#it’s a turn of phrase the orchard exists in your mind | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

quitethepirategal · 4 years ago

Text

An Analysis in Threes

❥ TAGGED BY: @emcads like 30 years ago ❥ TAGGING: @riidcr @starsailingcaptain @covencrown @hookd @all-fleshed-out @evermxre @motherofredemption @bup1957 @conquistadoradelmar @seaprofound @tcthinecwnself @withinycu @windguided @daevilhorns @concordia-cum-sinistro and YOU and I spent like 8 hours on this so pLEASE READ IT PLEASE I AM BEGGING I NEED VALIDATION I’M-

repost don’t reblog. yall dont have to type this much.

MUSE: Captain Red Handed Jessica

Three Strengths:

Her adaptability and resourcefulness. Is she brave, yes. Is she lucky, also yes. But over all, she can roll with the cards she’s been dealt in a way that many would call inhumanly clever. Her intelligence, her perception, and her charisma are all different ingredients of this indomitable characteristic of hers. She can see the value in just about anything and anyone, can pick up on clues and tangents few others can follow, and can remember seemingly endless details, tho unfortunately not on command. But even then, her patchy memory seems to contribute to this adaptability as well, as it usually allows for detachment. If she can find resources everywhere, it means she can survive everywhere. There have been countless times where the wheel of fortune has suddenly turned on her and she’d lost near everything and her response was more or less Damn, ok I need food water and shelter lets go. No food? Grow food. No water? Ask someone if they have water. No shelter? Sleep outside. No money? Steal money. Can’t hear anymore? Cool I can use loud weapons. Crashed on an island? My island now. Shot? Free bullet. She knows when to push, she knows when to quit, and sometimes she knows when to gamble based on her ability ( what a man can do and what he can’t do and all that ). Strong she may be, she knows its foolish to rely on strength. Survival of the fittest actually rarely means survival of the strongest. ( edit; this is the theme for the entirety of her character. I will say it 50,000 times. I am very sorry ). And as a student of philosophy and biology, she understands that phrase better than most. Leading to our next point.

Her understanding. As I stated, her charisma is something unmatched, and is a key element in all three of her strengths. This charisma might not exist as prominently were it not for her ability to understand. She has limited ( I’ll get back to that ) but deep running empathy and while not terribly observant all the time, she is always perceptive. Not only that, but she’s personally known abuse, hardship, and uncertainty, and understands that hate or anger can be rooted in similar pain. She was schooled lightly in both Christian and Buddhist values before diving heavily into democratic philosophy, meaning she believes all being experience suffering and therefore kindness is a powerful sign of strength, but also that suffering while free and equal is better than comfort in oppression. And between her sweet words and beautiful face, she can get most people to open up in ways they themselves my not have expected. Being very good with people means she can learn from them, gain something from them, lead them, and/or use them. But Jessica isn’t a manipulator in truth; her intentions are almost always kind or healthy ones. She absolutely uses people from time to time but not EVER without them consenting to or being made aware of such because again, unlike a manipulative person, she understands that can ruin a relationship and therefore ruin a resource. What it makes for is an excellent leader, a beloved captain, and a trusted ally at most and an excellent conversationalist at the least. But her understanding isn’t just social, oh no. It’s academic as well. Armed only with his little library and the lessons of his own teachers, Jessica’s foster father tirelessly smithed her into a not just a girl who knew a lot of things, but a truly intelligent, thinking mind. He’d die before learning he’d succeeded tenfold. Jessica isn’t one to just except things as they are, facts or otherwise. She usually needs to prove it, experiment, see things from a new angle. Debates with her are fun! She has no issue admitting she’s wrong or confessing she’s never thought of it that way, and is actually wrong a lot of the time. It doesn’t bruise her ego, it excites her. It means there’s more to learn. And her ability to constantly understand new concepts paired with her ability to overwhelmingly understand people combine to make for a very powerful core idea of hers: We are fittest to survive because we all fit together. Our humanity, our empathy, our community are our strengths because they keep us united, which keeps us the fittest. No one is independent, no man is an island. People are power. And thus her final strength is just that.

Her power. While she and I still firmly state that strength isn’t everything don’t be disillusioned; its very goddamn important. And it’s something Jessica has plenty of. She is durable and clever because of her rocky early childhood, she is quick and versatile from her youth in a pirate port, she is physically strong and mighty from her years training in martial arts, and she’s an absolute crackshot after years of diligent practice with her trusty pistols. Her true strength may lie in her brains and in her allies yes, but even without them, Red Jessica is a powerhouse of a warrior. She can end fights extremely quickly or run from them without a prayer of catching her ( no shame in the later, both skills keep you alive ). And it may be in bad taste to say, but ever since loosing most of her hearing, Jess swears up and down it’s made her vision better, her reaction time faster, and her quick thinking even quicker. Yes of course she’s slowed down with age, but a bullet shoots at the same speed no matter how old you are. And you best hope she didn’t bring her firecrackers, because while sudden loud noises will absolutely temporarily discombobulate or debilitate an opponent with healthy hearing, it’ll hardly effect her at all and suddenly, you’re a sitting duck. You see those thighs? You see those calves? She can crush PINEAPPLES with them! People have seen her do it! Do you know how many micro-fractures broke and rebuilt those hands? Thousands! She can crush a trachea like a fucking beer can! She can kick you to death! One ill placed curb stomp and you are DECEASED. Sometimes she’ll just psyche you out because she KNOWS you know she can kill your stupid ass! But while her strength, mental and physical, have always been there, her power is relatively new. As stated before, people are power. Not knowledge, not money, not strength. People. She’s a fearsome warrior but she’d be useless if outnumbered. Shes a very successful pirate, but she’d never make it out of port without a crew on her ship. She found a gorgeous island, but it’d still be wild without those who built it’s piers and buildings. She manages orchards and tends to them and harvests them herself, but she would loose all of her crop without the helping hands of her employed farmers. And like I mentioned, she deeply understands this. Freedom is not independence or vice versa. Did you make the clothes on your back or the fabric that made those clothes? Did you write the books you read to make you smarter or teach you that skill? Did you plant the seed years ago that grew that orange you’re eating? No, of course not. Jessica didn’t either. Another human did. We all need each other to fill the holes in our lives that we can’t fill ourselves. Humans are puzzle pieces in that way, there is no bigger picture or prayer for survival on our own. And because of this, we can do anything we as a community, as a SPECIES work together to achieve. There is no knowledge if there’s no one to learn from, there is no money if a society don’t give it value, your money is worthless if those you’re paying decide to rise against you, your role as leader only exists at the consent of those you lead, and your strength won’t save you from a sinking ship. People are, and always will be, power. And as someone who is exceptionally strong and exceedingly smart, Jessica has slotted herself in the humanity puzzle thusly: The strong exist to protect the weak, the smart exist to educate, and the lucky exist so the unlucky may be given aid. And it is with this fairness and compassion that she has won the trust of so many. She has a great many friends and allies even outside of those in her crew or on her island. And she can make many more with ease. That kind of power is not a power to be trifled with, even if she can kick your ass six ways to Saturday without it.

Three Weaknesses:

