her had feared that Callie would be insulted by this, but quite the contrary. She had worn them with joy, and even after the fabric had been ragged out from being worn God knows how many times, still had most obviously kept them.

She found a little jewelry box, which she didn't need to open to know that among other things it probably contained a heart necklace. A lot of people had laughed at them for wearing this matching items, but for them it had been their mutual show of love, belonging and care, and everyone laughing about it was just a fool who had never experienced this feeling.

And she found – to her utmost astonishment – tucked away at the bottom of the box – one of her old scrub caps. One in pastel tones that actually had butterflies on it. She had stopped wearing it shortly after coming to Seattle Grace, switching to a light pink one with little flowers instead. She thought she had thrown this old cap out. Actually remembered having put it on a pile Callie had prepared for the charity bin. But as it seemed now, the brunette had deemed it too valuable to be thrown out.

She sat with this box of 'her' in her lap. Of items that were not really the core of her being. Far from. But of pieces of her that apparently once had meant the world to someone. To Callie.

And maybe they still did.

"You kept all this," she stated as her fingers followed the patterns of her scrub cap.

And Callie sat beside her, worrying. Arizona didn't show any emotions that indicated how she thought about this... this... nostalgia? This desperate living in the past?

"I... I know... most of this didn't mean anything to you. The cap certainly didn't. Not like other surgeons who have their lucky caps. But I wanted to keep it. Because I saw you in it the day after the bathroom kiss. You were coming out of surgery. And you looked so proud and happy. I'll never forget that day. I think I fell in love with you right then."

This had actually been the first day she had seen her around the hospital at all. And while the cap itself was plain and unspectacular, it would forever remind her of the days she had met and gotten to know the blonde. Especially of the fact that she was not just an extraordinary human being, who went out of her way to dispel a total stranger's sorrow with a kiss – but also one of the most amazing doctors she had ever met.

Over the years items had been added, and they all meant no less to Callie.

But maybe more than they should have. Especially after they had broken up – for seemingly the final time.

And they probably meant more to her than Arizona was comfortable with.

"It's pathetic, I know," she cringed, and almost wished she had let Arizona assume the box contained adult toys for the time being.

"What? No!" Arizona was brought out of her own musings by Callie's evaluation and immediately calmed her with a vehement shake of her head. "No," she turned her body towards Callie, "it's really not. I find it sweet that you still have this. After all this time".

"So, you're not freaking out?" Callie questioned, somewhat relieved. She knew that to other people it probably seemed strange. And looked like a sign of being unable to let go.

Penny had certainly thought so when she had stumbled across the box while putting their clean underwear away.

Callie had to admit that it was a stupid place to stow something you didn't want your lover to find.

But maybe her subconsciousness didn't plan on it not being found by Penny. And maybe her reasoning about keeping it so that Sofia could have all this later – just like a pair of Arizona's wheely sneaks that sat in the back of her shoe drawer, somehow having made its way into her possession after the divorce – was really little more than easy to see through fib.

It had made Penny realize that Arizona still was much more to Callie than just the mother of her child.

It certainly had been a factor in their mutual decision to split up. And gave Callie the opportunity to try a new start with the woman still holding her heart.

The woman in question looked at her with a smirk that was tucked halfway between her teeth. Just like Callie remembered it when the blonde had something on her mind she wanted to share but also knew could mean trouble.

"What...?" Callie lured in amusement and tickled her fingers along the side of Arizona's thigh.

"I... uh, I might have kept a thing or two as well," she blushed.

"You did?" Callie queried surprised. Surprised that Arizona was just as much a nostalgic fool as she was.

"I still have the necklace too... And," the blonde began, her eyes coyly looking at the ceiling, "a couple of CDs we once made back then when people still had CD players," she laughed. They contained songs they had loved dancing to throughout the early years of their relationship. A wild mix of oldies and songs that had been brand new back then. They had used to dance for hours, only to end up in a heap of exhaustion and happiness.

"I think I still have a player somewhere," Callie wiggled her eyebrows, certainly not unhappy about the prospect of a little dance party. "What else?"

"Your kiddie Spanish book," she smiled lovingly. It was a book Callie – growing up bilingual – had learned to read with when she was little. At one point Callie had started teaching Arizona some Spanish, using this book among other things. And while it probably wasn't the best material to teach a foreign language to an adult, Arizona loved this book. It reminded her of lots of cozy hours snuggled together on the couch and studying. And it contained some doodles young Callie had made here and there of animals, flowers, people and whatever came to mind. "And, um, I have something else, and I hope you won't hate me for it," said the blonde and got up to leave the room, presumably to fetch the item.

Callie waited, wondering what it could possibly be.

She could hear rumbling... followed after a while by a bit of grumbling as apparently Arizona had trouble finding what she was looking for.

Then she heard a box or two crashing to the floor and became worried. "You okay?"

"Yup," Arizona announced and a few moments later emerged with a box that read...

"'Towels'?" Callie wondered.

"Hm? Uh, no," Arizona negated. "This is just the last box I packed, and it has some stuff in it I used till the last day like...," she opened the box and soon brought forth...

"Is that my sweater?!" The brunette exclaimed incredulously.

It was a garment so plain and simple. A normal woolen gray sweater. But it held so many memories for Arizona. She had loved cuddling with Callie wearing it and had during their time together sometimes worn it herself. And even during the difficult time of their divorce, Arizona's heart had wanted it. So she had snuck it out. And had frequently worn it herself since then. The sweater now being even more withered and having lost some amount of its original color. It was strange and nonsensical, but even after years of Callie wearing it last, Arizona found it still somehow smelled of her. And it always comforted her when she was having a bad day.

Arizona bit her lip, almost feeling she had to apologize. For taking this from Callie without asking.

At least the brunette didn't seem happy.

Long Moments later Callie's face twitched. "I knew I had seen it on you during that one video chat."

"Sorry?" Arizona said, hoping she could make amends somehow.

"Don't be," Callie returned and pulled Arizona into her lap. "It looks good on you".

"I know," the blonde returned cheekily as she put her arms around Callie. "So, um," she giggled as her lover used the opportune opportunity to kiss a long her neck. "Does it go on my pile or yours?"

"Sooner or later, it'll end up where it wants to anyway."

"True".

END

[lovelovesyoujusttobe]

“Here's an anecdote that I think is suitable for introducing what I want to say to you as you graduate from high school today. At the one and only time in my life in which I had the opportunity to teach a course in philosophy at high school level, my first step was to ask the class (and I ask all of you, too): Suppose you were in front of someone whom you regarded as the wisest person in the world and, as though it were in a fairy tale, you could ask one question and one question only. What would it be?

I think it is enormously important to take this seriously—in front of a person of great wisdom, what would be your one question? If we take a moment or two to ponder that, you will find it is not so easy. The fact that it is not so easy is already a sign of something that is rather important. 

At first these students, like most of us, found it very difficult. But then, after a couple of minutes of reflection, they wrote their questions on pieces of paper and handed them in. What came back was very striking. It was a small class of about twelve students. And the questions that were written, all of them, were the great questions of the heart the great questions that are asked from deep inside ourselves, from the part of ourselves where there is the source of inner freedom. These questions are the questions that come out of the essence of human nature, the real depths of human nature, the part of ourselves that modem science and technology have not really understood or honored yet, and which has been somewhat lost in our culture. Questions like: Who am I? Does God exist? Do we have a soul? Is it immortal? What is good? What is evil? Why do we suffer? What can we hope for? How should we live? These are the great unanswered questions, or unanswerable questions if you like, which define us as human beings. They come from that part of ourselves that is the beginning of freedom.

What I am trying to say today, what I want to propose to you today, is that this deep part of human nature, this deep part of ourselves, we might think of as the place where we find the answers to what our life is about. Surely in the long run that is probably and almost certainly true—that is where the answers will be found.

But I'm proposing to you today that you look not for answers but for questions. It's the question that we need to find. It's the place where the deep questioning arises—this tender, essential, human power to step back in oneself and step back from all of one's urges, one's anxieties, one's cravings, one's passing wishes, one's fears, one's maybe foolish hopes, one's agitations, one's chaos—to step back from that and not only to have a question but to be in question, to be a question. It is there that the freedom appears, and this freedom is intimately connected with this sense of the universe, of the greatness of human nature. The great self within, that you've probably heard a lot about, that all of the great ancient teachings speak about, the great truth within ourselves I am proposing to you, as a philosopher, begins in the form of a question, not of an answer. You will see that the mind is free only when it starts to question. We don't suffer from our questions in life, we suffer from our answers, and that is what as philosophers we can bring to this whole life we live, and where we are asked to contribute something to the world. 

Now these young people, the high school class; half of them wrote their questions in tiny little letters at the bottom of the page and at the margins of the page and they left the whole space of the page blank, and I couldn't figure out why. Why were they writing these wonderful questions that were so much of the heart—questions like; What is the mind? What is it for? Why do we live? Why do we die?—in tiny little letters down at the bottom of the page or in the margins, as though I was looking at a blank page? I realized that, unlike the Waldorf School but very like what is going on in so much of our culture, they were afraid to ask these questions. They were afraid they would not be honored. It was as though there was a kind of metaphysical or philosophical repression in the whole culture, a repression of this impulse within the self, this impulse of deep inner wonder and questioning. Plato, as you al have probably heard, has called this Eros, which is a word that we have not understood fully. The deepest meaning of it for Plato was the impulse of love, of understanding, the wish to contact reality—the big reality—to participate in it, to serve it. Eros—this love of wisdom, this love of truth, this wish to know and to understand and to serve what is great. For Plato, and for many of the great spiritual teachers of the world, this is the essential defining quality that makes us fully human, much more essential to our humanness than all the other intellectual/biological elements which we tend to identify ourselves with. When that energy, that striving, is covered over or suppressed, it is a far greater danger to our lives, our own personal self and the life of our society and community than any other kind of repression. Repression of sexuality is very harmful, repression of many other things is very harmful, but nothing is more dangerous to human life than to suppress the essence of human nature, which is the desire to understand and serve something in ourselves that is bigger and higher and greater than ourselves. This appears in the form of a questioning—it first makes itself known in the form of a questioning.

Look up at the stars on a clear dark night away from the city, and the sense of wonder appears. This is a form of questioning, because in a state of wonder you are asking; Who am I in this great universe? What must I do? It's not an anxiety; it's a sense of a holding, almost a sacred sense of desire, wish, lack, and a quiet and deep and sacred sense of what my purpose may be, not so much to find the answers but to live the questions. There's a great German poet— Rilke—and there's a poem by Rilke which I would like to read to you because it expresses something of what I am trying to say. It has to do with the scale, the measure, of what we undertake in our lives, what our essential wish is. If we find our wish, if we find our real essential question, this gives us a meaning far greater than the answers, because the great question is a discovery of a deep, hidden part of ourselves. 

I have given many classes in philosophy at the University, and of late most of my students, like most students everywhere now, are very angry, very troubled, with America. When they begin to go into the depths of the ideas of a great American philosopher like Emerson, it's not that they change their political and social views, but their anger is no longer paramount. If you ask them what Emerson or the great philosophers have meant to them, they say these thinkers brought them hope. What is the hope that brings ideas that lead to the great questions of life? It is hope not because of the answers, not because of the contents of what is spoken. It's a hope that appears because men and women have come in touch with the part of themselves that has been covered over throughout their lives. It's not that one gives up any of one's pleasures, or any of one's interests, or any of one's obligations in ordinary everyday life. It's just that this part suddenly begins to come forward, and it's that part which one intuitively feels will bring meaning to one's life, because a human being lives and dies not by pleasure and pain or success or failure but by meaning. So the fundamental question is a question of what brings us meaning. This is a poem by Rilke that may throw a certain light on this. It is called "The Man Watching." 

I can tell by the way the trees beat, after

so many dull days, on my worried window panes

that a storm is coming,

and I hear the far-off fields say things

I can't bear without a friend,

I can't love without a sister. 

The storm, the shifter of shapes, drives on 

across the woods and across time,

and the world looks as if it had no age:

the landscape, like a line in the psalm book,

is seriousness and weight and eternity.

What we choose to fight is so tiny!

What fights us is so great!

as things do by some immense storm,

we would become strong too, and not need names.

(And here's the point of his poem:)

When we win it's with small things,

and the triumph itself makes us small.

What is extraordinary and eternal

does not want to be bent by us.

I mean the Angel who appeared

to the wrestlers of the Old Testament: 

when the wrestler's sinews 

grew long like metal strings, 

he felt them under his fingers 

like chords of deep music. 

Whoever was beaten by this Angel 

(who often simply declined the fight)

went away proud and strengthened 

and great from that harsh hand

that kneaded him as if to change his shape.

Winning does not tempt that man.

This is how he grows: by being defeated, decisively,

by constantly greater beings.

It is the question that we're searching for—that wants to come forward, that we need to wrestle with, this Angel within—that we need to be humbled by, because it is in the defeat of the ordinary personality, its dominance, that the question opens up and one becomes receptive. So all I wish to say today is: search for your question—the question, if it's lived, of who you are, what we must do, how I must relate to what is greater than myself in order to serve others in universe.  When that question is felt with your mind and your heart and your body, the question becomes the answer.  What the world needs, the hope, comes not from new ideas or new techniques or new ideologies or new programs or new politics or new books.  The hope comes from people.  New people.  All I ask is that you consider what you wish to become as fully human people, for that’s where the hope of the world is.Thank you.“

- Dr. Jacob Needleman

[dnkaus]

Fateful Visions | Ch. 19: Decay & Revival

Namjoon x Reader (OC)

Summary: Idol Namjoon meets a grad student, Maya, but he experiences strange visions each time their eyes meet and they touch one another. Fate plays a magnetic role, & keeps bringing them together. Are these visions a sign that they should stay away or stay together?

Genre: Angst, Fluff

Previous Part: Chapter Eighteen Next Part: Chapter Twenty 

9 Months Later - September 2019

It may have only been about 9 months since the break-up, but it felt at least a decade had passed since Maya and Namjoon last saw each other. Within these 9 months many things had drastically changed.

