#it feels like its been ten thousand years since i redesigned mind

[star2stop]

i like to think every time he decides to change his look he builds himself taller and taller lmao

[lena-in-a-red-dress]

Really loving these ARC family scenes! So for the promptathon, how about ARC going public to the DEO family? Or maybe the next topic in gossip rags/PTA meetings?

Rhonda Thompson prides herself on knowing everything about everyone. It’s not much, as far as superpowers go, but it gives her a sense of purpose, to know that people can come to her for information, and that she can provide it.

So she’s already well aware of the fact that Samantha Arias is uncommonly close with her employer. Lena Luthor has collected Ruby after school many times since the girl enrolled in Parkland Intermediate, and has pitched in with several fundraisers– manning booths and providing baked goods when Samantha proves herself unavailable.

Rhonda presumes it’s a symptom of Samantha’s young motherhood, and the lack of appropriate role models. She doesn’t expect anything else, when Samantha is too busy to socialize with other mothers among her daughters age group. And it certainly doesn’t hurt Lena Luthor’s public image, to be seen vending cling-wrapped brownies and exacting change at the track meet.

But to have your boss attend a PTA meeting in your place?

Even as a stay-at-home mother, Rhonda knows it isn’t appropriate.

As the president of the parent board, she takes it upon herself to welcome Miss Luthor to the meeting.

“Excuse me,” Rhonda says, pulling Miss Luthor’s gaze from the phone in her hand. Sharp green eyes regard her from beneath dark lashes, making Rhonda’s words trip on her tongue. “Hi. You must be Lena Luthor.”

“Guilty as charged,” comes the casual quip. The phone disappears, and a pale hand extends for a handshake. “Nice to meet you.”

“I’m Rhonda Thompson, PTA President.”

Lena’s eyebrows lift at the information, features warming in an curious smile. “You’re Rhonda. I see.” The dazzling grin only grows wider. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Only good, I hope!”

“The best.”

Rhonda pauses at the deadpan, but the pearly smile is still in place, without a hint of disingenuity. She blinks, struggling to reconnect her thoughts. “Samantha couldn’t make it?”

“She got caught up in a call at the office. But she knows how important tonight is, and asked me to fill in.”

“Oh, how thoughtful.”

Tonight they’re voting on how to apply the funds raised by this year’s boosters. Surely Samantha and her boss understood that non-parents can’t contribute– no matter how involved they are in the student’s upbringing.

Before Rhonda can say so, Lena’s gaze flickers to the front of the room. “It looks like it’s time to begin,” she observes. “It was lovely to meet you, Rhonda.”

Rhonda returns to the front table, where the parent board sits, and waits for the room to come to order. From her vantage point, she can see just what kind of effect their unexpected guest is having on their gathering. The parents seated nearest to her manage to maintain a veneer of disinterest, but the members seated further away murmur behind their minutes, shooting long glances to the woman who outglams all of them.

She certainly stands out from the crowd, Rhonda acknowledges, with her houndstooth pencil skirt and navy blouse. Her watch alone is likely worth more than Rhonda’s monthly car payment. But there’s an aura about her as well. Where the other parents have congregated to their usual groups, Lena sits separately, among them but distinctly apart.

It doesn’t seem to bother her.

She hardly seems to notice it at all.

“All right,” their teacher liaison– Principal Flores herself, in deference of the important vote– calls gently. “Let’s come to order!”

The room quickly settles.

“As you all know, last meeting we discussed the possible ways to apply the funds of this year’s booster efforts. Our dedicated president has proposed two options: refinishing the gymnasium floor, and replacing the stadium bleachers. Since I know everyone’s eager to get home and watch the game tonight, if we’re ready I propose we– Yes, Miss Luthor?”

Principal Flores calls on their visitor as though she were a student, and Rhonda realizes belated that it’s because Lena has raised her hand like one.

“I apologize if you’ve gone over this before, but do you mind explaining how these options were selected?”