She suffers ADHD. Now before ANY OF Y’ALL SAY ANYTHING, I myself also suffer ADHD. And yes I do say suffer because well that’s what it causes for Jessica and I, suffering. Yes, it is ableist language to say ‘suffering from’ rather than ‘has’ or ‘is diagnosed with’ and yes it perpetuates a stigma against us but god DAMN IT in both Jessica’s case and mine, it make life much much harder than it needs to be. At the end of the day, Red Jessica is a fantasy of mine; I pour myself into her whether I mean to or not. She’s the adult I wish I was, the person I might be if I had no anxiety, or brainfog, or lived in a world were I didn’t need a credit score or a degree. And even then, I can’t say I know anyone else’s problems better than my own. So if my character has problems, by sheer osmosis they are going to reflect some of mine. Both of the characters I write have ADHD because I have ADHD and I couldn’t even begin to know how a non-ADHD mind works to write it properly. And no, I’m not being dramatic when I say it causes me suffering. I can’t drive, I can’t hold down a job, I nearly flunked out of school, I still cant read very fast or spell very well, I am constantly overwhelmed by mundane things, I’m a slow learner, I forget very important things or recent things, I forget about things that mean the world to me, I forget about people, I stumble through tasks, I procrastinate hobbies and basic hygiene, and everything I do takes all goddamn day and I can only really do one important thing at a time and in order of importance. If I have a date at 4pm, I’m dressed and ready at 11am because I’ve gotta do the important thing first or else I will forget to do the important thing. I started typing this at a little before 5pm. It’s 7;30. It’ll probably be 10 o’clock at night by the time I fucking finish ( edit: l m a o its 1am bitch you thought ). I’m 26 and am just medicated enough to barely function. So yeah. Suffering is the word. Though for Jessica, perhaps suffering is a tad strong of a word. Her ADHD affects her ability to function in far less debilitating ways ( though whether that’s a result of a less severe diagnosis than me or the result of the society, situations, and responsibilities she functions in and around are far different from mine, who’s to say ). For her, she has very consuming hyperfixations that can last anywhere between weeks to decades, a spotty memory that is detail and memento oriented, she’s scatterbrained more often then not but can focus with amazing clarity on her interests or in high adrenaline situations, is is ABYSMALLY bad at math and EXCRUCIATINGLY bad with numbers ( as opposed to me, who is good at numbers but shit at spelling or reading ), she can forget anything no matter how important it is to her or to anyone, she’s bad with names and dates, is COMPLETELY time-blind, has trouble prioritizing, and of course, wile not actually that materialistic, she absolutely has the ol’ magpie instinct. While her poor memory assists in her adaptability and ability to move on, it also means she forgets things she needed to remember, like when the last time she bathed was and who this person is and what happened between her and someone else or what conversation’s shes had. Unfortunately this means she’s a very good friend and leader... while you’re around and interacting with her on at least a weekly basis. It’s almost a lack of object permanence in both a social and very real sense. If something is not right in front of her, odds are she’s not going to think about it. And while its something she constantly kicks herself for and actively tries to be better about, it applies to people too. Face to face is the best way to interact with her; she won’t think to write you and in her modern verse she won’t think to ever call and she’ll text you back in perhaps a few days. She doesn’t value you any less, I promise. She’s just either distracted or overwhelmed. Also, for someone as understanding as her, she is surprisingly self-centered. Not selfish, self-centered. She’ll talk about herself more than she should, and will assume people understand that she’s doing so as a form of showing empathy rather than bragging when they may not know this at all. Actually she accidentally assumes all the time. It was far worse when her hearing was functional; she’d finish your sentence for you or guess what it was you were going to say ( again, not to talk over, you but to show she understands you and the conversation, tho it usually came of as annoying or patronizing ). Sometimes she mistakenly assumes you believe or know the same things she does without even realizing it. Maybe she perceives the right idea off of someone but isn’t observant enough to notice anything past that. And while she is willing to change her mind about things, she might change her mind a tad too quickly. She’s an over-sharer and is horrible at keeping any kind of secret. Romantic relationships tend to fizzle out. Her impulse control is improving but has a VERY long way to go. She’s always chasing something new. All and all, when you’re a pirate, a librarian, or even a captain, all of these things may be irritating and inconvenient, but are overall manageable in chunks. ...But as a governor to her island, as a leader of an entire population... oof. In the position of leadership that she’s in, she can’t afford to make too many massive mistakes, and she knows this. ‘There is no power quite like the power of being underestimated’ is a phase you’ll hear her say a lot but for her, there is a shift in connotation. If people expect less and you do more that’s a great upper hand in any situation but for her, it was a safety net. Having ADHD sometimes means going months or years being fine and then eventually you fuck up and everyone around you wonders how in the world you managed to do that. She has only barely avoided disaster more times than she’d like to admit. Even with the resourcefulness, the understanding, and the power she wields, she’s finally starting to realize that she’s bit off more than she might be able to chew, with the entire well-beings and livelihoods of others on the line. And she fears that one day she’ll play her cards wrong and everything she’d built, everything she’s done, will all come crashing down in ruin.

She is Hard of Hearing. This one is literally as simple as it sounds: she has moderate and degenerative hearing loss and tinnitus after years of canons, explosions, gunshots, and a definitive, scale tipping attack in her early 30s. Her ears just don’t work at all like they used to. The whole world sounds like it would if everything was underwater: she can’t pin point the location of sounds, how far off or close sounds are, and barely registers changes in volume. And it only gets worse the older she gets; one day she won’t hear anything at all. And while yes, again, it might be very harsh and ableist to say, the truth of the matter that being deaf a “ weakness ” more often than its a strength. That said, it very well can be a strength. I’ve already mentioned that trick with the firecrackers and let me tell you it is a DAMN EFFECTIVE TRICK. Shes around explosions and canons and guns all the time and now she can focus while being around them five times better than she could in the past! But unfortunately it also means she’s very easy to sneak up on, she sometimes isn’t aware of danger until it’s nearly too late, no one can get her attention or warn her across any distance, it’s very easy to escape from her, and it’s easy for her to be just... left out of things. She might hear you talking, but she has little to no idea what you’re saying without sign or lipreading. Some people don’t have the patience or even just the courtesy to speak slower, or clearer, or repeat themselves a lot. Though, those last too thinks aren’t weaknesses of hers so much as they are the weakness of others, but they still negatively affect her self esteem and her effectiveness as a leader. All of this has taught her to pick her battles carefully, and plan around the elements of surprise and discombobulation. And while communication was tricky at first, it only got easier, and now she can talk to you almost like anyone can, so long as she’s looking you in the face.

That damn bleeding heart. We have established a number of things that should easily add up to an overly empathetic, trusting, fight-the-good-fight, martyr-some, idealistic pushover; she believes humanity and kindness are strengths, she has taken on the role of leader and then a provider, she has known suffering and tasked herself with ending the suffering of others to the best of her ability, she lacks the clarity of mind to assume people aren’t just as good or capable as her automatically, she can have poor impulse control at times, she wants to have relationships, and ( while I never stated this outright yet it can be inferred ), she believes that being able to see yourself in others is the foundation of humanity and ( as i did say outright ) humanity is what keeps us unified and unity is what makes us fit and strong. Keeping up? Good. Here’s the curve ball: How can she whole hardheartedly preach and believe all of this, to the point of it being the foundation of her character, WHILE BEING A VIOLENT THIEVING AND BLOODTHIRSTY PIRATE?! HOW, MANGO? HOW IS THIS POSSIBLE?! MAKE IT MAKE SENSE!! Ok, fine, sure, I will. I’m sure about one half of you are looking up from the screen and going “ Oh yeah, wow I totally forgot that bit. “ and the other half got about two and a half paragraphs in before squinting and silently calling bullshit. So let me explain. In short, she’s a detached hypocrite and is well aware and unashamed of her hypocrisy while far less aware of her detachment. I’ll cover both: Western culture as a whole seems to be under the impression that hypocrisy, despite context or importance, is automatically bad. I don’t know where this comes from personally ( my bet is Christianity but I have exactly 0 evidence ) but its a very... flawed idea. Take the freedom of speech vs racism problem; say you owned a bar where all could speak their mind freely over cold drinks. Excellent concept without context, right? Sure. ....Then a die hard racist covered in slurs and symbols walks in and orders- what are you going to do? The correct answer is to throw him out instantly. Not let him sit so long as he doesn’t cause trouble, not just ignore him and hope he doesn’t return, you throw him out. Is it hypocritical? Yep! Sure is! But it is also 100% necessary to protect your other patrons because if you don’t, the racist starts feeling safe and bringing his racist buddies, literally everyone else starts feeling unsafe and starts to hang out elsewhere, and two months later, ta da! You now own a n*zi bar and there is literally nothing you can do about it. Jessica is in a somewhat similar situation. You as a pretend bar owner need to make a decision as who to let into your bar and who to throw out for the good of all of your patrons. Jessica too is faced daily with that decision. If she want’s to help as many people as possible, the only realistic way she can do that are by protecting those under her leadership... only. She is surrounded by hateful, angry, sneaky, traitorous, abusive, or otherwise evil people. Piracy as a profession and poverty in general can do that to a person. Of course there is a clear difference between those down on their luck and desperate, and the truly cruel and twisted, but unfortunately both types of people yield the same wrongdoings. It’s absolutely her nature to extend a hand to anyone and everyone but.... she just can’t anymore. Too many times has her trust been betrayed, too many times has she gotten in peoples business trying to be helpful, only for her to absolutely bite her in the ass. Too many time the extended hand is bitten and once or twice, she’s actually made things worse. Now, she will only help someone she loves, someone under her leadership, or someone who seeks her out. That’s it. And even then, sometime it manages to bite er in the ass. But she had to set that hard limit for herself out of necessity, one she does her absolute best to adhere too and... these days she adheres a little too well. That leads us to our next point; what I was alluding to at the beginning of her Understanding essay when I said she has limited but deep running empathy. That detachment again, courtesy of a very unattached mother and unchecked ADHD. ( It isn’t a strong enough characteristic to even rank as a strength or a weakness but damn if it isn’t an undercurrent to a lot of her motivations and experiences. ) Strangers are fair game that she tries to ignore, but if she even perceives you as a threat, you could be in danger. Like anyone used to violence or perhaps anyone trapped in an us verses them mindset, she can just... flat... turn her empathy off. Not on command, she’s not a socio or psychopath persay. But she has become totally numb to the horror of violence via her warrior upbringing that, in her mind, violence can actually be rather fun. Pair that with the fact that she purposely tailored herself to only be empathetic to her allies and boom. You get a kindhearted killer. Cops and soldiers in our world do it literally every day. Actually anyone can do it really, even you if you tried. You don’t have to be evil or even angry to kill or steal or lie... you just have to believe you’re right.