Within these last several months, BTS’s career skyrocketed as they achieved their #1 on Billboard Hot 100 with single that was released after Fake Love. As if it was even possible, BTS was even more busier than before. The East and the West both wanted BTS.  Collaborations, advertisement deals, album promotions, award shows, all took up BTS’s little left over time they had to themselves. Each step they took, they were showered with success. Amongst this success BTS started their new tour and tried to find peace between the mayhem. For some members this wasn’t so hard, as they continued to find little things to feel happy about. For others, this success was starting to feel like a prison.

Meanwhile, Maya’s career had a major lift off as well, as the small blog she had started back in Korea was becoming the new internet phenomenon. Alongside poetry, Maya had also started uploading short stories, which were gaining traction from all age groups. Maya had managed to create her own little universe within that blog which readers had started to consider their own safe haven. Her words were powerful, and somehow the words healed, guided, and inspired people. The blog was spreading like a wildfire, not only in Korea, but also around the world. In fact, her blog was now getting small funds from ads and sponsors. Most people didn’t know who was behind the famous Korean writing blog and so American and Korean media became interested in the writer once they found out that the writer’s name was not Korean. One of the major news and media source, The Daily Primer invited her on their show. She was hesitant to reveal her identity, but after much consideration she agreed to go on the show.

Maya flew out to New York for this interview, and when she walked on to the set, she was suddenly overwhelmed by the camera and lights, and people. There were just so many people.  A feeling of nervousness took over her as the staff guided Maya to her dressing room. Everyone on the set was surprised that the writer of the famous blog was a woman of color. Maya’s decision to reveal her identity was a big risk. Would her readers still read her work if they found out she was not Korean?

Her original plan with the blog was to hide her identity forever. But it almost felt like the sweetest revenge to reveal her identity after everyone was already hooked to her writing. Because she knew that all her readers expected a petite, Korean woman to walk out onto the set, but to see her, they would be astonished.

Maya began to pace in the dressing room as outside the staff prepared for her segment with the interviewer, Lauren Pearce. Lauren was known to ask very direct and no nonsense questions ,which was both good and bad. Maya was excited to get the promo for her site, but also was worried as to what type of questions she would be asked. For the most part she had prepared some answers, to questions she was expecting to be asked. But she also knew she would have to wing it for the other questions. While Maya paced in her dressing room, a staff member suddenly came in to tell her that the interview was about to start.

Maya hesitatingly walked outside her dressing room and followed the staff member to the set. A strange feeling of overwhelming nervousness took over her as she saw the set and Lauren sit on her famous navy blue chair. Ironically, Maya knew this show because of BTS. About a year ago, Lauren had BTS over for an interview while they were in town for their last tour. Maya was in Korea back then, but she remembered staying up to watch it. Maya gulped as she remembered the couch where Namjoon had sat. Somehow fate had brought her to the same couch, but in a completely unexpected way. He had looked so graceful and so put together. She wished she also had that charm and the poise. She shook her head trying to get rid of the thoughts. She knew she needed to focus today. Today was not the day to think about him. Today was her day.

In the past several months, Maya had almost completely avoided  thinking about what happened with Namjoon. Every time a thought about Namjoon appeared in her mind, she pushed it away and started thinking about something else. She wasn’t trying to erase her past, but she also didn’t want to dwell on it either. There was no point in crying over spilled milk, especially when the milk had spilled because of her.

As Maya arrived on the set, she felt like an outsider. She had never imagined being on a TV interview in a million years. This was not what she was used to. She was used to hiding behind her computer screen, hiding behind her words. Maya felt her body and mind slightly dissociate as Lauren began the introduction and the recording of the interview started, while Maya waited for her cue to go onto the set and sit next to Lauren.

“Hi everyone, my name is Lauren Pearce and welcome to another episode of The Daily Primer with Lauren, and today I will be priming you with the new pop culture topic: Blogs. While many experts in the past had predicted that the blogging would soon become a thing of the past, one blog has somehow went against the tide in bringing back the blogging trend. Not only that, this blog is almost entirely written in Korean, yet it is the most viewed blog in the United States at the current moment. Today, we are talking with the face behind this blog, which may come to a surprise for many of you. We have here in the studio today, Maya Shroff, the writer of  Wan Blue Thoughts. Please welcome her with a round of applause.”

Maya walks on to the stage and Lauren shakes hands with her and gestures her to take a seat on the couch that Maya had thought about earlier. Maya hesitantly takes a seat and waits for the cheers to die down in the audience. Maya was genuinely surprised at how many people had came with posters that had Maya’s poem titles on them. She suddenly felt a surge of emotions as she looked into the crowd. Had she become some type of celebrity?

The crowd in the studio finally calmed down and Lauren began the interview.

“So, Maya, you are the author of the evidently popular blog Wan Blue Thoughts…” Lauren gestured at the audience when she said ‘evidently’.

Maya nodded. “Yes, yes I am”

“Alright, and this is your first time revealing your identity? Correct?” Lauren asked.

“Yes, this is my first time showing my face to my readers.” Maya confirmed with a small smile. Her palms were getting sweaty as the questions continued.

“Oh wow, and I know that you are a graduate student from Arkansas, correct? And I believe you were born here in America as well?

“Yes, I was born in California.”

“Alright, so what inspired you to learn Korean and write in Korean?”

“Umm...that’s a good question, Lauren. Actually, I am currently working on my Ph.D. and my dissertation is based on the impact of Korean culture  on Korean fiction. So, in order to do my thesis and dissertation, I learned how to speak Korean and write in Hangul.”

“Oh wow, and what got you interested in pursuing your Ph.D. on this topic?”

“Well, I have always been interested in different cultures, but during my undergraduate I became interested in Korean culture and decided to combine my love for literature and writing with my love for the Korean culture.” Maya responded.

Throughout this whole time, Lauren was intrigued and she nodded along with Maya’s responses. So far, Maya had predicted all the questions and she was answering all of them with the best of her abilities. Lauren continued her questions with enthusiasm. “That’s very fascinating Maya, now, before we found out your name, we had all assumed the person behind this blog was someone who was a native Korean speaker. Critics have greatly praised your vocabulary and writing ability. Now, have you ever lived in Korea?”

Maya hesitated to answer the question. Her breath hitched a little, but she quickly tried to regain control over herself. She knew this question would be asked, so it wasn’t a complete surprise, but still, she was not fully ready to open this can of worms.

“...Uh...yes, I have lived there for a year.”

“And, this was when you started the blog, correct?” Lauren asked. She apparently had done much more research on Maya, then Maya had anticipated.

“...Yeah, I did.” Maya softly responded.

“So, how did you come up with this idea?” Lauren asked.

Maya became overwhelmed. She knew what Lauren was asking but she didn’t know how to answer it without mentioning the truth. She looked at the camera and then back at Lauren and then back at the camera. What should she say? She didn’t want to mention him, but then should she lie? No, she should not lie about something like this. She just needed to be vague. She suddenly remembered the night when Namjoon had convinced her to start the blog. He knew her potential, even before she herself did.It was such a beautiful night. He had promised to be her spool of thread. But that promise was broken along with every other thing he said. Maya couldn’t breath all of the sudden. Her heart started pounding.

“Maya?” Lauren asked. “Maya, did you hear my question?” Lauren’s second attempt at getting Maya’s attention finally brought Maya back into reality.

“Hmm?” Maya responded. “Oh, I mean...yes, I heard your question….Sorry, I mean...yeah it was just a friend that gave me the idea to start the blog. It...it...started as a hobby, but now I am really passionate about my work…” Maya quickly brushed off her thoughts and gave her vague response.

“Oh really, well that’s great. Seems like your friend must have seen the potential in your work. Anyways, last question: now, it seems that the fascination with Korean culture in general is spreading in America recently. You might already know, but Korean music is also doing really well in America and artists such as BTS have really built a strong fanbase in America, despite singing in almost all Korean. Do you think that the popularity of Korean acts like BTS might have also influenced the popularity of your blog in America?” Lauren asked with a calm smile on her face, as she was completely oblivious of Maya’s history. Lauren had no idea who was sitting in front of her. Poor Lauren.

Maya clenched her fist, trying to keep calm. She knew her attempts were failing, but she couldn’t break down right now. She needed to stay professional. She needed to stay calm. It was just a question. There was no way Lauren knew about her history with Namjoon. But why was she asking this question? This was the worst question. Maya grabbed the glass of water that was in front of her on the coffee table. She hesitantly took a sip, as she tried to catch her breath. Her hands were shaking and she was worried she would drop the glass. She knew Lauren was waiting for her response, but what could Maya say? The camera was zooming in on recording her every little action. Maya tried to calmly put her glass of water back on the table. She finally managed to catch her breath, and began her response.

“Uh, yes...the popularity of Korean music and artists like...like them have definitely helped. The world is getting smaller due to the internet, and language is becoming less of a barrier.” Maya gave a brief response.

Lauren gave a smile and nodded. “That’s very true. Well, that was our segment with Ms. Maya Shroff and her amazing blog, Wan Blue Thoughts. If you haven’t already, definitely check out her work. We’ll see everyone next time on the Daily Primer.”

Two days later - Korea

Namjoon was sitting in his studio before a concert practice, trying to produce the melody that had been almost haunting him for the past several days. But unfortunately the melody that sounded so amazing in his head, just didn’t seem to come across correctly when he tried making it. This had been the constant struggle for Namjoon in these past months.

Namjoon decided to take a break from work, and decided to go on Twitter. He often regretted going on Twitter because it was rare that he came out of the site feeling better. Most of the time it just left him with either a sour or bitter feeling. But nonetheless, this site was just such a great distraction, he usually did find himself on there anyways. Today was no different, as Namjoon began scrolling through his millions of notifications. He started briefly reading through the tweets, while drinking a cup of coffee. He giggled a few times, cringed a few times, and then suddenly his heart came to a complete stop. Namjoon almost choked on his last sip of coffee when he saw a familiar face appear in a picture in one of the tweets  sitting next to Lauren Pearce. BTS had met Lauren Pearce last time they went for an interview on The Daily Primer, and now he was seeing the person he had not seen in the past nine months sitting next to Lauren, almost in the exact same place he was sitting in when he visited. Namjoon gulped as he read the caption for the picture.  The post was captioned: “A candid conversation with the mystery author of Wan Blue Thoughts.” A tear escaped his tired and exhausted eyes as he saw that smiling face of his soulmate in the picture.

But then he suddenly started coughing as he couldn’t swallow the sip of coffee he had taken earlier. Namjoon quickly closed his laptop and collapsed onto his small studio couch  after chugging a glass of water. He debated whether what he was seeing was real or not. He was aware that Wan Blue Thoughts had become widely popular. He also knew that the author of the blog was a mystery to almost everyone in the world. What surprised Namjoon was that Maya finally revealed herself on national television. He just couldn’t believe it. Namjoon tried to close his eyes and pretend it wasn’t real. He tried to pretend he didn’t see the tweet so he would resist the urge to watch the interview.

But of course, he couldn’t resist anyways as he went back to his desk and quickly opened the laptop to find the link to the interview. Are you kidding? He had been dying to see her face all this time! He had not once contacted her in this past nine months. He wanted to just get a glimpse of her.

Seeing her brought back all the misery and joy all at once. He couldn’t be more proud then he was in that moment. He had never felt so happy and sad at the same time. She made it. She was famous. Her hard work. Her perseverance all added up to this. Her kite was flying, even though no one was there to hold the spool for her. Not even him.

He hesitatingly clicked on the link, while holding his breath, afraid of what he would see.

He saw Lauren introduce the author of Wan Blue Thoughts. Maya Shroff. Her entrance. Namjoon saw the audience holding boards with phrases from her poems. It warmed his heart. It felt just like when ARMYs would hold up boards with BTS’s names and lyrics. He couldn’t be more excited. And of course, as expected, she still looked beautiful. It did look like she lost some weight though. Her cheeks were more hollow, and her skin looked less vibrant, but still she looked beyond beautiful. Maya looked beautiful and it hurt so much to see her. Namjoon’s vision was getting blurry as his eyes were filled with tears. He quickly paused the video to wipe his tears with his sleeves. No, this was not the time to cry. This moment was not supposed to be about his stupid emotions, this moment belonged to her. This was Maya’s moment.

He continued to watch as Lauren began the questions. Lauren’s questions started out quite simple. Namjoon still often forgot that Maya’s first language was not Korean. It was English. Seeing her speak in English felt strange, but also felt great. He then also remembered that she also spoke Portuguese because she had spent some time in Brazil. Wow, she was truly global.

Maya  answered Lauren’s questions with poise, but Namjoon could see the nervousness that was hidden beneath the calm facade. With each passing question, the facade was fading. Because the questions were getting harder.

Lauren suddenly asked a question that visibly changed Maya’s expression.

“And, this was when you started the blog, correct?” Lauren asked so easily, but she had already set off a fire inside Namjoon’s heart, as he heard the question through his headphones and saw Maya’s expressions change entirely.

“Yes I did” she answered.

So, how did you come up with this idea?” Lauren followed up with again, a question that felt like a thousand pound rock had just been thrown at Namjoon. He immediately paused the video and put his hand on his chest. He was afraid his heart would explode.

How could they ask her this question? She must be in so much pain. He couldn’t believe she really went through this. Namjoon was a wreck by this point. He was drowning in guilt and surrendering to his pain. He didn’t think he could watch it. There was no way he was prepared to hear Maya’s answer. The pain of hearing the answer would kill Namjoon, but curiosity would kill him first. Curiosity won the battle and Namjoon continued the video while biting his bottom lip, trying to hold back the sobs.

Maya didn’t answer the question immediately, and the silence was deafening. It felt like a loud hammer was going on in the background of Namjoon’s mind each millisecond Maya was quiet. Lauren called out Maya’s name, trying to get her to talk. But Maya was falling apart. She was trying to keep herself together, but Namjoon knew she was falling apart. This was happening all because of him. He was the reason that Maya had to go through this. What a terrible person he was? He deserved nothing but pain for the rest of his life, he thought to himself.