To Rhonda’s surprise, the principal turns to glance at her. “I’m sure our parent president will be happy to share some light on that for you.”

Unexpectedly thrust into the spotlight, Rhonda freezes for several heartbeats. Instead of a sea of bored faces, every gaze is riveted on her, captivated by the disruption to their normal order. All the way, green eyes gaze at her expectantly.

“I’m not sure I understand the question–”

“I’m curious as to why the two options both benefit the athletics department.”

“Many of our students strive towards athletic scholarship for college. It’s our responsibility to ensure they have the best opportunity.”

Lena nods, breaking eye contact to briefly scroll through her phone. “Yes, I can see that. I’ve reviewed the public booster records, and it appears that the athletics department has been provided every opportunity. 80% of the past ten years of booster funds, to be exact. The remaining 20% has gone towards improvements in multi-purpose areas, but still predominantly benefits sports. Such as the gymnasium.”

Rhonda scoffs, a nervous smile reflexively curling her lips. “In our area, needs-based scholarships are difficult to obtain. As a result, athletic scholarship has been the predominant source of funding–”

“My research indicates that less than 4% of the graduating student body over the past ten years have received athletic scholarships. By comparison, 32% have received partial scholarships based on academic performance.”

Rhonda shifts forward in her seat. “Miss Luthor–”

“I had the opportunity to tour the gymnasium prior to meeting tonight,” Lena continues, undaunted. “The floor is in pristine condition. And the stadium bleachers were just replaced six years ago. According to the manufacturer, their product is designed to last fifteen years.”

“The mascot depicted on them is now out of date.”

The room sits in total silence, riveted by the exchange. Not one of them jumps to Rhonda’s defense, leaving Lena clear to nod. “Right. The mascot was redesigned last year, requiring the replacement of all branded sports equipment– some of which was less than three years old.”

Her hackles lift on reflex at the unspoken implication. Rhonda stiffens in her seat, folding her hands tightly over her minutes. “There simply is no other department that requires funds at this time.”

At that, the room starts to titter. In an instant, she knows that Lena has won. What’s worse is that Lena knows it as well.

Perfectly painted lips curl into a smile.

“Ruby mentioned just last week that her French teacher was wishing for language software in the computer lab. And Mr. Brenneman confirmed that the youngest microscope in the science department was purchased in 2003. 20% of them are broken or unusable.”

Rhonda grits her teeth, refusing to wilt under the woman’s stare even as she realizes that it doesn’t matter what she does. Lena doesn’t need anything from her.

“But if you’re certain that Parkland doesn’t have use for these funds,” Lena continues, “there’s always the option of donating it.”

The proposal earns its own bevy of murmurings. But to Rhonda’s shock, it’s not in outrage. In the quiet twitter she hears curiosity, and interest. When Principal Flores calls the room to order, her voice is calm.

Whatever game Luthor is playing, she’s not surprised by it.

Perhaps she’s even in on it.

“You make a strong case, Miss Luthor,” Flores replies. She turns to the rest of the room. “Does anyone second her motion–?”

“Actually,” Lena cuts in again, gentling noticeably as she rises to her feet. “I move that we allow the student body to decide. Language lab, science equipment, or donating to a school in need.”

“You can’t be serious!” Rhonda sputters.

“I am.”

“They’re children! We can’t expect them to act responsibly when thousands of dollars are on the line!”

Lena meets her gaze coolly. “They had a hand in raising these funds. Why not have a hand in choosing how it’s spent?”

Rhonda smacks her hands against the table in outrage, surging to her feet. “This is a parent-teacher conference! You are not empowered to put forth a motion!”

It’s less than the gotcha moment Rhonda hopes for. The room stares at her, as Lena smiles lazily. “Yes, I am.”

Ashley Walsh rolls her eyes. “She adopted Ruby two summers ago, Rhonda.”

Rhonda blinks. What? “But Alex Danvers is–”

“They’re all married,” her vice president Todd informs her, incredulous that he, for once, has more information than his wife.