Three Secrets:

WHAT SECRETS?! LMAO this bitch is the oversharing queen!! I’ve been typing and pondering her character for literal hours ( its currently 11:16, fuck you adderall ), and I still can not think of a single goddamn secret. There is nothing about her that at least five random people don’t fucking know about!! The only secrets she has are secrets she knows about other people and even then she is!! literally the worst!! She spills her guts left and right and yet she wants to be a mysterious bitch SO BAD like BABE I love you, you’re precious, but you are a dumbass attention seeking validation chasing adhd CLOWN girl!! Stop telling random people about your hermaphroditism or your dairy allergy or your dead dad or that time you fell asleep in a barrel like that is literally your uber driver Jessica honey come ooooon. I’m skipping this section mom holy fuck.

Three Fears:

What if she does wrong by everyone who trusts her? As stated at the end of the ADHD essay, she’s terrified of failing those she leads. Where it as simple as personal failure, she’d be fine. Ever if her entire world came crashing down on top of her she’d either die or start back from square one. Death is a fact of life and her adaptability means she can just dust herself off and move on, so neither her death nor her failures really scare her... But it isn’t just her life and happiness at stake, is it? Not anymore, right? What started as a leader of a small gang of rebels became a full crew, then a crew became a slew of allies, then those allies built a town and now... now she’s the governor of the Crimson Isle and there are nearly twenty five HUNDRED lives at her mercy. HER mercy. One really, really bad mistake could ruin their livelihoods or spark disorder and disloyalty. And if she died? Would whoever it is that will take her place be as good to them as she is? Is she good enough to begin with in the first place? Every day the paperwork gets a little bit thicker, every year there’s a new baby or two. And the isle has fertile soil sure but will it last? Are they prepared for a raid or a hurricane? And if Jessica trusts the wrong people, where her people right to trust her? ...can I protect them? Can I protect them?! CAN I PROTECT THEM?!

Who am I if I’m not interesting? This is, literally, an entirely subconscious fear. She’s not at all aware it exists and therefor this entry is short. But between her short time with her very unimpressed mother, her own ADHD, she is constantly hungry for attention without even realizing it. She must be interesting and intriguing and engaging, and I did mention she wants to also be mysterious. She wants not so much your input or even your validation - but rather if shes not perceived then.... is she really there? Remember, she is unaware of any of this. And fortunately she’d never been starved for attention to act out over it in the first place, even when her disinterested mother was alive. Look at her; she’s radiant, she’s beautiful, and she’s 6′4 / 195 cm shredded and covered in cool scars. Without even opening her mouth, without even her colorful clothes, she’s kind of automatically interesting. So she’s never been so desperate for attention that she acts out because she’s never been without it for very long. But it’s there. Hungry, aching, silent. Those years after the M branding were horrible and she could never really explain why. She still throws parties, organizes festivals, and talks to damn near anyone who will listen. Look at my art! Look at my library! Listen to how much I know! Let me tell you how lovely you are! Look at my scares! Look at my hair! Look at me haha, please, please look at me.

GHOSTS. NOPE. No. NO. Fuck ALL of that noise. Stay dead, go to hell, eat a dick. Red Jessica is a scientist and superstitious atheist. As an academic and somewhat bi-cultural woman she simply thinks there are far too many religions with far too much history for any of them to be considered The One True Thing You Must Believe Or ElseTM and she tends to not truly believe anything until she finds some kind of proof. Shes not afraid of the unknown, shes thrilled by it. She’s not afraid of death or the afterlife, that’s beyond her control. She’s only superstitious because she does believe in and value luck, and also its a bit of a cultural habit. BUT IF SOME SHIT STARTS MOVING ON ITS OWN OR IF SHE SEES SOME BULLSHIT IN THE CORNER OF HER EYE THEN SHE IS OUT OF THERE. OUTIE 5000. She has heard the tales of lost souls from purgatory or the eternally ravenous Pret or dangerous Phi Tai Hong or the tragic and startling Banshees or the creepy Santa Compana and she wouldn’t believe a word of it where it not for one thing. SHE FUCKING SAW ONE. She’ll never forget it, it was the first and last time she EVER attempted to plunder a tomb all Skyrim style and at first she thought it was one of the crewmean being creepy as shit until she got a good look and he was SEE THROUGH AS SHIT AND SKINNY AS FCUK AND SHE GOT LITERALLY CHASED THE FUCK OUT OF THAT JOINT. She does not CARE that some ghosts are just apparitions she does not CARE that some are friendly and trying to warn her of something if you are MOVING and DEAD at the SAME time get FUCKED. If any of y’all cringe try-hards bring a Ouija board to the party you are getting SENT HOME and BLOCKED. NO CAP.

Three Goals:

She really only has one left. Listen its... almost 1am and ive been typing since like 5pm i think i covered goals somewhere in here but ive gotta throw in the towel but even then I’m kinda being serious. Her only remaining goal is to find a suitable heir of some kind. She wants what she’s built to fall into worthey hands but she could never seem to find a good parter and even when she did she couldn’t sustain a pregnancy ( you’d think that would be a huge deal but it hardly mattered to her oddly ). So at 50 the option of having kids is out but there’s still plenty of hope for either adoption or a protege. But then again, she’s so busy these days that she hardly prioritizes it like she wants to.

holy shit i need some water...

#i.... i did it.. its done.. its DONE #...this took my entire saterday #i will literally pay yall actuall dollars to read all of this please... it took so long i dont want it to be for nothing qwq #x; EVER PLAYED CRAZY EIGHTS? { dash games }#x; QUITE THE PIRATE GAL { portrait }#x; WHY AREN'T YOU A CLEVER ONE? { meta }

9 notes · View notes

hanawrites404 · 4 years ago

Text

One Dance

Game : The Arcana

Pairing : some slight hints of various pairings

Characters : Asra Alnazar, Nadia Satrinava, Julian Devorak, Portia Devorak, Muriel, Lucio Morgasson, Wynne Toprak, Lyra Slaquer, Sèbastien Slaquer, Raymond Slaquer (the Slaquers belong to @the-soupiest-artist) and Maura Hickey (who belongs to @puzzle-piece-angel)

Warnings : None

Timeline : Modern-Dance AU

This story is based of this song :

And this story is an introduction to the Vesuvia Dance Company and its members, so come along and let's see what does it have in store ✨✨

3rd person POV

"Tch. Boring......."

The wind whooshed against her as she tucks her flowing strands of hair behind her ear. She was leaning against the railings of her balcony, her hands resting on the cold metal as she examined her painted black nails.

To her, black was always the perfect colour. And she nearly never altered it to any other shade. It would be too tedious again.

The woman crossed her legs as she drank her Limoncello from the rim of her glass, the bubbles of the alcohol fizzed inside. Her throat bobbed with every sip and jingled the translucent crystal attached to her dark choker. The liquor quenched her dry throat, pricking it with its gas bubbles and bitter taste as she sighed the cold air.

The sparkling alcohol matched with her eyes as they stared upon the heads of the people walking past her apartment from the balcony. The cars driving away looked like playthings to her, and the trees swaying against the soft gust seemed like shrubs. Nothing was of interest to her outside as she continued to drink her beverage and blink away the yawn from her eyes.

She thought of going to bed again since she had nothing to do either inside or outside, but then a simple phone call from her friend changed all her plans.

"What is it Asra?" She answered, not a good afternoon, not even a hi. She wasn't in a mood for this.

"Heya Wynne! How are you doing first of all??" The person from the other side of the phone didn't seem unfazed by her disinterest because of his experienced friendship with the woman. She sighed and replied, admiring her nails again. "Nothing much, just passing my precious time as always" she chuckled at the last phrase. "What about you? What's the occasion for calling me?"

"Well, I missed you dearly-"

Wynne instinctively made an expression which spoke out 'Oh really?'

"And I have something to propose to you"

The girl blinked from curiosity and pulled away from the railings, walking inside her penthouse, still holding the glass of Limoncello and her phone near her ear as she told him to continue.

"So! You and I both know how much you love to dance right? You have also given performances at your workplace and you just love to lose yourself to the club music. You are a very awesome dancer, Wynne. And you don't mind showcasing your moves to everyone"

"Yeah, so what?" Wynne rubbed her temples, Asra was sure taking his sweet time and her forbearance.