As per Namjoon’s wish, Maya’s answer brought exactly what Namjoon wished upon himself. It brought him more pain than he was already feeling. “....My friend gave me the idea” Maya had answered. Friends. Namjoon suddenly remembered the day he and Maya had just found out about the reason behind their visions. He had convinced Maya they could at least be friends. Yes, friends. Ah, that’s what Maya and Namjoon would have been if he hadn’t been stupid and confessed. He could have had her in his life, if he hadn’t confessed. They could have been friends.

But she called him her friend. Is that what she considered him? Did she still believe he was worthy of their friendship? He didn’t deserve this kindness. He truly didn’t.

Namjoon continued watching the video, like he was granting himself his own death sentence. He knew the next question would probably be even worse than the last, yet he still continued. Perhaps he was  a masochist.

“Oh really, well that’s great. Seems like your friend must have seen the potential in your work. Anyways, last question: now, it seems that the fascination with Korean culture in general is spreading in America recently. You might already know, but Korean music is also doing really well in America and artists such as BTS have really built a strong fanbase in America, despite singing in almost all Korean. Do you think that the popularity of Korean acts like BTS might have also influenced the popularity of your blog in America?”

Namjoon again paused the video. He had started coughing again. He was choking on his own saliva. He was hyperventilating. He was sweating. He was sobbing. It felt like he had just drank a glass of acid. Was this freaking real? Did that woman just ask Maya about him? About BTS? The name that Maya probably hates more than she hates anything in the world? This is the harshest  thing anyone could ask. Not sure how it was possible, but somehow he felt more pain than Maya felt when she was asked this question.

“Uh, yes...the popularity of Korean music and artists like...like them have definitely helped. The world is getting smaller due to the internet, and language is becoming less of a barrier.” Maya’s face had lost all the color at this point and Namjoon could physically feel the pain through the computer screen. Like them. She couldn’t even say their name.

The interview ended, but Namjoon didn’t move. He just sat there staring at his computer screen as he couldn’t really process what he had just witness.

Maya Shroff, his ex-girlfriend, the author of Wan Blue Thoughts was just asked about BTS, the group he was a part of. He couldn’t believe she was even able to answer that question. Her courage was jaw-dropping. If it was him in her place, he would have fallen apart right then and there. But no, Maya answered the question with such honesty. Namjoon didn’t know whether he should stand up and clap for her or whether he should cry and hide under a rock.

The extent of his admiration for Maya in that moment was almost intolerable. All he wanted to do was to go run up to her and take her in his arms, forgetting every  decision and tell her just how proud he was. But he couldn’t. So he just sat there, half-breathing. Half-alive.

After a few minutes Namjoon was finally able to take a deep breath. He looked at the time on his watch, suddenly wondering what Maya would be doing right now. It wasn’t the first time he had wondered this, but this was definitely the first time he was truly embracing the agony that came with the thoughts about Maya. He figured at this point he might as well wallow in his pain and truly accept his misery.

It was 11:30 am in Korea, that meant it was probably 9:30pm in Arkansas. Maya was probably awake, Namjoon thought. She was probably reading, or maybe listening to music. Nah, she was probably still working on her thesis. She was probably still looking up some references to cite, or maybe she had just received feedback from her advisor and was trying to keep calm, even though she was probably freaking out inside. He knew Maya lived alone in Arkansas, just like in Korea. He knew Maya liked being independent, so he never told her how he worried about her living alone. Maya never took care of herself. She overworked herself and always made risky decisions.

Then a sudden thought appeared in his head as he remembered one of the scenes from his visions. It was the scene with  the abandoned room where Maya was tied to the chair. He remembered the American flag. He suddenly remembered there was an American flag in that room. This means the place must be in America. Hold on,  What if his vision came true? What if she was in danger in America? What if something was going to happen to her because she was in America? He knew she was okay in the interview, but was she okay now? When was this even recorded? How would he even know if she wasn’t okay? She wasn’t even in touch with Taehyung anymore, because Taehyung felt uncomfortable with the idea of them being friends. Besides, Taehyung was still somewhat upset that Namjoon didn’t tell Maya face to face. Everyone was disappointed. Even he was. Namjoon knew he also couldn’t call Junmyeon and Han Bi because both of them hated his guts.

Perhaps he should just let it go. Nothing had happened so far, so then nothing will happen in the future either. Maybe that vision wouldn’t come true anymore. She was probably fine. She needed to be fine, right?

Namjoon still remained seated at his desk staring at the computer screen. An urge consumed Namjoon to play the interview again...and so he did. Seriously, this guy was losing it!  

Of course, another flood of tears and a meltdown later he was right back where he started. This time he suddenly found himself scrolling through his contact list on his phone. What was he doing? He suddenly found himself almost pressing the call button next to Maya’s number. Is he crazy? He needed to hear her voice. He need to know she was okay. What if she wasn't okay? Just one call. He had changed his number, so she wouldn’t even know it’s him. She wouldn’t right? He just needed to make one call to make sure she was safe. He was so proud of her. He was so worried about her. He really needed to hear her voice.  He wouldn’t talk. He wouldn’t even say a word. Just need to hear her voice. Just one call.

Namjoon pressed the button. He could hear the phone ringing and he held his breath. What was he doing? This was a terrible idea. Why would he call her? He had resisted the urge for so long and now just when things were slowly getting back to the way they were before, he was failing. This is a bad idea. Namjoon started reconsidering his decision, and thought about disconnecting. He was about to press the red “call end” button, but he suddenly heard a voice on the other end.

“Hello...Hello?” Maya spoke softly. She was sitting at her desk. Staring at her computer screen as she spoke. No one answered from the other end and Maya could suddenly feel her heartbeat begin to rise. She looked at the number. It was unknown, but she could tell the number was from Korea. Korea? It couldn’t be Han Bi or Junmyeon because she had their numbers saved. Strange.

She whispered again, “Hello...who is this?”

Again, no one answered. Maya gulped. She didn’t want to jump to conclusions. She knew better. This was probably just some random number. But still, she couldn’t help but think...what if...No. No, it couldn’t be him.

“Hello?” Maya said once more. No answer. Her heart was thumping heavily at this point. She felt like she couldn’t breathe. Where had the oxygen disappeared? Why was her heart beating so quickly? Namjoon on the other end felt like he could breathe again. She was okay. Maya was fine. It felt like these past 9 months he hadn’t been living, and Maya’s small “hello” had brought life back into his soul.

Maya gulped trying to find energy to speak. “It’s you, isn’t it?” She responded softly again. Namjoon’s heart suddenly sank as he heard Maya’s words. She knew. Darn it. He needed to immediately end this call. Namjoon needed to press the red ‘end call’ button. Why wasn’t he ending the call? He took his phone away from his ear slowly. His hands were shaking. He was about to end the call...

“Don’t...Don’t hang up” he suddenly heard from the other end. “Please…” Maya was flustered. All the emotions just pouring out of her as she held onto her phone tightly against her ear. She was trying to hear him. She knew he wouldn’t speak, but she felt that if nothing else, maybe she could hear him breathing. Hear him sighing. Something. Words began to come out of Maya’s mouth without her permission. She found herself saying things all of the sudden. No she wasn’t just speaking. She was shouting. She was crying and shouting.

“I hate you. I hate you so much, Kim Namjoon. You are the biggest jerk. I never want to hear from you again. Do you hear me? Never. You could’ve just told me. Why didn’t you tell me? Jerk. I hate you. You couldn’t have just told me face to face like a grown man? Is this really how little you think of me? I waited so long...I hate you. And seriously, you sent Jimin? How could you do this? I knew this would happen. I told you this wouldn’t end well. You didn’t listen. I hate you. Do you hear me?” Maya was just repeating herself at this point. She just kept saying things, she didn’t even know what she was saying.

Namjoon tried to hold in his breath. He tried to not make a sound. He kept listening to her bitter words. Her painful complaint. He swallowed her words like a bitter medicine as he kept the phone close to his ear, with tears streaming down his face. Because even though her words were bitter, he could at least hear her voice. The voice that was like music to ears. Besides, she hated him. That’s exactly what he wanted, right? He wanted her to hate him.

Maya knew she was just rambling at this point and so she hung up the phone. Her entire body was shaking. She couldn’t believe he had finally called. Maya knew it was him. She had a feeling he would call eventually as this was in one of her visions. She also knew how he was reacting in that moment. She could visualize his face. The tears. She knew he was holding his breath. Trying not to make a sound. She also knew every bitter word she said would hurt him later, but she couldn’t help it. Namjoon had hurt her far more, by not facing her. Sure, her words will hurt, but his actions had hurt Maya more.

Maya sat there with the phone in her hands, weeping as she stared at the screen. Namjoon did the same. For a moment it felt like the world had stopped moving, as they both sat at their desks on two different parts of the world feeling the same pain. Perhaps, it was in the moment that the universe finally saw their despair, and fate decided to take a turn, once again.

[purplesurveys]

334

Have you ever read the Hunger Games series? No, I was never into the series. I did watch the first movie and fairly enjoyed it. When was the last time you ran into something? As clumsy as I am, I don’t remember tripping onto anything recently. Do you enjoy dressing up? Not really. Do you live in the city or a rural area? City. I prefer it that way. Would you say you have a sense of style? I guess? I get good comments on my outfits most days so that must mean I’m doing something right.

What's your biggest fear? It changes everyday. For today, it’s knives. Have you ever been bitten by a wild animal? No. That’s a big fear of mine too. Are you close to any of your cousins? Yes, I’m close to one of them and I treat him as an older brother. I used to be super close to my cousins on my dad’s side, but since we gradually moved farther and farther away from each other, the closeness faded and we don’t give each other anything more than hi’s whenever we come over to see their family. I wish we could change that soon :( Have you ever been lost in the woods? No, that’s the very reason why I don’t walk around in the woods. Where did you last travel? I went to Nasugbu if that counts as traveling. Do you enjoy driving? If I’m not stuck in traffic for 3/4 of the ride then yes. Unfortunately that’s the case in Metro Manila. What song did you last listen to? APESHIT by Beyonce and Jay-Z. If you have a job, how often do you work? No work, just university life for the next two years. What time do you normally go to sleep at night? It differs every night. There are nights I could stay up till 1 AM, some other times I’d rather be in bed by 9:30. Do you watch a lot of movies? I used to. I haven’t found the enthusiasm to watch new movies recently. Do you like Tom Petty? I don’t really have any comment? Would you rather have snow or rain? I love both. Do you own a lot of sweaters? No, that’s not necessary here. A couple of sweaters is fine. Have you ever tried rock-climbing? Like once. Ever ridden in a police car? Nope. Favorite decade of music? I don’t have a favorite decade.  Have any of your best friends been your best friend longer than a year? Both of my best friends have been around for more than five years. Even Sofie, even though I’ve drifted away from her already. Ever witnessed a murder? No and I hope to god that’s something I never have to go through. Do you care what people think of you? No, unless I look up to you. Does your room have a ceiling fan? I don’t believe that ceiling fans actually work, so no. Would you consider yourself poised? Most of the time. But when I get jumpy it’s really bad. Have you ever tried blogging? Yes. I never lasted more than four entries on every blog I’ve ever made my whole life, and I made a fuckton of Blogspots, LiveJournals, and Wordpresses. I do last on microblogging though, manifested by my being on Tumblr since 2010. Favorite television channel? I don’t use the television for cable TV anymore... Have you ever lied under oath? No. I’ve never been under oath. What are your religious views? None. Are you a romantic person? I am, but I think I would be so much more romantic if I had more money. My love language for other people is material things; that being said, I loooove spoiling the people I love because they deserve everything. When did you last change your bed sheets? A couple of weeks ago. Would you consider yourself a flirt? As a demisexual, the concept of flirting makes me uncomfortable, so no. At what age do you plan to be married? 27. I wanted it to be 25, but Gabie freaked out at how early it was so we agreed on 27. Do you eat a lot of junk food? Yes I love junk food. When did you last go on vacation? Last April. Are you resilient? Some situations. I’m easy to disappoint sometimes too though. Have you ever failed a subject before? I’ve never failed one in college and I don’t plan to. I cared less in high school so I did fail geometry, chemistry, and advanced algebra. Didn’t keep me from being admitted into the top university in the country though ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ If so, what was the class? ^ Mentioned it all there. I don’t remember if I also failed calculus or not. Do you wear more bright or dull colors? Dull. Do you know anyone who has attempted suicide? Yes, and I know people who have succeeded. It’s a sad reality. What's your favorite quote? I don’t have one. Would you consider yourself mature? I guess, but I have my petty moments too. How many clocks are in your house? Two. There’s one in the dining room and the other one is on our cable provider’s set top box. Do you play any sports? Table tennis. Have you ever been injured in a car accident? Nope.