“Welcome to the 21st century,” Ashley drawls. “Now sit down before you embarrass yourself.”

Rhonda lowers herself back to her chair, every muscle coiled tight in anger and humiliation. Her cheeks feel hot, and only burn hotter when not a single person speaks up.

Principal Flores lifts her hand to focus the room once more. “All right then– all in favor of putting it to a student body vote?”

The room erupts in a chorus of ayes. Rhonda can only gape as the principal makes a note and adjourns the meeting. “That’s all the time we have tonight– remember! Next month is planning for the spring formal!”

Lena starts slowly gravitating towards to the door. Rhonda stares as she pauses to chat briefly with the parents to approach her. More than a few shake her hand, and there’s something in the energetic clasps that hints that it’s more than introduction.

When the woman’s gaze softens into a warm smile, Rhonda sees that Samantha waits by the door, keys in hand. They lean together for a kiss, and Samantha murmurs a quiet question. Lena nods, the first sign of self-satisfaction creeping into her smile.

Then Samantha glances across the room, locking gazes with Rhonda. The woman winks with a sly smile, and Rhonda doesn’t even have the time to glare before the two women are gone, leaving the board to pack up and clear out.

“Don’t worry, Rhonda,” Todd tells her. “It’s not like we’re offering to buy them a milkshake machine for the cafeteria.”

No, it’s not.

But it’s not a new stadium either.

More importantly, Rhonda’s learned something new to add to her arsenal.

She’s learned that Lena Luthor is not a woman to be trifled with.

And neither are her wives.

[swelleganza]

Tim

Hi. One of the last things Tim said before he passed was, “Let’s not make a big scene out of this.” But, well, here we are. Sorry, Tim!

I have a number of disjointed things to say, but I want to begin by reading the following poem by Frank Bidart, called “O Ruin O Haunted”:

O Ruin O Haunted restless remnant of

two bodies, two

histories you felt the unceasing

force of

but never understood,— terrified that without an

x-ray, a topography of

their souls you must repeat their lives.

***

You did not repeat their lives.

You lodged your faith in Art—

which gives us

pattern, process with the flesh

still stuck to it.

With flesh, you told yourself, pattern

is truer, subtler, less

given to the illusion seeing frees you from it.

***

Or, you did repeat their lives,—

… repeated them by inverting them.

How you hurtled yourself against, how

cunningly you failed to elude love.

***

Love is the manna

that falling

makes you see

the desert

surrounding you is a desert.

Makes you think dirt is not where you were born.

—

I wanted to start with this poem because of how it speaks to the experience of those of us who grew up in fractured family environments, and especially for those of us growing up knowing that we were different, that we could never fit in to the conventional idea of what constituted an intimate relationship.

Yes, I’m talking about queer kids here, and this poem resonates with my experience as I believe it did Tim’s, a gay boy growing up in western Kentucky with a wild creative streak, looking for some sort of outlet or escape from a stultifying, short-sighted, homophobic world.

So what did he do? He found a way out and made it to New York City, like so many thousands of us have done and continue to do, who thought that running away from the suffocating conventions of mainstream society meant having to reject every single one of its tenets, including its concept of love.

Perhaps I’m projecting too much of myself into Tim’s origin story, but I want to circle back quickly to his early years in Paducah by sharing with you a tribute one of his childhood friends posted to his online obituary:

“I am saddened to hear of Tims' passing. He was my best childhood friend, and many of my fondest memories revolve around our times together in Cub Scouts and Little League and sleep-overs at his house. I would ride my bicycle to his house after school to see the latest purple hair Troll doll he'd added to his collection, as he would catch a lot of grief from other classmates if he brought them on the school bus.. He had an imagination 2nd to none, and I knew that his gifts would be put to wonderful use some day! I miss him, but am so thankful for the brief years we shared together as friends.”

Here, we have the normative experience of Cub Scouts and Little League in tension with the purple haired Troll doll, a secret shared between two little boys, one queer and one probably not so much but cognizant and protective of how dangerous the idea of being different was for Tim.