"Well, I have sort of an offer for you. Why don't you meet me at the address I'm gonna text you and I'll spill everything when you arrive"

"Wait what?!" Wynne places her hand on her coffee table, her voice of disbelief and bafflement. "You got to be fucking kidding me Asra. Please tell me what is it and don't you dare cut off like this"

"Sorry Wynne, but I am busy. I promise I'll tell you everything there. Goodbye!"

"Asra! ASRA!!!" but she was too late.

"UGH, fucking bitch....." Wynne snarled as she clutched her phone tight in her palm. The device then vibrated in her hand and she rolled her eyes, opening her phone to find that Asra had sent her the destination in their chat. It was an address that was unfamiliar to Wynne, and thanks to the wonder which had already accumulated in her mind, she growled, and finally decided to reach the place.

Wynne swallowed the last sip of her drink and looked down at her clothes. Assuming that Asra was calling her to a public place, she decided to change from her casuals to a sleeved black crop top and matching palazzos and chunky heels. She combs her blue hair and applies her dark lipstick before grabbing the keys of her old red Cadillac, and she descended the stairs after locking her house.

"Asra, this better not be a prank or I will slap you to grave" she murmured grimly as she started the engine of her car and drove to the address. With a bit of traffic and breakers in between, it took her somewhat half an hour to reach an unknown college building. Now, why would Asra call her here? Was it perhaps for a college reunion? Then why was he talking about dancing? She had so many questions, and Asra owes all the answers to her after leaving her hanging on the phone like that.

"Winnie!! Over here!!" The woman turned her head to the call to find her best friend trotting while waving towards her. It didn't take her long to notice the tie-dyed rainbow shirt and glitter pants with sparkle sketchers, as Wynne just nodded and waited for Asra to finally stop by her car so she could give an earful to him for leaving her edged at the cliff. But calming her urge to denounce him, she patiently asked.

"Alright, I'm here. Now what? Why did you call me near a college?"

"A college?" Asra snorted and burst into a laugh. This made Wynne even more confused and annoyed as she snarled silently and eyed him, unamused. By phoning her at an unknown place when she was in a particularly bad mood only to laugh at her, she had set up her mind to drive away right in front of him and crush him with her car. But then, he luckily spoke on time before she could act her frivolous murder.

"Boo, this is not a college. It may look like one, but it's not. Trust me" Asra winked at her. Wynne, still being unamused, leaned her forehead against her fingers as she replied lethargically.

"Well, what is it then? Care to explain after calling me here without any proper explanation?" She already wanted to leave honestly. And can't she just sleep?

"Of course. If you would follow me, Milady" Asra being the gentleman offered his hand out to her though he was aware of Wynne's already increasing irritation. He stayed patient because he didn't want to reveal the surprise yet to her. The vexed girl grunted again and got off her car, placing her fair hand over his tanned one. Asra gently squeezed her hand in his with a warm smile on his face. That seemed to lower her irritation as she squeezed his hand back. Asra with a small blush spreading across his golden cheeks led her near to the campus, and Wynne followed him gradually.

Soon both of them were near the polished mahogany doors after passing the lobby inside. And before he could enter, Asra checked on his friend with another appreciative smile. Wynne raised her eyebrow. To her, Asra looked very gladder than usual. Though he was known to be a happy guy, he looked....... exceptionally optimistic today. Was today someone's birthday? Was today her birthday? She had no idea what the hell was going on and what the hell was wrong with Asra.

"What's the matter?" She asked. She sounded calm, but inside she was bubbling with novelty that what exactly he had in mind.

"This is not a college, Wynne" Asra repeated what he said before.

"Yeah, so what? Please don't pull another suspense now" the woman placed her hand on her lip. She loved the suspense, but too much of it makes her feel lazy.

Heh, as if she wasn't feeling lethargic already.

Asra chortled and patted her head, and he finally pushed open the huge doors to uncover something imperial, stupendous and incredible enough to leave Wynne's mouth gaping and her eyes caught mesmerized.

Inside the so-assumed as college, was a tremendous majestic dance theatre of what looked like belonging to a prosperous french period. It glittered with gold and red, as a satin rose sprinkled with dewdrops glimmering of sunshine. The walls were delicately painted with a royal maroon gloss and regal purple imprints of what left an impression of lavender flower. Even the hall gave off the scent of apricot and apple orchards. The hefty velvet curtains hemmed the rectangle stage elegantly, the spotlights modern, and the footing was simply immaculate.

"Asra......This is-"

"Alluring? Captivating? Hypnotising??? Is there any other English word I am missing??"

"Well, I would say that yeah. But...this place is like a fantasy!!" Wynne exclaimed as she idolised the beautifully festooned and pleasingly symmetrical ceiling. "I know right? Told you so. I'm glad you liked it. It's one of my favourite places to stay at" Asra joined her as she entered in, the click of her heels grating into the carpets of the theatre.

"Yeah......it's like this has come straight from the golden era of art. Like in one of my school history books! I...I never would have guessed that it would even more wonderful in real life. I thought it was more of a vision of romantic people which were just left as dreams" Wynne skimmed the sides as she examined the details closely, thinking internally about how much work must have gone into creating such a painting over such a vast canvas.

"Well, this theatre runs on donations and funds, but it's sure undeniable that this dance studio is glorious and alluring" Asra shrugged.

"Yes...it is........ Wait" Wynne stopped in mid-sentence and turned to him, her hand still on the wall. "Did you say, dance studio?". Before Asra could open his mouth to reply to her, another unfamiliar voice echoed from a corner. It sounded soothing, pleasant and graceful, but Wynne could not recognise who it was. However, the source was soon revealed as she walked towards both of them, and both of their eyes got fixated on her.

"Oh! A guest! Is she the person you were talking about, Asra?" The fair lady enquired, and Asra nodded in agreement. "Yup! She is the one. The 'blueberry syrup' " Asra winked at the unknown lady.

Wynne was now really questioning her existence....... blueberry syrup..........

Seriously?

"Oh! Now I see why you called her that" the soft ravenette chuckled, even her laugh chimed blissful which can send anyone to ease. Asra giggled and agreed to her, his dimple delicately forming on his cheek like a tiny crescent moon.

"Anyways, here she is. Wynne" Asra introduced the bluenette to the foreign lady, who smiled sweetly at her and Wynne waved for a greeting.

"And Wynne, this is Lyra" Asra finally disclosed the name of the gentle lady, who then stepped closer to Wynne and reached her hand out for her to shake, which the other lady gladly took after staring at her pale hand. And as she had guessed, her hand was soft like feathers.

"Lyra Slaquer, but you can call me Lyra. It's a delight to meet you, Wynne. I hope you enjoy your stay over here" she spoke with another cute smile. Wynne nodded and took her hand back, breaking a small grin herself. The name 'Slaquer' whistled a bit familiar to her, but she had never met Lyra before so it was kind of odd, but she pushed the thought and quickly replied to her.

"I too wish to enjoy my visit over here. This place is still kind of anonymous to me since Asra did technically blackmailed me to arrive here" the woman stared at the white curlyhead with narrowed eyes.

"What?!" Lyra gasped as her hand partially covered her mouth. "He did?! I'm so sorry for that, Wynne! He usually does not do that though" she grabbed her chin in her two fingers.

"Wait, I never blackmailed you" Asra's purple eyes widened in scepticism.

"You provoked me. You fed my curiosity and you left me fucking dumbfounded by your sudden hanger, you agitated me so much that the urge you aroused in me won. And whose fault do you think it is??" Wynne crossed her arms and stared at him, with her weight on one leg.

Asra's cheeks lit up with bright pink by the lady's question. It was not a surprise that Wynne caught his fib about being busy just to bring her here. He had known her ever since they were kids, and Winnie was the most attentive one out of the two. A smirk engraved on her dark lips as she tapped her foot on the floor, waiting for a comeback, though she was already aware that he doesn't have an answer. He was caught, he was very badly caught. And he sadly had nothing to objectify with.

Lyra meanwhile just looked from Asra to Wynne, then back to Asra. She was waiting for one of them to speak, but someone calling her name, presumably from backstage, snapped her out. "Coming!" The twirly ravenette replied, and she rushed to attend to her call. But soon after she stopped at her heels for a moment, and turned back to gently grab Wynne's hand and then finally walking with her.

"Come on Wynne! Let's make you meet everyone. I'm sure they will love you" Lyra notified her and she continued dragging her. The blue-eyed lady sounded so favourable and eager that Wynne couldn't muster the will to pull away and refuse her. She was better than deterring the warmth of a civil lady like her, and Wynne peeked back at Asra, who just waved at her, mugging 'have fun' to her.

'I will kill you.....' she gestured back at him with a scowl and flipped him off until Lyra and she completely disappeared behind the stage. And good thing she didn't notice Wynne being blatantly horrible and rude.

Not that Asra minded her cynicism anyway, he still loved her for how she was.