If you could be anywhere in the world right now, where would you be? Somewhere with snow and zero sun. Have you ever had highlights in your hair? Nope, not a fan. Favorite fast food restaurant? Jollibee. In what country were you born? The Philippines. Are your eyes more than one color? No, they’ve been dark brown for the last 20 years. Have you ever caught something on fire? I don’t think so? Hahahaha I’m scared of fire so I think I’ve been extra careful this whole time. What would you consider your biggest flaw? I hate criticism unless it’s told to me super super super SUPER gently. What do you think your best quality is? I’m really good at reading people so it’s easier to understand them and much easier to detect problems. Do you enjoy listening to others' problems? I don’t enjoy listening to someone who’s, say, talking to me about parental abuse, but I do become the dump for my friends’ problems regularly and it at least makes me happy knowing I’m being a good friend from that. Do you keep any plants in your house? My mom keeps the plants. I don’t. What is your mother's occupation? She works at a 5-star hotel as some sort of executive secretary or something. Her titles are always long so I don’t bother to know anymore. Do any of your friends like your musical style? I don’t share my music with my friends. What are you most looking forward to? Friday because this week is going to be shit. What was your favorite television show as a child? Hi-5 was my shit. Are you afraid of insects? Yep. Are you cold-natured? Most of the time. How old were you when you got your first pet? I was probablyyyy 5-6 when we got our first goldfish. Goldfish would remain our staple pet for the next 5 years. Did you/do you enjoy high school? I enjoyed the friends part of it. I had a REALLY great time in high school when it came to my friends; I was lucky to have found a home in my friend group before school ended. I hated everything else about it. Most of the teachers, the close-mindedness, the Catholic education, the unnecessary calculus, blegh. What would you say was your favorite age? Year 16 was unbelievably kind to me. What annoys you most about social networking? It’s a tie between so many people who subtweet and so many people who share their privileged, expensive, flashy-ass lives. Are you the center of attention most of the time? No I hate that. What are you currently reading? Guess what!!! I can finally answer this question!!!!! Gabie bought me AJ Lee’s Crazy Is My Superpower when we saw it at a bookstore while on a date. It’s a super rare find as it’s never in any store, so the second I saw it she swiped it off the shelf and handed it to the cashier. I’m like 30 pages away from finishing it, so I also started on Chris Jericho’s A Lion’s Tale: Around the World in Spandex. Both are wrestling autobiographies, which at the end of the day is my favorite genre of books. When did you last go to the library? Last Wednesday because I needed to get something printed. Are you ill at the moment? Nope. Never am. Do people tease you about anything? Yeah my orgmates impersonate me a lot. How late did you stay up last night and why? 12 AM because I had been reading Jericho’s book. Have you ever written poetry? Only when we had to pass a poem assignment in high school. I hate poetry and only tolerate it when my girlfriend reads a poem out loud to me. Curtains or shades? Shades. It’s what a lot of houses here use. How many people have you spoken to in the last hour? Just my mom. Do you tend to text a lot? I text Gab a lot. Ever lost a great best friend? Yeah. Sofie was pretty solid during the time we were inseparable, but I don’t know...it just dawned on me one day that we have drastically different personalities, and not in the opposites-attract way. Beyond our shared love for Audrey Hepburn, our personalities were worlds, worlds apart. I just knew it was going to have to stop somewhere. She was amazing though. At the end of the day I don’t think about her or miss her a lot, so I think that just proved my point. What is your favorite kind of flower? Whatever flower my girlfriend gives me. How tall are you? I’d say a little below 5′2″. Do you own any guns? Nope. What would you say is your favorite book of all-time? I haven’t christened a book with that title. Do you think you're living a good life? I’m not gonna deny the fact that I am privileged in a lot of aspects. But mental health destructs a lot of that. It’s what’s keeping me from having a completely good life. What's your least favorite part of the day? The morning. Are you an over-achiever? Nah, just an achiever. Have you ever won an award for a speech? No. Do you tend to curse a lot? I do. Have you ever played on the Ouija board? No but I’ve always wanted to! But only with the lights on and in broad daylight. Do you sleepwalk? I did it once when I was 9. Never happened again. Have you ever slept on the floor before? Many times. Are you a fan of public displays of affection? Only between LGBT couples hahaha. When did you last attend a yard sale? Years ago? I don’t really go. Do you wish your life were simpler or more interesting? Interesting. I’m always waiting for something exciting. What goals do you wish to accomplish tomorrow? Get through my class without breaking down. Repeat for the next four days. When is your birthday? April 21st. Which is worse: going blind or deaf? I dunno, that isn’t really a competition and shouldn’t be treated as such. What was the best part of today? Welp it’s 7:42 AM so it’s too soon to tell; but right now I do have the time to finally take surveys again so there’s that. Do you attempt to stay away from drama? I like sipping the tea, but I don’t mix the tea myself. What liquid did you last drink? Water. I only ever drink water... Do you ever prefer to be alone? Some times. Occasionally I’d yearn for the presence of friends too. Have you ever had a deadly animal as a pet? No. Favorite Disney movie? Tangled or Toy Story. Have you ever been to the beach? Of course, but it’s been two months since I last went. :(  If you have, how many times have you been? Way too many times. I live in an archipelago so beaches are pretty accessible. What was your dream occupation at age ten? My old Grade 4 assignments would say that at 10, I wanted to be a writer. Are you terrified at the idea of weight-gain? No. In fact I’m really looking to gain weight in the next few years because I find myself way too skinny. I can’t wear a lot of clothes because of it; I have had to give away pretty culottes to my sister, who actually weighs like a normal person. Do you drink a lot of water? Sure; I love water. Does your room have carpet or hard-wood floors? Hardwood. Philippine houses never do carpet. Do you take naps daily? As much as I can. Not daily because I’m always busy during the day. Do you plan on traveling this spring or summer? My family’s travel schedule is unconventional since we always plan our travels only for when my dad is home, so that we’re complete. That said, we don’t always book trips strictly during the summer. Depending on when he comes back, we can travel right smack in the middle of the school year, a day before my exams, etc. Do you know anyone who is colorblind? I don’t think so. Have you ever been a teacher's pet? I sort of have. I wanted to be my prof’s favorite in his art studies class because I heard he didn’t give 1.00′s (which is the highest grade you get in my uni). So I recited a lot, interpreted paintings even though I had no clue what I was saying, and had a memorized speech for our big Powerpoint presentation requirement. Ended the class with a 1.00. What is your absolute favorite hobby? Going to museums. How many times a day do you brush your teeth? Once or twice. Ever been to a tanning bed before? I don’t need that. 107,000,000 Filipinos don’t need tanning beds. Are you satisfied with your financial stability? I am satisfied with my *family’s financial stability. I don’t make money myself yet. Who is your favorite actor/actress? Kate Winslet and Kristen Stewart. Do you model your life after anything? No. What's the meanest thing you've ever said to someone? I’ve never gone over the edge with anyone because I know exactly how it feels to be told anything hurtful. Do you ever accidentally talk to inanimate objects? Yeah I say sorry to stuff when I bump into them. What's your favorite flavor of ice cream? Cookies and cream, or anything with cookie or brownie chunks. Have you ever kissed someone of the same gender? That’s sort of the dynamic of my relationship. If you could, would you have a pen pal? No. What color are the pants you're wearing? Brown, but they’re shorts. Have you ever had a stalker? Nope. What is your life philosophy? You don’t have to be blood to be family. Who last sent you a goodnight text message? My girlfriend, AKA the only person who sends me those things. Do you own any clothes that are your favorite color? Yes for black, none for pink. Have you ever been in a hot tub before? Sure. What's your favorite comedy movie? It’s not limited to comedy, but The Proposal.

In which year were you born? 1998.

[ttexed]

The Great Beast and The Buddhist

Posted By: Chad Eagleton

The man who taught Aleister Crowley magic was the same man who helped bring Buddhism to the west, yet you’ve probably never heard of Charles Henry Allan Bennett.

Allan Bennett was born in London in 1872. Bennett’s father was a civil engineer and passed away when he was still a child. His father’s death and Bennett’s severe asthma meant that Allan grew up both sickly and in severe poverty.

Despite his impoverished upbringing, Bennett was educated at Hollesley College and trained as an analytical chemist. Unfortunately, his poor health made it difficult for him to keep steady work.

Bennett was raised a Roman Catholic by his widowed mother, but rejected the faith at a young age. In 1890, when he was around 18 years old, Bennett experienced shivadarshana, a yogic term for a deep trance state where the individual experiences the destruction of the universe and achieves union with the god Shiva. Shivadarshana is one of the stages of samadhi(meditative consciousness), which you’ve probably heard more frequently referred to as right concentration, the final step on the Buddha’s Eightfold Path. (An easier way to parse this for those interested in Western mysticism would be “crossing the Abyss”) This experience, which we know little about in terms of details other than what he later related to Crowley, had an immense impact on Bennett.

Trying to understand this experience is probably what lead him to join The Theosophical Society in 1893 and undoubtedly what helped send him on the path toward becoming a Buddhist monk.

Whether she was a charlatan or not, the impact of Helena Blavatsky’s Western Occult cocktail served with an Eastern mysticism chaser cannot be stated enough. Not only did her work introduce Eastern ideas to a wide Western audience, but among indigenous peoples it sparked a revival in their own religions. Mahatma Gandhi was quite vocal about how it wasn’t until he was introduced to Theosophy, while living in London, that he ever thought about practicing Hinduism, let alone questioning what the Christian Missionaries had told him: his religion was nothing other than superstitious nonsense. And Buddhism was basically dead in India until 1891.

In 1894, Bennett joined the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn. While he never had the same impact on the group as some of its members, he was well known for his supreme concentration, his knack for practical ceremonial magic, and his specially constructed wand whose parts could be changed as needed for different workings.

Along with George Cecil Jones, Bennett was one of Crowley’s first magical teachers. When Crowley initially met Bennett, Allan was living in a dilapidated tenement slum south of the Thames. The living conditions were so terrible that Crowley promptly invited him to room with him at 67/69 Chancery Lane.

Allan’s impact on Crowley was deep and profound. While roommates, Bennett introduced him to the use of mind-altering drugs. The Beast would expand on his and S.L. Mathers’s work on the Hermetic Qabalah for his own Liber 777. And Crowley’s seldom discussed concept of Magical Memory comes directly from Bennett’s later writings for Buddhists.

Other than his first mountaineering instructor, Bennett is the only significant person in Crowley’s life that the he did not later attack or defame in either public or private writings. Crowley had only positive things to say about Allan, even within his private diaries, calling him “a tremendous spiritual force” and “the noblest and gentlest soul that I have ever known.” He described Bennett’s mind as “pure, piercing, and profound.” Despite being written five years after their last meeting, he dedicated his poem “UT” to Bennett. And, perhaps most telling of all, Crowley would later say that in all his years of studying magic and the occult Bennett was the rarest of breeds, a man who wasn’t interested in gathering power but in finding enlightenment.

Bennett eventually had a falling out with Mathers over his “orientalism.” In 1900, Allan traveled to Sri Lanka, hoping the change in climate would alleviate his many health problems. There he found employment with the Solicitor General, a man named P. Ramanathan, as a tutor for his sons. Boring enough on the surface. However, to occultists the Honorable Ramanthan was better known as Shri Parananda, a Shavite yogi and the author of commentaries on the life of Christ in which he puts forth the notion that Jesus was in fact a composite figure created from several different people, one of whom he believed to be a Hindu holy man whose yogic aphorisms were attributed to Jesus.

Crowley visited Bennett in 1901 and received instruction in Yoga.  Later, that same year, Bennett joined a local Buddhist Sangha (unsurprising that this should happen there–the Buddhist revival that began in India in 1891 was lead by a Sri Lankan named Anagarika Dharmapala) before making his way to the city of Sittwe (then called Akyab) in Burma. There, in the monastery of Lamma Syadow Kyoung, he took the monastic vows and the Dharma name Ananda Metteyya.

Officially, Bennett is considered to be the second Englishman to be ordained as a Buddhist Monk of the Theravada tradition. George Douglas, who was ordained in 1899 or 1900, was widely considered to have been the first. There are conflicting accounts as to Douglas’s fate, some reports allege he died a mere 6 months after his ordination and others that he relocated to Sri Lanka where he lived quietly.

Most research now points to an Irish migrant worker named Laurence Carroll as the first westerner to be ordained. Though he later squabbled with Bennett in the press, Dhammaloka (Carroll’s Dharma name) is mostly forgotten today. Instead of spreading the Dharma, he focused most of his time and energy on attacking Christianity, Western and colonial influence in Burma (this would see him convicted of sedition), and being a harsh proponent of the Vinaya (the monastic rules handed down by the Buddha).

Bennett meanwhile, with the help of some wealthy Burmese Buddhists, began working to bring Buddhism west. He founded the Buddhasasana Samagam, the International Buddhist Society, sometime around 1902, began editing and publishing Buddhism: An Illustrated Review in 1903, then founded The Buddhist Society of Great Britain and Ireland in 1908. Until near the end of his life, he divided his time between Burma and London working to spread Buddhism in the UK as much as his health and the generosity of his benefactors would allow.

Unfortunately, the climate of Burma did not improve Bennett’s severe asthma. By 1908, he was suffering new health conditions endemic to the tropics. Finally, in 1914, he traveled to England for the last time. While there he met with his sister and hoped to travel with her to California but was denied a VISA due to the start of World War I. Stranded in England, Bennett found it impossible to keep his monastic vows due to the practicalities of modern life in London, so he had no choice but disrobe. He continued teaching and lecturing on Buddhism until his death in 1923.

Why then is he such an obscure figure?

I think there are a couple of reasons. While I’ve heard Bennett described as mysterious, I don’t think that’s true.  In this modern age, most of us with very little effort generate a lot of info that’s easy to find. You want to know what your high school girlfriend had for lunch last Wednesday? No problem. That’s not true for those who lived in the past. Unless the person was well-known or intentionally sought out the lime-light (like Crowley), the further back in time you go, the more difficult it becomes to find any information. This becomes twice as hard with someone like Bennett who spent most of his life poor and with little possessions.

While I do think Bennett has gotten lost in Aleister Crowley’s long and black shadow, I suspect it’s mostly due to how Buddhism has been presented to make it more palpable to Westerners who are drunk on the illusion of their superior intellect and, despite claims otherwise, have never been able to fully escape the tyranny of a monotheistic worldview.

Walk into your local bookstore and look at the section on Eastern religions. Odds are it’s mostly Buddhist books and odds are those books are about mindfulness, how to be happy, and other self-help topics. But good luck finding anything else. In the West, Buddhism is portrayed as a slurry of relaxation techniques, proto-psychological therapy, and a mix of philosophy and self-help.

This is, I think, quite clear from a quick search at the magazine for Western Buddhists. There is only one article on Allan Bennett at Tricycle: The Buddhist Review. It presents Bennett as the answer to a trivia question. It glosses over Theosophy, The Golden Dawn, and Crowley in a single sentence. Though Bennett wrote about things like the role of devotion and the miraculous in Buddhism and meditative techniques for plumbing past lives, the article frames Allan’s motivations as the sort of things that would send you or I to the gym and to therapy.