__

But I am being too distant and analytical.

I want to tell you how much I miss Tim.

I want to tell you how he was the one person in my life who was finally able to tear down the many walls around my fortress of solitude, mistrust, and alienation once and for all.

He opened up for me a space to in which to breathe, to help him build and cultivate a garden. To rail against his never-ceasing desire to rearrange, redesign, and renovate our living space!

And what did I have to offer him? Well, first of all an opportunity to teach someone how to dress himself properly.  (I did, in some way, become his personal life-sized Ken doll.)

What did we give to each other?

An opportunity to embrace and dive into what always seemed like a giddy, joyous return to childhood. That bond with the special friend you never had to hold back in front of. It felt like a return to innocence for both of us, quite honestly, even when we’d long since been given over to experience.

And we experienced a lot in our short decade together. Much laughter, joy, happiness, and comfort, some aggravation, anger. And indescribable sadness when the cancer came back and we both realized, then had to face the fact he wasn’t going to beat it.

And somewhere in the midst of all of this, we came around to that realization expressed so beautifully in Frank Bidart’s poem: that Tim and I *had* repeated the lives or our parents by inverting them, by actually embracing true and unconditional love instead of just going through the motions.

And so we caved in and got married. We vowed to love, honor, cherish, and protect, which is something we’d been doing all along anyway. Just like that childhood friend of Tim’s who knew he needed to help shield him from the bullies on the school bus.

—

“For one human being to love another, that is perhaps the most difficult of all our tasks; the ultimate, the last test and proof, the work for which all other work is but preparation.”

That’s a quote from Rilke. And of course I learned it from the liner notes of a Patti Smith album. (And because Patti Smith is ubiquitous and has to appear *everywhere* these days, why not bring her into this space too?)

__

I want to say something about preparation: It was only three months ago that Tim and I took our last vacation together. And Tim had decided a small luxury cruise off western Costa Rica was the trip we should take. He’d made the decision to forgo further treatment and to transition over to supportive care. His team of doctors and nurses at Sloan Kettering reassured us that they were going to do everything in their power to make him feel good and ready for the trip, and so they gave him blood transfusions, bags and bags of fluids, Potassium and Magnesium.

I realized then — but I understand so much more now — how Tim really did put every bit of psychic and physical energy he had into our first and only cruise ship experience. Not only did he manage an overland tour at our first port of call in Nicaragua as well as two nature walks through tropical forests, he actually seemed to garner strength from these activities. The other big activity on this trip was an early morning snorkeling excursion on a small charter boat.

And so here, finally, is one last picture I want to paint, because I need to hold on to this experience and resist the notion that Tim has passed into the realm of abstraction, that he is merely a concept or some sort of idea.

And, of course, there is a backstory:

While Tim always loved going to the beach, I discovered fairly quickly after we met that he was frightened of being in the open water. He would never venture out too far or stay in for very long. But then, on one trip to Baja, Mexico, I got him interested in the idea of snorkeling, and I taught him how to do it. It took several subsequent trips (Florida, Hawaii, Puerto Rico) but eventually he became quite adept at it, and he was not fearful — not even mindful! — of either the depth of the water or our distance from the shore. The first couple of times, though, he panicked, and I remember repeating to him over and over, ”swim to me, take my hand.”

So here we are. Together on this boat in the tropical Pacific. The charter took us around a small volcanic island ten miles from the shore, and at least five or six from our ship. There were incredible ocean swells that morning and the water was choppy at times. But it was also pure cerulean, just a shade or two deeper than the nearly cloudless sky.

I snapped a picture of Tim, and there must have been sunscreen smeared on the camera lens because it has this dreamy soft-focus quality to it. He is smiling broadly, joyous and happy, full of innocence and energy.

Moments later we’re diving into the beautiful blue water together, swimming and holding hands, floating free.

It was the art of living in action and in the moment. And I know now that *this* is the ultimate gift Tim gave to me: to live a life free of fear or hesitation.

May I never ever lose or forget it.