"Guys, listen up! We have a visitor here. She is Asra's dearest friend!" Lyra with a sunny smile as twinkling as the moon inaugurated her to everyone present backstage.

But little did Lyra know that Wynne already knew four motherfuckers present inside.

"What the heck? How are you all at one place?? And most importantly, what are you guys doing here???" Wynne pointed her finger from puzzlement at all of them and questioned the troop she knew very well through conventions and clashes she would never forget. Some of them which she found awful, and some of them surprisingly candy. She honestly never wanted to meet any of them at all, but profoundly in her heart, she was obliged that she was oriented with the six awesome and decent idiots.

"WYNNE?!!" A particular red-haired fellow, a ginger girl, a raven head man and a purplenette lady, together cried out the lady's name. The four were in a greater shock than she was in. Because neither Asra told them who the guest was, nor did they expect her to be the visitor out of any other persons they could have guessed. Now that's quite a shocker eh?

"Oh~ you know them???" Lyra bent towards her, her blue eyes shone with inquisition. "Yes...Yes, I do" Wynne sauntered towards them, this time, with a wooden floor, her heels gave off the clicking like of a ticking timepiece. Her hands were crossed, and she was tickled that how all the pals she was intimate to were existing in the area.

"Since when?" Lyra strolled with her. "Long story, Dear. It's all thanks to Asra, you can say. He is the cause why I know all of them. Like I met Nadia during one of his get-together parties, and then I met these two siblings- what was their name again? AH! Julian and Portia, at a grocery store when I and Asra wanted some stuff. And like that, I met his other best friend, the giant guy over there, Muriel"

Wynne brought up each one of them as she enunciated about them to Lyra. The ravenette listened to the bluenette with peak attention. She adored the manner and the refinement she held up while chatting to her. It was ethical, posh and highly lordly, just as a splendid black swan.

"And that's the story in a nutshell. Now tell me" Wynne kept her hands on her hips and glared at the four. "What's going on here?". "Wait, Asra didn't tell you what exactly is this place and what is our purpose here??" The physician asked her with mistrust.

"Well, no. He told me nothing. But he did say that this is a dance studio" Wynne tapped her chin, trying to recall what else he had asserted.

"Well yes, you are correct on that. This is a dance studio. Which includes the theatre along with the backstage, the rehearsal rooms, a canteen area with the lobby, a recreational cabin and the dorms. Our dancers live here and we provide them with a comfortable and hygienic place to stay along with necessary hospitality, and they all perform for the company" Nadia replied.

"Wait, the company? You guys are running a corporation together?" Wynne cocked her eyebrow again. This all was very new to her, and pretty intriguing too.

"You can say like that. This is Vesuvia Dance Company, and I'm proud to say that we all are like a close-knit family here. I run the company and also work as the organiser. Portia is the set painter. All the lavender imprints you saw on the screens were done by her" the umber woman referred to the chubby girl as she waved heartily at Wynne.

Judging by Portia's denim suspenders splattered with numerous sorts of pigments, she did look like a very hard worker. Just like how Wynne always knew her to be.

"And that gentleman over there, Muriel, he does the building work. So the stage and every scenery of the bureau is retained by him. During performances, he also makes sure the lights and every other piece of equipment are operating appropriately. Portia occasionally teams up with him for the arrangement of struts and special effects. Without him, the true magnificence of the dance would never have reached the audience" Nadi commended.

Muriel's cheeks blossomed pale red as his jade eyes shyly lowered down. Portia had the opposite reaction though. She just grinned and locked arms with the giant man catching him off guard and turning him more rattled than ever.

"I-It's not that much of a big deal" he mumbled abjectly. Wynne chuckled at the scene and muttered 'cute' before facing Nadia so she could introduce the medic next.

"And you must know Dr Devorak. Just as his profession speaks, he takes care of the condition of every member of the company and assures the safety of everyone from likely injuries or illnesses. He also schedules a diet plan if required, and he is also quite sincere in his work, and the members easily recover, all thanks to him"

"And....did any previous member die even though he was around?" Wynne heckled, and Julian fell right into her mockery as his face burnt deep red, the vivid colour spreading across his porcelain skin. He was positively ashamed, and Wynne snagged him so badly he was staggering. But luckily, Nadia seconded him up as she soughed.

"No Wynne. No one has died. The doctor is a qualified physician, and every one of us relies on his skills of treatment. He is also very humble, so there is nothing for us to be concerned about in terms of health" She retorted. "Alright. I believe you" Wynne shrugged with a sly smile, although the flush on Julian's cheeks didn't vanish. Wynne was like a harpy when it comes to disparaging someone, which sometimes makes Julian fear her. Other than that, Julian did like her, she can be cute sometimes and he has seen it. But just like every ambivert, all she requires is the right time to express it.

"And moving on, Asra is our principal dancer, so he is the one who comes with most of the choreography, but he also ensures to give opportunities to the other dancers to suggest any addition. With his and everyone's aptitude, the event comes out to be beautiful" Nadia affirmed with a low smile on her swift lips.

"I see....." Wynne held her chin in her fingers and nodded.

"And the thespians along with Asra are, Lyra, Maura, and-"

"Hello guys! What's up?"

"Woah Woah Woah!! Take it easy! We didn't go anywhere" Julian stumbled back onto a table as he attempted to brace away from the not-so sudden jumpscare of the stranger who appeared to have popped out in between out of nowhere. Well, a stranger to Wynne, to be precise.

"Haha, sorry Ilya. I was just excited to meet the new guest, and I didn't wanna miss them!" The outsider gleefully met the sights of the new lady with his azure ones, a purple glisten romped within his iris, just like how the gold flapped inside the matron's lustrous eyes. Other than his apertures, she noticed how he looked a bit similar to Lyra, contemplating the same type of hair and complexion of the skin. She then looked down at his clothes. The uproar he was wearing captured her eye, reasonably. Wynne was stringent, and a fashionista filled with critique, but what the man was having over him wasn't so terrible to her at all. She could see the striped black-white sweater, baby pink pants,

And were those turquoise crocs he was wearing???????

"Interesting...." Was all that Wynne could say.

"This is Raymond. He is our pianist, and he with his band performs along with the dancers. And he also conducts the music" Nadia enlisted. "Oh, so he is the soul of the performance huh. Pretty....... eccentric" Wynne eyed Raymond who glanced innocently back at her. She rasped and dabbed Raymond's shoulder as she reacted. "But sure. He is cute".

"Oh! If I'm cute then you are the loveliest girl in the whole world, and the ebony fabric on your fair body is like shadows surrounding the glowing moon" Raymond's eyes sparkled with esteem and cherish towards her, like a child recognizing their favourite superhero. That wasn't a good sign for Wynne at all. Especially deeming that it has only been minutes since he and she got introduced to each other. But, inferring that he was the type of guy to give random sweet compliments to anyone, she coolly answered.

"W-Why thank you Dear. You are.....pretty yourself. I like your hair".

"Thank you, Ms Wynne. You are too nice" he blushed with a wide beam. "Yeaaaaahhhhh" Wynne internally winced but tried not to show it to not come off as rude and anguish the cute boy.

"Alright! I think that's everyone in the area. There are three more people who are left to be introduced, but other than that, I hope everything is to your liking, Wynne. Asra brought you here so you could think about joining the company" Nadia rolled a strand of her long hair around her finger.

"Wait, join you all???" Wynne asked.

"Oh my gosh, you are gonna join us??? PLEASE DO!! I would love you for that!" Raymond practically jumped on his feet with enthusiasm.

"W-Wait, but why??? Why do I have to??" Wynne struggled to justify.

"Well, why not. We all have seen you perform before, Wynne. And you would make an exceptional dancer! Also, it's very fun hanging around with everyone and dancing too, don't you think?" Portia added.

"Yeah Wynne, Pasha is right. We know you don't like being around people so much, but we would give you space when you need it. We may stick close, but we will make sure to not bother you much" Ilya gently smiled at her. She did frighten him sometimes, but Julian would be happy to have a bit of her insolence and sarcasm hovering around. Everyone would love to have that.

"I agree with Julian. You are a wonderful lady, Wynne. It would be our absolute pleasure to have a talented entertainer as you dance with us. I promise I won't talk much if that annoys you. But I want to get to know you better, Wynne. I bet you would be very fun!" Lyra playfully whacked her shoulder, only to receive a deathly grimace from the bluenette's wolf-like eyes.

"O...Oh...." Lyra cautiously procured her hand and backed a bit away from her. She wasn't dreading of her if anything. She just got more.....intimidated. She had never met a woman with such grimness flooding out of her, yet be so nimble as a twilight waft along with the gloom she hauls. Lyra felt like a little butterfly just witnessing a vicious spider open her gapes and watch it flash with yearning and malevolence, but close enough, she could see the dignity and that dwelled deep in those gazes.