This is Buddhism in the West. There can be no mention of anything that might make it feel like a religion. Buddhist cosmology and eschatology are only good for anime. Tulpas and the Diamond Vehicle are acceptable only in the context of Twin Peaks. And we like the Dalai Lama as long as he’s a leader in exile who reminds us to be kind and we don’t mention that his position is based on controlled powers of reincarnation. And so poor, sickly Allan Bennett made the dangerous journey halfway around the world not to find enlightenment but, you know, to just be happier and healthier.

Don’t forget your mindfulness t-shirt on the way out. And we do accept credit cards.

http://disinfo.com/2017/10/great-beast-buddhist/

[cle-guy]

Race, Politics, and Baseball

Alright, I want to set a few ground rules about this post before I get into the meat and potatoes here:

1. NOTHING I say here is meant to attack any individual. If I insult anyone (and I am 100% confident I will) I say now: it is entirely unintentional. I want nobody to think they are being singled out or accused in this post.

2. I do not want anyone accusing anybody of anything in the comments. This post is for people prepared for reasoned discussion only. The only way political discussions work is if we keep things civil, focus on the facts, and attempt (with all our might) to place ourselves in one another's shoes. I will try to do this myself, but I will assuredly fail. Empathy is among the most difficult human traits to learn, and I am not immune from prejudice.

3. Although baseball contains a fascinating history: I will attempt to limit this post to the official history of Major League baseball, meaning I will start with 1904 and move forward.

Premise

The goal of this post is to answer several questions raised here, and elsewhere. Should baseball enthrall itself with politics? What role does baseball have in engaging in a societal conversation on race?

The Politics of Race in Baseball: a History

For over a century, baseball trail-blazed a history as a political sport, most notably over race. Infamously: baseball refused to employee people of color. What is interesting about the 'gentlemen's agreement' which kept baseball white, is the inconsistency. While African-Americans were not allowed to play, light skinned Latinos and Native Americans were allowed. Charles "Chief" Bender was born in the Chippewa Tribe, and played in the early game. Light skinned Cubans were also permitted to play, under the guise that they were truly white.

Despite some half-hearted attempts, baseball did not break the color line until Branch Rickey stubbornly forced integration on the Brooklyn Dodgers, and their minor league affiliates. Overcoming immense opposition, from players, fans and executives: Rickey and Robinson persisted. I have little to add here to the countless stories already written about Jackie Robinson, other than to say that whatever your opinions of Branch Rickey and integration: the act itself was inherently political. Rickey risked alienating fans, friends and fellow executives with his actions by cutting against the societal norms of his day, just as those who decry (or cheer) the kneelers today.

However, the story of integration does not end with Jackie Robinson: other teams required integration. The Cleveland Indians integrated almost simultaneously with the Brooklyn Dodgers. Bill Veeck brought Larry Doby & Satchel Page to Cleveland, in part of the World Series run. It is worth noting that while Jackie Robinson gained most of the fame for integrating baseball, the American League was far more racist than its National League counterparts. Following Robinson a flood of black players entered the National League. Roy Campanella would win several MVP awards as part of the Dodgers, Ernie Banks effectively defined the Cubs for generations, Willie Mays became arguably the greatest center fielder of all time for the Giants. The AL took longer. The Yankees resisted integration until 1955 with Elston Howard, the Tigers in 1958 with Ozzie Virgil, and infamously Tom Yawkey finally relented in 1959 with Pumpsie Green.

Overall: baseball both reflected the societal and political implications of its time, and rebelled against it. Greats from the nineteenth century, led by the great Cap Anson, refused to play with people of any color. Overall, baseball reinforced society during segregation, with the double standard of the Major Leagues for white players coinciding with the long struggles of the Negro Leagues. The integration of baseball also represented a pioneering aspect to society as well. The courage of Jackie Robinson inspired future civil rights leaders on their quests for greater societal equality. Thus, while it may seem at times that baseball remains conspicuously silent on matters in the political arena, politics walked hand and hand with baseball in its early history, and today.

Race and Baseball Today:

Society has changed massively in the past 50 years. Since Jim Crow's fall, African-Americans have increased in wealth and opportunity; overt racism is now considered evil and taboo nearly universally in the United States. And, notably, we have elected the first person who is NOT a White male to the Presidency. All of these accomplishments are notable, and worthy of celebration. However, we remain a long way from a post-racial society. Outcomes for minority children (besides Asian children) are worse than white ones. African-Americans are far more likely to experience police brutality, incarceration, and violence than white Americans. Despite some statements to the contrary: this is not controversial; all the evidence available to us paints the same story.

I will attach the links at the bottom, but the 2016 census indicated that the median income for white families in the United States was roughly $65,000. The same census indicated that the median income for black families was roughly $40,000. That difference in incomes is over 50% (1). If we consider the inmate population in the United States: African Americans comprise 37.9% of the prison population, despite only being roughly 15% of the American total population (2). It is also true African-Americans are disproportionately more likely to experience police violence. According to the Chicago Tribune African-Americans are over twice as likely to be shot by a police officer while unarmed (3). Overall: it is clear, while we have come so far, we can still improve equality in America.

Sports Respond:

The current controversy revolves around how sports stars should respond to today's crisis. The killing of unarmed African-American men by police has struck a chord in American society. From Ferguson, to Baltimore, to Tamir Rice in Cleveland: we have been wrecked by police violence against civilians. Rightly or wrongly: police largely escaped from these deaths without criminal punishment. The African-American community has understandably resulted with anger and fury. However, many Americans question the frustration and anguish displayed by blacks on the inequality in the United States. Have we not solved these problems with the passing of Civil Rights legislation? Have we not evicted the spirit of Jim Crow from society? What about affirmative action?

The answer given by most professional athletes has been: no. We should not. Beginning with Colin Kaepernick numerous athletes have knelt during the national anthem to protest police violence against minority citizens. Some liberal commentators have also criticized the National Anthem because of racist lines later in Francis Scott Key's poem: The Defense of Fort McHenry. The message from Kaepernick and others is simple: the American government does not respect the lives of colored people compared to the lives of white people, and this bares out in the statistics. Conservative backlash ensued, with many criticizing Kaepernick (and those who followed him) for dishonoring the American flag. Following the 2016 season Colin Kaepernick has been unable to land even an NFL tryout, despite many commentators believing him capable of at least a backup position. Although widespread in the NFL, only one player in MLB has knelt during the national anthem: Oakland A's Bruce Maxwell.

Baseball and Race Today

Baseball has radically changed since 1959: baseball now employs players from six continents, with a massive Latino and Asian presence on the field. Unlike the NFL and NBA: baseball employs significantly fewer African-American players (although many Latino players are dark skinned). Several of our modern stars are black. David Ortiz was unquestionably the biggest star in Boston when active. Derek Jeter is bi-racial. In Cleveland: Francisco Lindor and Michael Brantley are arguably the two most loved players on the team. Like society, baseball has come a long way, except in the front office and ownership.

Thus far, MLB has not taken a position on these issues. Most individual players remain silent, the conspicuous silence from MLB players, especially considering NBA & NFL players have staked out positions already, marks a change in trend for baseball. However, baseball has taken a stand on other racial issues: namely the lack of African-American executives and owners in the front office. To counteract this problem Major League Baseball is working on improving the number of African-American children playing baseball, in an effort to increase the number of black ballplayers. Bud Selig also instituted the 'Selig Rule' which mandates every Major League team must at least consider candidates of color for coaching and executive positions. On the player side: only Blake Maxwell has knelt during the national anthem.

Where Should Baseball Stand?

After 1,400 words of digital ink spent on the history of baseball and race, the few of you who made it this far are probably wondering: when am I going to get to how baseball should address race today? My answer: baseball already is addressing race. I do believe baseball could promote baseball among African-American communities better, and they should: for the good of the game diversity should remain a focus. However, addressing poor representation among the coaching staff and executives is a great way to start. I hope Rob Manfred is successful in changing baseball culture, right now there is not a single African-American GM in Major League Baseball. I do not believe MLB should take a specific stance of Black Lives Matter, or another political group: their actions (not their supporters) should drive MLB policy, as they have done in the past with integrating the game.

As for players, as I stated in the comments it is up to the individual player to determine what is best for them. I personally support those who kneel during the national anthem, but as a matter of private choice, and as a general support for reducing inequality. At first, I did not believe kneeling during the national anthem was the best way to garner support (and the negative response thus far has done little to convince me otherwise). However, I abhor the conservative response to those who believe professional athletes should remain silent. Nobody should ever fear for their job due to their political beliefs, and the continued collusion to keep Colin Kaepernick out of the NFL disgusts me. As such: I don't blame young players for choosing to remain silent. I can imagine a, say, Francisco Lindor who has not signed a guaranteed contract yet determining it is not in his best interests to risk his financial future for the sake of a political statement. I do not begrudge him that one bit. Overall: each individual should choose their best course of action.

Whether or not anyone here agrees, or disagrees, with the athletes who kneel during the national anthem, we should all respect everyone's first amendment rights. And while it may annoy some who think sports should remain a politics free zone: baseball (and no other professional sport) has ever bereft itself from politics. Deeply consider the plight of the African American community, as they are truly at a severe disadvantage compared to their white and Asian peers.

Conclusion

It is not the place of Major League Baseball, in my opinion, to take an official stance on racial inequality beyond the confines of the game. As MLB typically reflects the social circumstances of the society which surrounds it: addressing social issues in baseball typically will reflect social change in the greater society: hopefully MLB will address these issues proactively. I pray baseball can find a way to increase diversity on the field, and not just racially. It is long past due that MLB welcomes gay athletes as well to the field. However, as for MLB taking a stance either for, or against, those who believe it is their societal duty to speak out against racial inequality: no. MLB should allow each athlete to choose for themselves, and encourage free speech. I hope everyone here, and in the baseball community, can consider these issues seriously, and respectfully.

1. https://www2.census.gov/programs-surveys/demo/tables/p60/259/tableA1.xls

2. https://www.bop.gov/about/statistics/statistics_inmate_race.jsp

3. http://www.chicagotribune.com/news/nationworld/ct-police-shootings-race-20160711-story.html

[thekillingquill]

Not Another Tragic Backstory | 3

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 + Epilogue Pairing: Jughead x Reader Word Count: 3,105 + Epilogue: 303 Warnings: I solemnly swear. By which I mean, there be curse words below! Also I attempted fluff. Summary: Riverdale has resurrected the Blue & Gold and with it, the Journalism program! This week’s lesson: Human Interest/Profiles. Reader is paired with Jughead who writes an unflattering profile on her, prompting her to confront him about it. A/N: So there are 750 words of this that I wrote before any part of this story and it’s the part where she is going awf on Jughead. I didn’t proofread this and an epilogue is included at the bottom. It’s an attempt at fluff so beware.

When the bell rings for lunch I all but run out of class. I’m the first person in the hall and I keep my head down to avoid seeing anyone who would want to talk to me. I reach in my bag and touch the sharp edges of the profile Jughead Jones has written about me, ensuring that it is still there. It’s a familiar motion, one that I’ve been completing since Ash handed it to me after our journalism class.

Ash’s words have stirred up my nerves. I’m afraid, but I can’t ignore this opportunity. An itch has already started and I know that nothing but reading this article can satisfy it. I opt to duck into the janitor’s closet under the stairs and cringe at the musty odor of a long forgotten room. The lighting in here is terrible so I pull out my phone and use the flashlight function to light up the words.

The headline reads: Y/N Y/L/N A RIVERDALE LEGACY’S PATH TO REDEMPTION and my stomach clenches in fear of what I’m about to read.

The town of Riverdale was founded 75 years ago by six prominent families who each inspired the development of the town. The Y/L/N family had a large hand in cultivating the tone of Riverdale’s community as they, and their descendents, were voted into office for ten terms back to back. This was considered the family business until Mayor Sierra McCoy was elected in light of what is known as the July Scandal.

From the moment she was born Y/N Y/L/N has been on the fast track for a political career. In grade school she participated in numerous National speaking competitions and took first place on four separate occasions. In Junior High she was president of the Debate Club, taking them to Nationals, and organized a Model UN with the schools in nearby towns. She participated in two speaking competitions and placed third and second respectively.

Now a sophomore at Riverdale High Y/L/N is a member of the notorious River Vixens cheer team, co-captain of the Debate team, and will be running for Class President. Today she has foregone the River Vixens uniform for a business casual attire of brand name blue jeans, an ironed blouse and kitten heels.

Y/L/N was four years old when the July Scandal unfolded. During a debate between former Mayor Y/L/N and candidate Mayor McCoy a young woman approached the front of the town hall and asked the former Mayor why he wouldn’t acknowledge his mistake. That woman was an intern at City Hall that the former Mayor had engaged in relations with, resulting in pregnancy. The pregnancy has never been confirmed, but it was a big enough scandal to tip the election in Mayor McCoy’s favour.

Since the July Scandal the Y/L/N family has stepped back from politics to focus on other projects, but it looks as though their legacy will continue with our classmate.

I am so angry that I am visibly trembling. Jughead’s piece goes on and on about how I’m going to essentially spend the rest of my days in Riverdale as a politician in some sort of twisted redemption for my family’s shame. He might has well have written that I’m going to die here and be buried next to my Mayoral ancestors.

Though factually he’s correct about my past, his piece is ignorant and ill-informed about the me of today. I have no intention of running for class president. I didn’t run for the title of class president last year, and I considered it for college applications this year, but I ultimately decided that it wasn’t worth it. The July Scandal didn’t just cost my father the election, but nearly cost him his family. I have no interest in walking down that path, ever.

He goes on to describe myself and the other descendents of the six founding families as legacies and talks about our obligations to the town. It just makes me so sick. This is how he sees me: in the afterglow of a scandal that nearly tore my entire family apart. My shaking rage dissolves into frustrated tears and I know that I can’t stay at school.