And those golden orbs had apprehended her just like a tempting spider's quagmire.

Wynne was never known to miss her target anyway.

"S-Sorry....." Lyra's diamond orifices veered under and a weak rosiness escorting her cheeks.

Wynne just shut her eyes, sighed softly, and immediately gawked at Muriel who was typically tight-lipped the whole time. But she decided to inquire him too because his opinion also mattered after all. "What do you think, Big Guy? Would you be happy to have me over?" She straightforwardly asked. The huge man was taken aback for a bit, he had believed that Wynne won't bring any mind to him, and obviously, she proved him wrong. And now he had to respond to her because everyone else had their eyes on him too.

"I......." He started.

"Mhm?" Wynne waited.

"....................."

"I won't mind" that's all he said.

Everyone in the room breathed a sigh of solace and rejoiced while Muriel just reddened and pouted. He wondered what made the people so relieved when all he did was say 'yes' for the new girl to stay. But what it truly meant was that they were ahead in favour by one more vote.

Wynne snorted. "Yeah yeah, celebrate all you want, but still. I haven't agreed to this yet. So technically there is still be left to decide. Now don't get too much excited already" she stated.

"You are certainly right on that. But we are willing to wait for your final decision, Wynne. Whether positive or not" Nadia told her, and the others agreed to her, nodding and muttering to each other. "Good. I don't like rushing things. I'm glad that you understand" Wynne's lips curved into a slight smile, and everyone else in the room returned a grin. "Of course. We want you to be comfortable after all. You are our friend" Julian added. "And we promise to support ya!" Portia said. "You can speak to us if you ever have any trouble, Wynne" Lyra peered at her. "And we promise to not irritate you at all!" Raymond assured her with a bright grin on his lips.

"We......We would take care of you too....." Muriel softly smiled.

Wynne softly chuckled, shaking her head delightfully and placing her hands on Raymond and Lyra's shoulders. She gleamed at both of them, and she thanked all of them for the patience and hospitality they all gave to a newbie like her. She truly felt honoured and warmly greeted by all of them, and she felt much pleasanter than she was feeling appearing for the first time. Nadia was pleased to see how everyone welcomed Wynne. She was looking forward to the guest making herself comfortable among the partners and come to be a valued part of the small artsy gang and relish the beauty of dance and music together with everyone.

And am I missing someone important to introduce?

"So! What did I miss, lovely ladies and gentlemen?" Some other unidentified person barged in like a typical theatrical garish zealot. Just as assumed by his way of the fashionably late entry, his clothes were incredibly contemporary and vogue and his shirt were half-buttoned to expose his semi-hairy chest. The unknown man rested his elbow at the frame as his piercing emerald eyes stridden around on everyone's faces until it spotted its victim. A certain gal in black.

"Ah! Gotcha" the stranger grinned and grazed his teeth over his lower lip. He pushed himself back on his feet and walked towards his prey. His hand brushed through his curly dark locks, the hooves of his shoes made a satisfying click with every step he got closer to Wynne. He wasn't focused on anyone else other than her, his eyes glimmered under the daylight, like lush green leaves after monsoon showers.

Wynne perked up her eyebrow up. Who is this guy now, she pondered. She glanced at his shirt for a moment and noticed patterns of peacock feathers with splats of prominent blue and white matching the print. Very remarkable, she thought. But also somehow very familiar too. The design on his cloth was something she had seen somewhere before, but she couldn't recollect when exactly.

Nevertheless, the unfamiliar man wearing the familiar clothing gently took hold of her hand and locked his emeralds with her gold.

"And you might be......" She started.

"Sèbastien Slaquer at your service, mademoiselle" he fervently kissed her knuckles, nurturing the sweetness of her skin on his lips.

"Ah...Slaquer......french....Wait a minute" Wynne interrupted.

"Yeah, what's the matter? Remembered something important?" He tilted his head and looked at her, his eyes taking in the charm of her marvellous face and dusk merging with her rosy skin.

"Slaquer.....no wonder why it was sounding so weird to me.......I think I have heard this name before.....in a brand name" Wynne held her chin.

"Oh, you have? I don't know. My brand sure is well-known--"

"Wait, did you say, your brand???" Wynne gripped him. "Yes of course" he shrugged. "Hmmm.....that explains your shirt..... the peacock designs..... peacock designs???"

Wynne suddenly gasped. "You are french, aren't you?!"

"Oh, are you giving me a racist remark now?" Sèbastien knocked and chuckled at his joke. "But yes, you are right. I'm french. And so is my little brother and my cousin behind you" he gestured to both Raymond and Lyra who were currently casually conversing with each other. "Ohh those are your siblings? Alright," Wynne nodded. She wasn't surprised because the three of them did kind of resemble each other. The opaque curly hair, ivory skin, thrilling eyes.

And speaking of Raymond and Lyra, Wynne noticed how personal they were. Both were standing near one another, and Raymond never halted eye contact with Lyra, and Lyra also had her entire attention on him. They didn't seem to mind anything happening around them. They just talked, but every word they said to each other pertained only to them. They were just cousins, but Wynne was mildly amazed how they behaved like mutual siblings who loved each other to the brim.

It thawed her heart, but also made it ache as soon as she realised she doesn't have such a person whom she can call a sibling. Her mother was never there to give her a sibling.

Wynne was always alone at such times.

"Anyways, what do you call a peacock in French by the way? Maybe that would remind me" Wynne turned to the tall man. It disturbed her how he towered over her. She was fundamentally disturbed by how ALL of them towered over her.

Heh, looks like someone has taken Portia's place of being the smallest.

"Oh, Paon" he answered within a second.

"AHH! I got it! That's your fashion brand, ain't it so?" She banged her fist on her palm as soon as she ultimately understood the name she was trying to remember all the time. "Well yes, you are correct again. Wait, you mean you know my work??" He gazed at her. "Mhm. I have seen it. Peacock layouts are your trademark, along with the colours, royal blue and brine green. Your type is modern, but also have a slight tinge of French flavour, dating back to the eighteenth or nineteenth-century or so. I have even seen the blogs that talk about you, very impressive I must say" she complimented him.

"O-Oh...Why thank you for your tributes, mademoiselle. You are pretty vigilant and almost figured out my whole style. Not many people can, you know" he laughed. "Of course, no problem Mr Slaquer" Wynne giggled. She found Sèbastien relatively interesting already, even after knowing him only for instants. Not only she liked his judgment of fashion, but also how he and she shared the same passion for design.

"Oh please, call me Sèbastien. It's my upmost pleasure to meet you, Miss......."

"Wynne. Wynne Toprak" she said.

"Toprak?? You mean, Priddell Toprak??" Sèbastien asked her. "Yup. I don't use my middle name too often, actually" she mentioned. "Ohhh I am have heard about you a lot, Ms Toprak. I have witnessed your works too, but I just wasn't lucky enough to see your beautiful face until now. Lucifer's Wings, that's yours right?" He questioned.

Wynne's cheeks turned a slight pink. She always thought that she can improve her style more and more, so she never found her methods perfect. And someone just breaking it to her that they admired her works and call her beautiful on top of that turns her shy and flustered.

"I-I...Thank you. And yes, that's my brand. I started it when I was like, 15 years old or so" she replied. "Woah, now that's a young talent I see. Very terrific, Ms Toprak. And I love how you make black match every other colour of your clothing. Your mode is very diverse and comfortable for anyone. Now that's how I want fashion to be. It should be dispersible to everyone, without any discrimination. And also with being unique, but also not too bizarre, if you know what I mean" Sèbastien's eyes shot to Raymond for a second.

Wynne bobbed her head. "I agree with you. Clothes which are different but also not too much of it. We don't want to walk around looking like piñatas now, do we?" She shrugged. Sèbastien broke into a fit of laughs and he shook his head. His laugh sounded like harmony to her, she chuckling with him too.

"Also, I am guessing you work with Nadia in designing the dresses for the dancers?" she continued. "Yup. Right. I have a contract with her for that. And Raymond has one too for his band to perform in the theatre" Sèbastien rubbed his neck. "Ahh...I see......Well, my friend had invited me here to take a look, and decide whether I should join the company with all of you or not" she noted.

"Oh! So you are going to design with me too?? Like a collaboration??" He sounded pretty energetic about it. "Well, maybe. But I also am a dancer. So let's see what happens" Wynne shrugged again.

"Woah...what a gifted lady. I'll be looking forward to work with you, mademoiselle" he softly kissed her hand again. "Oh it's nothing much. Trust me, Dear. But sure, I'm anticipating too" she sadly smiled at him. She still wasn't sure if she should join or not. But seeing so many likeable people who welcomed her so sweetly, made it hard for her to refuse. But also, what worse can happen if she joins? She loved dancing, and maybe along with fashion, she can make her career in another field too.

But still, she needed a bit more time. Though her mind was already telling her to agree to the contract and sign in. But she still needed to wait. Not just yet, please.

"Ohh!! What a lovely lady in the house!" Wynne heard another adorable voice from the entrance. She glanced at the new blonde woman, her long hair as golden as daffodils and her eyes as green as polished malachite. She also noticed the dress she was wearing. A long red skirt and a white buttoned top. It was simple but pretty, along the black ghillies with distinguishing neat white socks.

"Oh hello there. Nice to meet you" Wynne turned her attention to the blonde dame, whose cheeks lightened to blush as she bashfully smiled at Wynne.

"Nice to meet you too! I'm Maura. You must be Wynne, right? Asra told me about you" she replied. "Yeah, that's me. In flesh" she snorted.

"Ah, Wynne. Maura is the one who planted all the flowers and plants in the garden. And she always knows what type of flower would suit anyone. Also, not only she is the gardener, but she is also a prudent performer of Irish stepdance. It looks very difficult to me, to be honest. But Maura always does it so effortlessly" Sèbastien added on. Maura blushed harder and timidly thanked the man for the compliment, who just patted her head with a playful wink in return.

"Oh! Now that's very sweet of you. I absolutely loved the sunflowers in the garden by the way. They are my favourite. Every other flower in the garden were beautiful too" Wynne smiled at her. "Of course! I'm glad you liked them. I love sunflowers too. They sure a happy radiant flowers, don't you think?" She glinted at Wynne. "Definitely. I love them because they remind me of my mother, that's why" Wynne sadly smiled, the fond portraits of her precious mother as her hair and eyes lustrous as the cloudless floral elegance of nature flooding into her psyche. She dearly missed her, too bad she was no more.

"Oh! That's wonderful! I'll make sure to make a bouquet of sunflowers for you once they fully blossom. You can even gift them to your mom. And tell her I said hi" Maura twinkled. Wynne was seized aback by her abrupt tenderness. People were being too much nice to her today that it seemed so alien to her. But appreciating her generosity, Wynne warmly smiled.

"Thank you, Maura. She would like it" she still couldn't believe that such kind people still exist.

"My pleasure, Wynne. This is the least I can do" she smiled back.

"Also, Irish dance, now that's very interesting. You gotta show me some moves and teach me one day" the bluenette placed her hand on her hip. "Ohh for sure! I would love to. What dance do you do? Or do you specialise in some other thing than dancing" Maura leaned her head.

"Ah! I'm usually into hip hop and ballet. I learnt a bit about belly dancing too, it's also called Raqs Sharqi in Arabic. And other than dancing, I also run my fashion brand, and that's my real profession. It's called 'Lucifer's Wings'. I still remember how I took days to come for a decent name" she facepalmed and chucked at her forenamed naivety.

"That's a very nice name! You gotta show me your works someday then. I bet they will be very very beautiful and elegant, just like you!". "O-Oh....thank you for the.....compliment, Dear. And of course, I'll show you my latest designs, if that will satisfy you" Wynne brushed back her bangs. "I am sincerely honoured, Wynne" Maura grinned at her, her hands behind her back and her cheeks pink.

"No pressure. Your welcome" she raised her shoulders. Alright, she had to admit. She had started to like Maura too. Who wouldn't? And it was funny how she presently was liking the Slaquers and Maura more than the six she already was aware of. Maybe it's the benefit of the joy of meeting new people. Maybe........

"Also, I have a small question, would you mind me asking?" Wynne blinked. "Not at all, sweetie. Ask away" the blonde replied.

"Asra said this place runs through funds" Wynne blinked again.

"But who exactly is funding you all?"

Maura wasn't the one to answer her question. And neither was Sèbastien. Or Raymond. Or Lyra. Or any of the five.

It was the one out of the six who was known to be snooty, and robust, and blond.

And a passionate pup person too.

In came the notorious devil with two of his faithful albino pair of hounds growling at everyone in the room. His garnet coat with gold trimmings and the spotless Tom Ford Customs, obviously costing so much it would make our pockets spontaneously explode, were dry cleaned and smoothed very strictly, and his hair was huddled back with shower gel, replacing the pleasant smell of vanilla in the air with a tincture of mint.

"How are you all losers? You missed me?" The man removed his Gucci glasses and straightened his silky black gloves on his hands as he looked down at everyone.

"Tch, not him again" Wynne heard Sèbastien scoff and cross his arms. He looked irritated, and so did Maura, but she didn't have any frown on her face like him. She just looked..... unsettled. Meanwhile, others in the room were feeling as uncomfortable as both of them too. Muriel was looking away, Portia began to mind her business, Julian hid behind his papers, Lyra and Raymond tried to ignore the man and Nadia just sighed tiredly and rubbed her temples to give some comfort from the headache she just got. Possibly because of the new blond who entered.

"Hello Lucio" Nadia was the one who bothered to greet him, and she didn't look like she had a choice.

"Hello, Noddy! So how are my wife and her useless crew doing?" He cocked.

"Ex-wife, for your information. And they all are doing better than you, anyway" she scowled.

"Ah, still defending them huh? You do know this won't stop me" he smirked and kept his hand on his hip. Nadia closed her eyes, breathing calmly. "I don't care if you stop or not, but you are wrong. You always will be. My crew will always be committed and hard-working. And they all mean a lot to me no matter what bad you say about them"

Nadia's words effectively dissolved the tension in the room. Wynne just kept up at her place, listening to everything. She wasn't stunned to find him here. If her five friends would be here, then so would he.

The surprising fact was that she preferred the blondie over everyone else due to their previous relations and memories. It may sound unbelievable, but Wynne knew Lucio more than anyone, and it probably was the same with Lucio too, that he knew Wynne more than he knew anyone else. She was just a kid she met the guy when he was younger than today. And it has been two decades since, yet they kept in touch and their love never deteriorated.

Maybe.....maybe Wynne did have someone to call a sibling.

"So good to see you here, Lulu" she sounded pleasantly happy. That adds to another reason for joining the company.

"Wait- WYNNE?!!" The man was startled, finding his close friend at a place he least expected to. His lips widened to a grin and he forgot about everything, only to dash to the lady and tackle her in the biggest hug he can ever lend. Wynne laughed, and simply held his back, embracing his nostalgic warmth and scent close to herself, remembering every time they spent together merrily.

Sèbastien was dumbfounded, his mouth agape. Maura too was a bit astonished, that a sophisticated lady like her would be friends with such a flamboyant and hyperactive person. Well, she didn't judge it. Opposites do attract, you know. Maybe that was the case here. Maybe......

"What...What are you doing here??? I didn't know you were coming for a visit. Noddy never tells me anything" Lucio implored, fretting at the last sentence. "Well, it was more like a surprise visit. Nadia didn't know, so don't blame her" she replied. "Arrgh, fine. If you are saying it, then I'll gladly listen" he winked at her."Good" she cracked a tiny smile, snickering in the middle, and he joined her with the laughs.

"Now now, do you work here too??" She asked as she stopped.

"Work?! No!! I don't work with these idiots. THEY, work for me" his chest surged like a roasted turkey's bust.

"Oh yeah???" She raised her eyebrow, her eyes darting to Sèbastien. He shook his head, denying Lucio's statement. He then crossed his arms, and behind Lucio's back started mocking him by making his hand talk like Lucio and mouthed the gibberish with his eyes rolled up.

Wynne almost got caught by wheezing and cackling like a witch. Luckily her convenient hand covered it up.

"--And that's how I brought them all here. I am their saviour, Wynne. I raised them from the streets and gave them homes and look how they repay me. Not even a decent formal greeting!!" He bragged. Wynne already knew that the 'saving' part was not true no matter how fondly she thought of him, but she still played along to not dishearten her best friend.

"I understand, Monty. They are pretty tired too, you know. You can excuse them for that" she augmented, perfectly roleplaying.

"Excuuuuuse me?!! I work for hours at the meeting of the cooperations and look at me!! Not even a sweat on my brow. Oh, come on!! Are you all that lazy??? You are such losers for god's sake UGHH" Lucio hysterically placed his hand on his hip and cited them all. None of them were diverted, just as predicted. But Lucio was just pouting as always, and Wynne was feeling hotter and also sheepish. Were the two things even proportional?? She imagined so.

"U-Uhhh" she slowly walked to him and carefully placed her hand on his shoulder. She clasped her fingers around his joint and sighed peacefully.

"Hey...Lulu. I know you are worried about them and thinking that they are not....... trying harder, but they all deserve a break, you know. They all are like you after all. You all are humans, you need rest. You need fresh air"

She stopped and breathed a bit.

"And you know what you and your mates want??" She asked him, with a small beam of mischief on her lips.

"Huh??? What do I need??" He raised her eyebrow at her. She then grinned and booped his nose.