I will allow myself one minute to be upset and then I will have to be a big girl. This is a skill that was taught to me early on in life. I am allowed to be upset for a moment, but then I must put it behind me and be a grown up about it. I breathe deeply, wipe my tears, and then start texting Ash.

Hey Ash, I’m not feeling very well so I’m going to go home can you cover for me?

You read it, huh?

It wasn’t as bad as you made it out to be. Which is a lie I need to tell myself right now so that I can hold myself together until I get home.

If that’s what you need to tell yourself babe. It is, for now. My visible shaking has become an unnoticeable quiver by the time that I get home. The anger and sadness, however, has only grown in intensity. I head straight to my room and open my laptop, pouring out all of these emotions in the only way I know how: through writing.

I write poems, small paragraphs, bits of a bigger story and multiple blog posts of 2-3 sentences that are vague and drenched in angst. It’s during my fifth poem that I realize what has happened.

Jughead Jones has broken my heart and he has no idea. Well, that was going to change.

I knew I’d find him at Pop’s. I just didn’t know if I’d find him there alone. On the one hand, the part of me that is hellbent on seeking revenge wants to drag him in front of his friends. On the other hand, the part of me that is scared and heartbroken wants to keep this as private as possible. Less witnesses if I started crying again.

Jughead’s profile on me is rolled up in my clenched fist and I subconsciously squeeze it as I survey the crowd at Pop’s. There are a couple of  families on the other side of the diner having ice cream and milkshakes, a few kids from school studying, and sitting as far away from the crowds as possible is Jughead Jones.

He’s wearing his fur-lined denim jacket and his infamous beanie, staring intensely at his laptop while his fingers move across the keyboard with purpose. Next to his laptop is an empty glass and a plate that is half full (or half empty) of fries. I falter briefly in my mission and know that if I don’t act now then I’m going to end up rolling over and letting this slide.

My strides are so long that it takes me approximately four steps to approach Jughead’s booth. When I do, I slam his profile down on the table so hard that his glass tips to the side, startling him for a second time. He looks up at me, wide-eyed and completely speechless and I try to school my features to hide the fact that it hurt like a son of a bitch to hit the table that hard.

“You don’t know me or what my plans are, Jones.” I say it with as much cold venom as I can muster and slide into the booth across from him. He looks at the wrinkled and slightly curved pages on the table between us. A look of realization crosses his face before it’s replaced by annoyance. He slouches back in the booth and starts eating fries, looking bored and disgusted with the situation.

Yesterday this would have disarmed me. Today, it sustains me and my rage.

“You didn’t ask me a single question to support your profile, so I’ve prepared some of my own.” Jughead opens his mouth to say something, but I hold up one finger and raise my voice over him “One: what are you hopes for the future? Well, Jones, one day I hope to have an extensive mug collection for my modest apartment in any town that isn’t Riverdale.” I put up a second finger and make sure I am holding eye contact with Jughead while I speak.

“Two: why did you decide to take journalism this year? Well Jones, I’ve been writing since they taught us how in elementary school. I thought taking journalism this year might show me a way to turn my hobby into a career. I thought it might help me improve my storytelling. Frankly, I find print journalism to be fascinating.” I give him the most sarcastic smile I can muster.

“Since you are so interested in my past, I feel like I should share with you that when I was younger I thought it would be cool to write for a magazine. Now that I’m in journalism I know without a doubt that I’d like to get at least one piece published in the following magazines either in their print publications or online: Ms. Magazine, BUST, Bitch, Rolling Stone, Variety, Cosmo, and The New Yorker. And here’s a tidbit about the speaking competitions you mentioned in your piece: It’s not just talking to a crowd. I wrote all of those speeches, thank you very much.”

I can tell that Jughead is growing more uncomfortable by the second and I know that my voice is too loud for the crowd at Pop’s. He refuses to meet my eyes and slouches in the corner of the booth with his arms crossed. It feels so so so good to finally say all of this, to not hold back. I hold up a third finger and am tempted to tell him to read between the lines.

“Three: why are you so upset, Y/N? You know, it really warms my heart that you would ask me that. See, you’ve written about 500 words about my character based on things you’ve heard or maybe seen. You didn’t profile me. You wrote assumptions and deductions. The truth is that you don’t know me, Jones. You think you do, but you actually don’t know what I’ve lived through or what drives me or who I love. You don’t even know my favourite colour or what kind of movies I like, but I bet if you were to guess you’d say it was purple and that I like romantic comedies. Well, surprise, bitch! My favourite colour is mint green and I like psychological thrillers.”

I take a deep breath and lean back in my seat. I have officially burned through all of my anger and am left with something else, something softer and heavier all at once. I take a moment to collect myself and evaluate my audience. His eyebrows are furrowed and he is leaning forward with his lips slightly parted. In his eyes I see intrigue. He starts to speak and I cut him off without having to raise my voice.

“I’m not finished yet,” I tell him tiredly. I hold up four fingers and then let my hands rest on the table in front of me. “Four: Y/N, you mentioned that I don’t know what you’ve lived through. Why don’t you elaborate on that and educate me?” I let out a sigh and give Jughead a half smile across the table. “See, now these are the kind of probing questions I had expected of you, Jughead. After all, you are investigating Jason Blossom’s murder and that would involve a certain level of intelligence.”

Jughead reaches up and closes the lid of his laptop and I know he’s truly invested in my mock interview. Maybe it’s because I called him by his first name but it’s probably because I mentioned Jason Blossom.

“Frankly, I don’t think you deserve an answer. However, as a fellow writer, I would hate for the quality of your piece to suffer, so I will give you this much: The only friends I had as a kid were the possessive kind that liked to put me on a shelf when they were done with me. They got angry if someone else acknowledged me. It could be borderline abusive at times, but I’m stronger for it.”

“Are you talking about Cheryl Blossom?” Jughead asks before I can stop him. I shoot him a sarcastic smile.

“Sorry Jughead, you had your chance to ask your questions. Five: Why bother explaining yourself to me?” I choke on my words, but there’s something about how he’s looking at me, really looking at me, that makes me push through my nerves. It’s now or never.

“Because I’ve quietly admired you for years and it really fucking hurt to know that you think so little of me. Meanwhile for the last three months or so I’ve been trying to stop thinking about how you’re the kind of boy who hangs stars in the sky when you smile. That’s a direct quote from a poem I wrote in English class last year. It was about you, as most of my poems these days are.” I close my eyes tightly and take a deep breath, leaning my head back against the booth.

I feel like I’ve just cut the cord tethering me to earth. It never occurred to me just how heavy this secret was, that it had been a constant weight that I’d been carrying around. I’m scared and relieved all at once. I’ve just gathered the energy to leave when Jughead speaks.

"Just because you got personal with me doesn't mean I'm going to spill my tragic backstory to you." His voice is quiet and not unkind. There is an almost teasing lilt to his tone. I open my eyes and he is looking back at me with an indiscernible expression on his face. It’s almost a mixture of uncertainty and awe? I give a mirthless laugh and sit up, mirroring his position with my arms crossed and elbows leaning on the table.

"You think all that was a tragic backstory? Honey, my tragic backstory is going to die with me." I wink and shoot him a flirtatious smile, one that I learned from watching Ash and Reggie.

“Really? Spending your childhood as Cheryl Blossom’s toy isn’t a tragic backstory?” He’s leaning forward over the table and his smirk causes my thighs to press tightly together.

“Not by a longshot, Jones. You’re curious now, aren’t you?” I lean back and try to keep my composure. Jughead follows my movements and leans back against his side of the booth casually.

“No, of course not.”

“I’m starting to see why you don’t say a lot. You’re a terrible liar.”

“Is that such a bad thing?” He asks me, tone serious.

“No,” I answer him softly. My smile is no longer flirtatious, but fond. His honesty is one of the things I like most about him. Followed by his passion for things. I like how soft he looks when he thinks no one is looking. I like his tenacity and his independence and his way of viewing the world.

“Can I… can I buy you a milkshake?” He asks, sounding uncertain of himself.

“I would love that.” I try to tone down my enthusiasm, but his smirk tells me that I’ve failed. I enjoy getting to admire the object of my affections up close and personal. I expect him to shy away from my hungry eyes, but he seems to be looking back just as intensely. The tension in Pop’s threatens to choke me, so I smile softly at him and start a new conversation.

“I never got to finish my interview in class today. So, question five: tell me, when did you realize that you were a pretentious twat or have you not figured it out yet?”

“It’s recently been brought to my attention,” he admits with a smile.

“I’m happy to say that a lot of you did well with your profile assignments. Jughead Jones, in particular, excelled with his profile on Y/N Y/L/N and will have the privilege of interviewing Mayor McCoy.” Mrs. Cooper is holding up a copy of Jughead’s assignment and I can’t help but to look look at him over my shoulder. His eyes are already on me and he quirks his eyebrow, tossing a potato chip in his mouth. He smirks while he chews. Asshole.

I flip him off with as much subtlety as possible.

“I’ll be leaving the profile on my desk for anyone who is interested in reading it after class.”Ash glares at Jughead over her shoulder and sends me a sympathetic smile. I wave off her concern and pass her a note, encouraging her to read it again after class.

Mrs. Cooper launches into a discussion on what we did well and what needs work and I smile down at my notebook. I sneak glances over my shoulder and he’s always looking back at me with that intensity that attracts me like a moth to a flame.

At the end of class Ash all but sprints to get her hands on Jughead’s profile. I watch him pack up his things and follow behind him as he leaves the room. Reggie Mantle is standing outside of the classroom. He and Ash must be very much on right now if he’s walking her to and from classes again. He smirks when he sees Jughead and puts a hand on his shoulder, stopping him from passing.

“Where’s the fire, Wednesday Addams? Off to plan your next murder?”

I force my way under Jughead’s arm, wrapping my arm tightly around his waist. He looks startled by my appearance.

“Actually Reg, we’re headed to the bleachers to make out so you and Ash should go somewhere else today.” I twist out from under Jughead’s arm, grabbing his hand and walk backwards so that I’m facing him. He, along with Reggie and a few other students in the hall looks stunned.

“Do you not want to make out under the bleachers?” I ask him teasingly. He smirks and jerks his arm backwards bringing me chest to chest with him.

“You’re being cheeky,” he tells me lowly.

“I’m being daring,” I counter, pushing up on the tips of my toes to press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. “So do you want to go behind the bleachers or no?”

Jughead smirks and laces our fingers, taking the hall that will bring us outside to the football field.

EPILOGUE

When I left for college Jughead gave me picture frame and inside of it was an article he had cut out of The New Yorker. It’s the one I wrote in junior year after we, along with his friends, solved the murder of Jason Blossom. My first published piece, but not my last.

Jughead took a gap year to promote his book and when it reached the New York Times Bestseller list, I printed it off and had it framed. I gave it to him in person on the anniversary of the day I stormed into Pop’s to yell at him for being presumptuous. I still get dizzy thinking about the way I kissed him that night, with his back pushed up against the pillar on my front porch.

I found my modest apartment in Salem. Jughead populated my mug collection by sending me one from each city he visited and one from every hotel chain he stayed at while on tour with his book. If I had to pick a favourite, it would be the two he brought from Pop’s the night he sold the movie rights to his book. We drank cheap champagne from them and he drunkenly confessed his desire to marry me.

He presents me with a scrapbook six months later. Every magazine article that I’d gotten published is cut out and pasted down on its own page. Underneath or beside the article are handwritten notes from Jughead: little comments or thoughts he had about the piece.

On the last page is a mock article he has written. Our wedding announcement. Underneath it he has taped the engagement ring I wear now. I twist it around my finger and listen to Jughead caressing the keys to his computer in the next room and I am so so so happy.

Tag list: @tasteofswallowedwords; @forsythe-pendleton-jones-iv; @ju-gg;  @murderyoursoul;  @ri-verdale 

[radiojamming]

HISTORY WITH DJ: Franklin Expedition Mummies

So you’re on a jolly good vacation up in the Arctic, right? Because that’s your ideal vacation and nothing makes you happier than miles and miles of ice, loose gravel, ice, snow, polar bears, more ice, and the occasional seal carcass. You’re in your fun vacation boat, happily bobbing your way over by Cape Riley in Nunavut. “Beechey Island!” says your handy-dandy map, and that sounds oh-so fun because it must have a nice beach! A misspelled but otherwise fun beach! Turns out, you’re late to the party and a couple guys have been chilling there for awhile.

“GET YOUR OWN GRAVEL PATCH, SHITLORD!” they call from beyond the grave.

The thing is, not only would 2/4 of these guys probably not hesitate to call you a shitlord because they were a couple youngin’s and memes would probably be hilarious to them but, uh

they’re still

kinda fresh.

By that, I mean 3/4 guys were buried in 1846, and as far as we know, since 1986, they still look pretty good! Or, in the phrasing of one memorable article, one in particular looked “more cold and sleepy than dead”. 

And these three-outta-four are the famous Franklin Expedition mummies. (We won’t be talking about number four. He hopped in later and intruded on their cool permafrost party.)

Now, I won’t be posting any pictures of the mummies specifically, because they can be very disturbing and I remember the first time I saw them, I about hit the ceiling because I didn’t expect it. However, I’ll be describing them in detail and putting some other pictures in. You’re free to look them up at your own discretion, though. But again, fair warning, THEY ARE DEAD AND A FEW OF THEM LOOK THE PART. They were thawed out of the ice and they certainly look like it.

So let me introduce you to the three fabulous young men hanging out underground at the moment, and some background on them.

Much credit first to Kristina Gehrmann for making these gents look so darn lively! Her art’s awesome! (Also woof, Mister Hartnellllll~)

The Beechey Island trio were all part of the infamous lost Franklin expedition launched in May of 1845. Britain sent out two now-famous ships, the HMS Erebus and HMS Terror, to ply northern Canada for the Northwest Passage. Shit hit the fan awful fast, though, and there’s a reason it’s called a lost expedition. Like, uh, no one came back. People probably ate people. It was a bad time. And the three guys up there were the lucky ones.

Introducing:

JOHN SHAW TORRINGTON - AGE 20; OCCUPATION: PETTY OFFICER, LEAD STOKER (HMS TERROR)

Torrington, the younger half of the Johns, is kind of the face of the expedition, mostly because he was the first person who was exhumed. Dr. Owen Beattie, a forensic anthropologist from the University of Alberta, decided to exhume him in 1984 in an attempt to figure out what the heck went way wrong in the expedition. Now, his team knew they were probably going to find something interesting, considering the gents had been refrigerated in permafrost for a century and some change. They just didn’t know that all the guys would look as fresh as daisies in forensic-land when they pried the lids open. And Torrington was the supreme surprise.

With an expression kind of like :O, he had both eyes open (and he looked kind of ticked, like someone woke him up from a nap), blue patches on his face from the blanket that had been placed over his head (not frostbite), all of his clothes on, and a fun little piece of fabric tied around his head so he wouldn’t get the ol’ skeleton-scream face going. Aside from being tied up like a Christmas present, Torrington just looked exhausted, and more like the guys on the HMS Terror had pranked him than dying of horrible causes.

We don’t actually know much about his life, but we do know he was the lead stoker (fireman) on the HMS Terror, servicing its repurposed locomotive engine. Like the other two, he certainly had tuberculosis and pneumonia. The troubling part was, his hands weren’t very calloused, suggesting he had only worked for a short time and had been down for the count longer than he’d been on for it. Even though it had only been about seven months since they had left England, it was pretty clear Torrington had been sick for awhile already. He died on New Years’ Day at the age of 20.

Some interesting things about him:

-He was a petty officer at age 20! Go Torrington, go! -The gold-looking things around his head are wood shavings, but have often been confused for his hair. There is some light brown/blond hairs sticking out from under the fabric tying his jaw shut, but it was probably short. -He, unlike John #2 and William, had his pants on. No word back yet on why that is. -He’s the only body to not have a Bible verse on his headstone. No word back yet on that either. -We do know he was from Manchester, and had enough family to have living relatives now. (The anthropology team asked them for permission to exhume him.) -He probably smoked, judging by the state of his already whacked-out lungs. -People around the world were so fascinated by him that Iron Maiden, Margaret Atwood, Sheenagh Pugh, and a ton of others have written songs, poems, and stories about him. Most of it was owed to the fact that of the three mummies, he was the most intact and lively-looking. Some people seem to have crushes on him, too. I don’t blame them. -Torrington’s eyes were most likely light blue! They were hardly discolored and were probably very accurate to when he was alive.

WILLIAM BRAINE - AGE 32; OCCUPATION: PRIVATE, ROYAL MARINE (HMS EREBUS)

Out of all the guys in the permafrost, we probably know the least about William Braine, and he seems to have drawn the crap lot as far as health and state of his body. He was the last to be exhumed in the following 1986 expedition, after Hartnell was exhumed. But, for sake of following the picture up top, we’ll talk about him before Hartnell. 

William died, as the others did, of tuberculosis and pneumonia. Unfortunately for him, he seemed to have had to deal with it far longer than the other two. By the time he died in April of 1846, his TB had advanced enough to contort his spine, which would have been hella painful. He was extremely sick at the end, and chances are, he had been sick for most of the trip into Nunavut. The other sucky part was that his body had clearly been laid out for awhile before he was buried, and the crew seemed less prepared for him than they had been for the first two. He was kind of haphazardly shoved into his coffin, with one arm having to be tucked under his body because he was a big guy. He also, like Hartnell, had no pants on. Huh.

Some signs of him waiting on ice (pff) before being buried were that he showed more signs of decomposition than the other two. His lips had already receded (Torrington and Hartnell had dehydrated lips like most mummies), he showed discoloration, and there are signs that something had been, um, gnawing on him before he was buried. Ew. Again, there’s very few details about his life, which is kind of sad considering he was the oldest of the three. But here’s a few interesting tidbits! -He was buried with a red handkerchief over his face, and there’s been some suggestion that the handkerchief was a possession of his that he may have prized. -He had some rocking facial hair when they found him. Sweet muttonchops, Will. -Like I said, he was a big guy. There’s plenty of signs that they had some difficulty getting him into his coffin successfully. He even had a squashed nose because the lid of the coffin pressed against it all that time.  -He was buried deeper in the permafrost than John #1 and John #2, and no one knows why. He was also buried at an angle. This is strange because getting through permafrost is extremely difficult with shovels and pickaxes. Some have suggested that the crew knew someone else was going to die while they were on Beechey Island and had more time to make the last grave. -He has no descendants or relatives that we know of, and never married or had children of his own.  -Braine was right around 88 lbs. at death and was severely emaciated. Yikes. D:

And now, for the one I know the most about!

JOHN HARTNELL - AGE 25; OCCUPATION: ABLE-BODIED SEAMAN (HMS EREBUS)

Now of all the mummies buried on Beechey Island, I find John Hartnell the most interesting, and probably the most tragic. (I’m actually writing a book on him, so there’s that.)

Poor John Hartnell had it rough from childhood. His dad was a shipwright in Gillingham, Kent, and when he died, it seemed that John was the one to look after his mother and four younger siblings. Records show that at one point, he was a shoemaker before he was a sailor, and he had a Crown debt to pay off that today would be worth $13,000. It may have been back taxes or a loan, and it may have been inherited from his dead father. Either way, John eventually got coaxed to joining the Navy by his younger brother, Thomas, who had been in for awhile. The Hartnell brothers were apparently close anyway, as they were written on the 1841 census as being the same age despite being two years apart. Mathematically, on an able-bodied seaman’s pay, if the two of them served three years apiece on the Erebus, they’d be able to pay off $12,000 of the debt. So off John went, first on the HMS Volage, then on the Erebus with his younger brother in tow.

Based on the state of his grave, John Hartnell was a well-liked kind of guy. First, he was outstandingly tall for 1846, clocking in at a whopping 5′11″ 1/2 based on the admiralty records of the Volage. He had striking black hair (Thomas was a redhead) and hazel eyes, and judging by the face in the grave, he was pretty handsome to boot. He advanced quickly to becoming an able seaman, and based on the state of his shoulder bones in an x-ray, seemed to have taken to it enough to get whacked around a few times. When he died, his shipmates took extreme care with him. A pillow was sewn and stuffed with woodchips to cushion his head, a blanket was placed under his body and another was wrapped around him as a shroud, he was buried in three different shirts, and a wool watchcap was put on his head. All in all, he was very snug when they found him. Unlike William Braine, his casket was fitted to his body, so no stuffing him in was required despite how tall he was. Tape and paint made fake handles on the casket to give it a more refined appearance.

We know his little brother was with him when he died, as John’s body was clad in a shirt with ‘T.H. 1844′ sewn onto the shirttail, suggesting Thomas gave him his shirt. This may have been part of the reason why he was so cared for, but it’s also clear the crew cared about him quite a bit.

Poor John didn’t stand a chance, really. Samples taken have shown that not only did he die of tuberculosis and pneumonia like Torrington and Braine, but he also had a severe zinc deficiency. His stomach and intestinal contents were empty and he weighed under 100 lbs. at death, suggesting he was refusing to eat at the end and had severe muscle wasting. He was probably hallucinating and utterly feverish as well, and a theory poses that he, as well as the other crewmembers, may have also had lead poisoning. All of this points to a pretty gnarly end.

His body ended up being like the Christmas present of the entire exhumation project. First, when they took his hat off (to which I’d be pissed because he looked comfy as hell in there anyway), he still had all of his hair. It was pitch black and still styled and combed under his hat. He was also missing an eye and had a gouge in his right arm from an exhumation attempt in the 1850s. By the time they dug up Hartnell in 1986, his expression kind of looked like, “YEAH HI, PLEASE LEAVE ME ALONE I AM EXHAUSTED.”

Second surprise was that, after disrobing him (poor guy), he had already been autopsied before. Not only that, but the Y incision was reversed, all his organs were upside-down, and his ribs and sternum were flip-flopped too. This made the radiographers hella confused, and at first they thought it may have been the doing of the surgeon on board the Erebus. Turns out, it was probably the wonky exhumation attempt that stole his eye. In short, they hecked up Hartnell bad, and he deserved better. But his body told Dr. Beattie and his team plenty, and they snugged him right back up and reburied him on June 21st, 1986.

Fun facts, because I know way too much about this guy:

-His eyes were hazel, according to his records on the Volage. However, on his body, Dr. Beattie thought they looked more green. -He had impacted first molars in his jaw, but otherwise, had all of his teeth. Weird, considering able-bodied seaman got whacked in the face/head more than anyone else. -The 1850s exhumation also stole the nameplate off his casket as a souvenir. Like they didn’t do enough to him. -Because of his Crown debt, the Hartnells back in England weren’t given his Arctic service medal after his death. It wasn’t given to anyone until 1986. -There’s signs that not only did the crew dress him up nicely (still no pants, tho), but his hair had been combed and someone had cleaned his nails. His hands were also put in a funerary position, unlike Torrington and Braine.  -Brian Spenceley, a physics professor from Lakehead, went with Dr. Beattie on the expedition, as Brian was a living relative of Hartnell and a descendant of his younger brother, Charles. One thing he immediately recognized was the ‘Hartnell nose’. If you do look up pictures of him, you’ll know it immediately. -Hartnell also had some facial hair along his jaw, but was otherwise pretty clean-shaven. -He was so well-preserved otherwise (even though there’s evidence that there was a little bit of delay burying him) that he had full flexion in his joints and tendons like an unconscious living person. Doctors and scientists had no trouble undressing him or turning his head and moving his arms for scans and examination. -He seems to be more of the face of the expedition than Torrington. If you look up the mummies, chances are that Hartnell is the first person you see. He’s recognizable for his nose, his black hair, and his extremely ‘I’m so done’ expression. -No kids, no marriages. His brother was the same. :( (I woulda married him in a heartbeat.)

Now there’s about a million theories as to what happened to all of them. Lead-poisoning is a chief one of Beattie’s due to the canned food onboard being soldered with lead. Really, it just seems like the Franklin expedition was a Murphy’s Law situation.

[bagleywrightlectures]

Q&A with Dorothea Lasky after her lecture, “On the Materiality of the Imagination,” Seattle Arts & Lectures, Nov. 21, 2013

Rebecca Hoogs: I am curious about your process of writing these essays, of writing prose versus writing poetry, and how those two--if those two processes are similar? Dissimilar? And where you find your sparks for each?

Dorothea Lasky: Well, about a year ago I finished a dissertation in education and that was a horrible process [laughter], because I had to think completely differently than I did when writing a poem. Everything I said had to be defended by some piece of scholarship, and it kind of was a horrible but really important experience, because I started thinking of prose that way--like that someone was ready to beat it up. Of course, you don’t think about your poems that way, they can be flimsy and fragile at times. So I think for me, writing these lectures was a wonderful kind of synthesis of the two, that I could make tiny little vulnerable leaps, but I still thought about what would happen if people tried to beat up the sentence.

RH: Where did the prose, where did the essays start from you? Did they start from poems you have loved and lived with for years? Did they start from more anecdotal observations?

DL: I guess just obsessions. In the last few years, I was able to teach some courses around themes that I wanted to, and one of them last fall was called “Roman Poetry and the Metaphysical ‘I’” and I was trying to make a synthesis between Latin poetry which I loved as a classics major in school, with hip hop. So I taught this class kinda not knowing what I was doing and then I was able to create a lecture around it. The same thing happened with color--I had taught classes on color so I was able to kind of translate the whole semester into a lecture.

RH: Can you tell us more about that? That sounds fascinating.

DL: Well I’m really really obsessed with color. I grew up--my mom is a visual artist, so I just grew up with a lot of color and visual stimuli and it was always a great source of inspiration for me in writing poems. Color has been a lifelong devotion.

RH: I read that you if you weren't a poet, then you might have been a painter. Is that true?

DL: I would have loved to, if I’d had any talent. That and a ballerina but I never took dance classes seriously.

RH: Speaking of obsessions, what would you say are some of your other obsessions?

DL: Is it okay [laughing] for me to say this on stage--? I would love--this is my dream--to be able to read everyone in the universe--not to necessarily read, but to have access to all the private thoughts and correspondences of every person in the world. That would be my dream, to have access to, like, the email passwords of just everyone in here. [laughter]

RH: It seems like that dream is coming true...

DL: Kind of like the panopticon, except I’m the panopticon. Also, animals are just a deep obsession for me. I have written a lecture called “The Animal” which is part of the Bagley Wright Lecture Series. I’m obsessed with the fur, the warmth and the fur.

RH: You just want the fur?

DL: I do, I just want the living fur.

RH: Okay. Could you talk a little bit more about your process in writing poems? Do you have a practice? What is that process like for you?

DL: Yeah, for me--my poems are really stimulated by the visual world. I think that’s just about kind of being stuck when I was little, in museums a lot of times, and not really being particularly interested, and having to have something to do. So when I’m writing poems, I just get into creating experiences for myself where I will be able to look at things for long periods of time and translate that experience into poems.

RH: The Bagley Wright Lecture Series--it was interesting, when I was reading about the Lecture Series, it’s designed specifically for mid-career poets--it has that language--and I was wondering, do you think of yourself as a mid-career poet? And In writing these lectures, has it invited you to reflect on where you are as a poet, where you’ve been and where you’re going? Has the writing of these essays affected your poems, or generated ideas for future directions?

DL: Yeah, well it was such an honor, and especially because the language is put that way. I don’t know if I would have thought of myself in that way, but I’m happy to have taken on that new definition which I will carry with me. It’s been extremely generative writing these lectures and thinking about how to create, you know, a kind of poem-essay. It’s been helpful to think about--I don’t know if you guys watch that show where they translate outfits into rooms? Have you ever watched that? It’s on HDTV or something, you know--”this is my dress; can you make me my living room?” Nobody has ever seen that show? Has it been that long? I haven’t had a TV in 5 years! Okay, you know what I mean--well, we can imagine. I think what’s been great about these lectures is taking a particular poem that I’ve  written, and thought about the structure of that, and translated it into a lecture. Like a dress into a room into a poem into a lecture. So for this lecture today, just thinking about how to see those things as simultaneous has been so helpful for my creative process.

RH: You mentioned your work in education. You edited, last year, a collection of essays and lesson ideas for how to teach poetry to young people. Why is that important to you?

DL: Well I can’t imagine a school where a person is not supported for being creative. I was so lucky and privileged to come from a home life and then (even though I did go to a public school from K-12) a wonderful school system that allowed me to express myself as much as possible, and that it really was a system that supported the arts. I’ve always been very, very afraid that there’s something about our educational system that could be turning in the other direction. And so that’s something that I hope is a lifelong fight, and that’s why I pursued some education in education--kinda meta--and decided to edit that book. So I hoped that that book would be the first of many books that I could edit through that sort of work.

RH: You said in an interview that your favorite writers might be called ‘emotive.’ What do you mean by emotive? Who might be some examples of that?

DL: I wonder when I said that? [laughs] Interesting question.

RH: or, who are some of your favorite writers--

DL: No, no--it’s a great question, I shouldn’t make a joke. I guess I feel that in order for any art or any poetry to last through time there has to be the shared imagination, but also an emotion that’s shared. So that when a poet experiences some sort of intense emotion, it doesn’t have to be specifically put in that poem, but that it should be a kind of gift that somebody is giving to the reader throughout time. So if you’ve gone through a horrible breakup and felt really awful for a long time, that you have kind of this shared--this core humanity that you can put within your poem, and even if you dress it up to be about your cat dying and not having enough Frosted Mini Wheats at the grocery store, the core of that emotion is there in the poem. And somebody two hundred years from now can take that with them. One of my favorite poets is Catullus and he’s a poet that I consider very emotive. He had a lot of youthful feelings about being in love since he died at thirty, but we can feel that passion still--that passion is timeless and that emotion we can carry with us as humanity forever. So I guess that’s the poetry I am most interested in--the poetry I would esteem to create.

RH: You mentioned being influenced by visual art, what are some of your non-poetry loves or influences? What visual arts, specifically, or music influences your work or your life?

DL: I love hip hop, and I’ve always loved Biggie, but I am--not a child, but a teenager of the nineties, so that makes sense. I always loved Gorky, Gorky was always my favorite painter when I was little. I grew up with a lot of Native American art so I actually really love Northwest Coast American art. So it’s great to be here in Seattle and see all the artwork here.

RH: What would we be surprised to know about you?

DL: Oh boy, how long do we have? Ummmmm, you might be surprised to know that I have an awful temper. I’m an Aries with a Scorpio moon, and I have an awful--it will go away very fast, but I can be extremely mean in the domestic space, that’s why I maintain--so everyone here is safe. [laughter]

RH: Unless you cross me in theatrical space you’re safe--

DL: Yes [laughs].

RH: I know we talked about your book of lessons for students, and you’re teaching tomorrow at both Hugo House and B.F. Day Elementary. I’m wondering if you could--we have many writers in the audience, and I’m wondering if you could tell us about a favorite writing prompt either for young people, or for your students, or for any writer here, and send us out into the night with an idea for writing.

DL: Yeah! So, an exercise that I love to do I call “The Red Exercise,” and it’s based on a poem by Gertrude Stein called, “A Red Hat.” Within that poem, Gertrude Stein says, “if red is in everything it is not necessary.” I’ve always been really obsessed with that line--why red? Why does it mean that it’s not necessary? So in this exercise, we always start with that poem and we talk about why red is necessary, and of course some of it--I don’t want to give too much away--is the fact that blood is red and that if we see blood everywhere that’s not necessarily a good thing. So that’s used as a highlight--in the exercise, we look for red objects and we spend a long time kinda looking at them, and then we imagine a kind of intense scene, and we look for a person interacting with red--so, someone drinking from a coke can, or somebody with red lips, or somebody, you know, driving a red car, running through a red light (hopefully not). And then we synthesize all of that into a poem, but the experience is that you start to see--you get into a red zone where you start to see red where you didn’t notice it before. It’s an exercise you could do with any color. You could get into a blue zone, a green zone, or really anything you decide--you can look for triangles, or you know, the word ‘duck’ or something like that. You can start to get in this state of noticing stimuli and synthesizing it into your work.

[drjacquescoulardeau]

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON – SEYMOUR BARAB – RUSSELL OBERLIN – A CHILD’S GARDEN OF VERSES – CD UNDATED COPYRIGHT – VINYL 1985 – REMASTERED 2015

Let’s speak of the poems first. The recording will come later below. Robert Louis Stevenson – A Child’s Garden Of Verses – 2017

I will first regret the poems are not in poetic layout but in plain prose layout in spite of the rhymes and the capital letters at the beginning of each group of what should have been lines. We miss that visual poetry. The illustrations are the only visual element and they are nice but not enough to make us enter in this world of children’s poetry, of poetry for children that has to be visually clear and attractive.

 The second characteristic is that it is poetry written for children. Yet it is mostly in first person as if some hypothetical child were speaking and that is not possible because the language is by far too complicated for a child that has just learned how to read. It is thus poetry that has to be read to children and what children are going to find in the poetry is the music with lines, rhymes and rhythm. It is of course a common convention for children’s literature in the second half of the 19th century, which is Stevenson’s period. Children’s literature is adult literature for children.

 The themes are essentially that of a garden, a vast garden and a vast house, if not mansion in the countryside by the sea. We are in a wealthy family or even more than wealthy, with a nurse for that child who is a boy and cannot be anything else, knowing how often he plays with tin soldiers or he plays soldier himself, even if at the end an allusion to a cousin girl is introduced. The world is seen through the eyes of the boy and described through the pen and language of the adult who is telling us the story. The big Louis author is alluding towards the end he is seeing the world through the eyes of a small Louis boy that he probably used to be.

Then you have a lot of seascape, ships, boats, fishing, travelling and foreign countries, though the dominant one is India but only as a distant somewhere. The child is also imagining fairy countries, dreamlike countries to which he is able to travel. But do not expect any Wonderland.

 The most surprising element is the total solitude of that child. He is alone, playing alone and by himself with toys he can play with alone. He does not have any partner and adults are not taking part in the games. The nurse only puts him to bed and gets him up. In many ways it is a sad vision of a solitary quasi abandoned child in a wealthy family where everyone is minding their own businesses and hardly the child. So he sleeps at night, watches the sun rising in the morning, plays in the garden all day long, watches the sun setting in the evening and goes back to bed at night. That kind of life is traumatic. A child living such a life should develop PTSS by total lack of love, total lack of company, total lack of another child of the same size, except the imaginary one he creates, and that should lead him to a split personality, a perfect soil for schizophrenia later on.

 I was even amazed at finding some social Darwinism in one poem:

 The child that is not clean and neat,

With lots of toys and things to eat,

He is a naughty child, I’m sure –

Or else his dear papa is poor.

 In other words, it is the fate of a naughty rich boy or a poor boy. And it is normal if you are poor not to be clean and neat, not to have toys and food. There is no questioning of it and it is equaled to “naughtiness” for a rich boy. A good boy, meaning rich, is always clean and neat, has plenty of toys and plenty to eat. Just add to this it is the reward for being a good rich boy and social Darwinism is with you. These concepts of good boy and bad boy are constantly present in many poems and one is for me surprisingly European-centered to the point of reaching infantile arrogance:

 FOREIGN CHILDREN Little Indian, Sioux or Crow, Little frosty Eskimo, Little Turk or Japanee, Oh! Don’t you wish that you were me? You have seen the scarlet trees And the lions overseas; You have eaten ostrich eggs, And turned the turtles off their legs. Such a life is very fine, But it’s not so nice as mine: You must often, as you trod, Have wearied not to be abroad. You have curious things to eat, I am fed on proper meat; You must dwell beyond the foam, But I am safe and live at home. Little Indian, Sioux or Crow, Little frosty Eskimo, Little Turk or Japanee, Oh! Don’t you wish that you were me?

How plain cruel it is to turn turtles off their legs knowing they cannot get back on their legs alone. Just as cruel as making the Indian, the Sioux, the Crow, the Eskimo, the Turk and the Japanese only dream of one thing: be a good white European, rich of course.

But now the recording. Robert Louis Stevenson – Seymour Barab – Russell Oberlin – A Child’s Garden Of Verses – Cd Undated Copyright – Vinyl 1985 – Remastered 2015

 Since the poems were written for children but were not children’s literature, really written from the point of view and with the language of a child but from the point of view of an adult trying to assume the point of view of a child in adult language, Seymour Barab did not try to compose a traditional music for children in the line of nursery rhymes or lullabies. The music is simple, dynamic songs, but it does not respect the fundamental rule of a song that children can sing: its repetitive stanza pattern. The music is thus very expressive and original. Children might like it, and they probably will, but they won’t be able to sing along because of this fact, this elaboration.

 Now what about the singing. It is not operatic in the articulation it often gets on the stage that makes the language inaudible and impossible to understand. The articulation is closer to that of plain songs, popular songs, music hall songs, so that we can really follow the words easily. The voice of Russell Oberlin sure is a countertenor but the coloration of this countertenor’s voice is very low indeed and the music does not try to make him go up in any way. So we have a very tamed countertenor voice and people who are used today to countertenors like Philippe Jaroussky, Max Emmanuel Cencic or Franco Fagioli will miss the lightest and highest expertise. Even if you think of Alfred Deller or James Bowman, you will also be surprised or disappointed. And yet you would be wrong.

 Russell Oberlin has a voice of his own which is like the voice of a pre-puberty boy who has aged nicely and sounds more like the still light and rather high-pitched voice of a young teenager more than that of a child. But the voice sounds so masculine indeed. And that voice has a strong charm that makes the recording very attractive and dynamic, but above all expressive and that is what we expect from a singer. Expressive in various styles, tempos and emotional stances adopted by the singer in the various songs, some of them being very short and yet in each one, even the smallest, he varies every parameter to create an atmosphere loaded with emotions and sentiments. And that’s the most beautiful side of this recording, even if some of the songs are so short, just like the poems, but just like one sushi is one mouthful small, two dozens of them are quite a satisfying dinner. Good major and minor fluent tonal Appetite!

 Dr. Jacques COULARDEAU

Russell Oberlin, America’s Legendary Countertenor – Radio Canada – 1961 – 1962 – 2004

 He is a legend but we hardly have any of his early recordings. He explains in the 2004 interview that he has recordings of what he did from age 6 to age 36, the age when he stopped singing two years after his hepatitis, but he does not know where they are. He does not seem really keen on looking for them and asking people who have archives here and there to do it for him. He is the proof though that a singer must start early. He was already singing at the age of six in a church choir and he was already hired to sing for private audiences around the age of nine. His evolution was then a continuation and not a discovery. He moved from boy soprano to his countertenor voice or, as he calls it, his high-pitched tenor voice.

 He is also the one who must have started the myth that at the beginning there was only him and Alfred Deller in Great Britain who was a falsetto voice and not a countertenor, according to Russell Oberlin mind you because you could disagree, and his comment was that he was the only countertenor and still is. He says that in 2004 which is amazing and he widens the scope by saying that all so-called countertenors are in fact falsetto voices. Though he says in 2004 that they are doing a pretty good job he seems to disagree with them though he considers they are not a fad but they have come back to stay because they are bringing back a whole immense lot of music scores and operas that could not be sung before (he seems to imply that both the use of women and the recomposing of the parts for tenors or baritones is unacceptable: he does not even mention those surrogate substitutions)

But to sat that in 2004 seems to prove that he was not connected with the world any more because a full generation of countertenors were appearing, some falsetto voices, but some real countertenors. And anyway that’s not the point. Men can sing in that high pitched range and the problem is; as he says, what the singer makes with his voice and that implies work, a lot of work and the saying is right about the early riser. He even acknowledges that falsetto voices that he calls fragile can really be powerful enough to fill a house. Unluckily some critics have followed his approach and rejected all falsetto voices, including those who are real countertenors, as being freaks like Laura E. DeMarco did in 2002.

 The interest of this DVD is that apart from sorting out Russell Oberlin’s two carriers, thirty years in singing and thirty years in teaching music and singing, it provides us with two Canadian radio recordings done in 1961 and 1962 for the nascent black and white television. These recordings are archive recordings and the quality of both the images and the sound are not what we would expect today. The images are low definition and the remastering of them did not improve them that much. We can dream about what television was then. The sound has also been remastered too but you cannot create CD or FM sound with a fifty year old recording. In those days low frequencies and high frequencies did not go through. So it is more a testimony about Russell Oberlin than a real demonstration of what he was able to do.

 The result is very interesting nevertheless. He covers pieces from the Middle Ages, hence monastic singing and church singing when women were banned from singing, which is not entirely true since women were part of the congregation and could as such sing in the chorals even if they could not be part of the choirs. Then he skips the English Renaissance when women were still banned from the stage or church choirs. He jumps to the English baroque period with Purcell and Handel, then moves to the 19th century with Robert Schumann and then more modern things with Hugo Wolf and above all Benjamin Britten and his Oberon part in A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

 As for what we hear it is quite satisfactory, as I have said before, as a testimony of the past but not as a real demonstration of Oberlin’s art. As for what we see we recognize, if we have had the chance of seeing performances in the 60s and 70s, the performing style of these days: sophisticated as for the body language and very standardized as for the costumes in the 1962 show or suits in the 1961 radio recital worn by the performer. The body language is inspired from what we know about baroque performances in the 18th century and tries to recapture the mannerism of that time, a mannerism that was more or less considered as foppish at the time but that has been dropped since the 1960s or completely reconstructed as a style, not an imitation or vague recollection, but a fully developed style including setting, costumes, lights, body language and vocal posture and behavior, at times in an extremely modern and creative way. No nostalgia anymore but creativity.

An essential DVD if we want to apprehend Russell Oberlin and what opera singing was in those older times that are in fact the early modern times, the very vocal rich compost on which the modern world was and still can be constructed for tomorrow.

  Dr Jacques COULARDEAU