"You need ice cream, Silly! Ice cream! Who doesn't want a sweet cold treat on such a hot day hmm?? Come on all!! Let's have ice cream outside! I'm sure Asra can cover us up on that, free of charge" the bluenette invited everyone over, melting the potent tension just like ice cream under the giant ball of burning gas, leaving sweetness and chill dripping all over.

Everyone agreed to Wynne and relaxed from Lucio's outburst. They were finally keen to take a break they deserve and make their way through the other side at the exit. Lucio and his pets already ran to where they would most probably find the ice cream guy of the house, while everyone else silently thanked the blue lady for preventing Lucio to turn things worse. Some shook her hand, some gave her a quick hug and a bright smile, while some gave her thankful glances. She welcomed all of them with a simple nod, happy to help of course.

"You did great, Wynne. Thanks for shutting that asshole up" Sèbastien patted her head before moving out, shoving his hands in his pockets and whistling away a loud ballad. Maura followed Sèbastien, but she stopped to gently shake Wynne's hand and give her one of her confectionary smiles, also thanking her for saving her from the virago.

"It was nice to meet you again, see you soon" and she went away, her skirt fluttering with the inside wind, as the bluenette saw her walking.

"Hey...that was considerate of you, stopping Lucio from flaring on all of us. I never liked him screaming at anyone, but thanks to you, now I can finally breathe fresh air" Lyra humoured and Wynne chuckled with her. "No problem, Lyra. Lucio and I have been together since my childhood. He had been like this since his college days. So it's not shocking that he is still like this. I honestly love it" she laughed.

"That's great, even for him. I'm happy that you have someone close to you" she gladly smiled. "Yeah, I am happy too. You also have awesome siblings, take care of them just like they take care of you, okay?" Wynne leaned on her weight. "Ah! Of course! Ray Ray is my closest confidant. We are just cousins, but I treat him as my brother. Sebby is also very sweet to me, but he is one thirsty man for gossip and he often turns......scandalous" Lyra whispered the last thing to her.

"But I'm really glad they are here for me, and I'll be there for them too! I'll protect them at all costs!!" Lyra puffed her cheeks with resolution and adherence. Her adorable reaction made the goth lady guffaw from amuse. She held her stomach, one of her hands fanning her face and gashes of laughter accumulated at the nook of her eyes.

Watching her laugh was like watching a thunderous hurricane reflecting a widespread rainbow, or like a broken glass casting an bewitching silhouette.

"You are such a sweetheart. Keep it up like that" Wynne patted her shoulder out of appreciation. Lyra shied a little, she found the other lady's laugh so mellifluous as a psalm's ensemble. She creased a ringlet behind her ear and ogled fondly at the shorter woman.

"I am trying my best, Wynne" she timidly replied to her. "I know, Dear. I know" she closed her eyes and exhaled. She unfolded them again, only to glimpse back into her sapphire watches. Lyra was so captivated by her that her heart skipped a beat when she observed the golden blaze and crystal frost inside her. It was enthralling.

"Also, may I ask for a favour?" Wynne gently held Lyra's chin and poked it up her lips. She didn't even realise that her mouth was open in awe that she blinked rapidly, and stammered a bit, her face flickering to an apple glow. Soon she regained her composure and answered back to her, not making her wait for long.

"Yeah?? What's the matter?"

Wynne stayed silent for a bit.

"......................."

".............................."

".................."

"......................................................"

"Can you show me the contract papers? I gotta sign up"

The clock strikes at 11, and so does the cap of Wynne's pen. Finally, she wrote her name on the paper and learned to become one of their family. She was having fun and was impatient for her first performance.

Well.....maybe Asra did the right thing annoying her huh. Bless him for that, and everyone else of the Vesuvian Dance Company.

Now let the extravaganza begin!

10 notes · View notes

elisaenglish · 4 years ago

Text

Art and the Human Spirit: Olivia Laing on What the Lives of Great Artists Reveal About Vulnerability, Love, Loneliness, Resistance, and Our Search for Meaning

“We’re so often told that art can’t really change anything. But… it shapes our ethical landscapes; it opens us to the interior lives of others. It is a training ground for possibility. It makes plain inequalities, and it offers other ways of living.”

The composite creation of a doctor, a philosopher, a poet, and a sculptor, the word empathy in the modern sense only came into use at the dawn of the twentieth century as a term for the imaginative act of projecting yourself into a work of art, into a world of feeling and experience other than your own. It vesselled in language that peculiar, ineffable way art has of bringing you closer to yourself by taking you out of yourself — its singular power to furnish, Iris Murdoch’s exquisite phrasing, “an occasion for unselfing.” And yet this notion cinches the central paradox of art: Every artist makes what they make with the whole of who they are — with the totality of experiences, beliefs, impressions, obsessions, childhood confusions, heartbreaks, inner conflicts, and contradictions that constellate a self. To be an artist is to put this combinatorial self in the service of furnishing occasions for unselfing in others.

That may be why the lives of artists have such singular allure as case studies and models of turning the confusion, complexity, and uncertainty of life into something beautiful and lasting — something that harmonises the disquietude and dissonance of living.

In Funny Weather: Art in an Emergency (public library), Olivia Laing — one of the handful of living writers whose mind and prose I enjoy commensurately with the Whitmans and the Woolfs of yore — occasions a rare gift of unselfing through the lives and worlds of painters, poets, filmmakers, novelists, and musicians who have imprinted culture in a profound way while living largely outside the standards and stabilities of society, embodying of James Baldwin’s piecing insight that “a society must assume that it is stable, but the artist must know, and he must let us know, that there is nothing stable under heaven.”

Punctuating these biographical sketches laced with larger questions about art and the human spirit are Laing’s personal essays reflecting, through the lens of her own lived experience, on existential questions of freedom, desire, loneliness, queerness, democracy, rebellion, abandonment, and the myriad vulnerable tendrils of aliveness that make life worth living.

What emerges is a case for art as a truly human endeavour, made by human beings with bodies and identities and beliefs often at odds with the collective imperative; art as “a zone of both enchantment and resistance,” art as sentinel and witness of “how truth is made, diagramming the stages of its construction, or as it may be dissolution,” art as “a direct response to the paucity and hostility of the culture at large,” art as a buoy for loneliness and a fulcrum for empathy.

Laing writes:

“Empathy is not something that happens to us when we read Dickens. It’s work. What art does is provide material with which to think: new registers, new spaces. After that, friend, it’s up to you.

I don’t think art has a duty to be beautiful or uplifting, and some of the work I’m most drawn to refuses to traffic in either of those qualities. What I care about more… are the ways in which it’s concerned with resistance and repair.”

A writer — a good writer — cannot write about art without writing about those who make it, about the lives of artists as the crucible of their creative contribution, about the delicate, triumphant art of living as a body in the world and a soul outside standard society. Olivia Laing is an excellent writer. Out of lives as varied as those of Basquiat and Agnes Martin, Derek Jarman and Georgia O’Keeffe, David Bowie and Joseph Cornell, she constructs an orrery of art as a cosmos of human connection and a sensemaking mechanism for living.

In a sentiment to which I relate in my own approach to historical lives, Laing frames her method of inquiry:

“I’m going as a scout, hunting for resources and ideas that might be liberating or sustaining now, and in the future. What drives all these essays is a long-standing interest in how a person can be free, and especially in how to find a freedom that is shareable, and not dependent upon the oppression or exclusion of other people.

[…]

We’re so often told that art can’t really change anything. But I think it can. It shapes our ethical landscapes; it opens us to the interior lives of others. It is a training ground for possibility. It makes plain inequalities, and it offers other ways of living.”

Throughout these short, scrumptiously insightful and sensitive essays, Laing draws on the lives of artists — the wildly uneven topographies of wildly diverse interior worlds — to contour new landscapes of possibility for life itself, as we each live it, around and through and with art. In the essay about Georgia O’Keeffe — who revolutionised modern art while living alone and impoverished in the middle of the desert, in the middle of the world’s first global war — Laing observes:

“How do you make the most of what’s inside you, your talents and desires, when they slam you up against a wall of prejudice, of limiting beliefs about what a woman must be and an artist can do?

[…]

From the beginning, New Mexico represented salvation, though not in the wooden sense of the hill-dominating crosses she so often painted. O’Keeffe’s salvation was earthy, even pagan, comprised of the cold-water pleasure of working unceasingly at what you love, burning anxiety away beneath the desert sun.”

In an essay about another artist — the painter Chantal Joffe, for whom Laing sat — she echoes Jackson Pollock’s’s observation that “every good artist paints what he is,” and writes:

“You can’t paint reality: you can only paint your own place in it, the view from your eyes, as manifested by your own hands.

A painting betrays fantasies and feelings, it bestows beauty or takes it away; eventually, it supplants the body in history. A painting is full of desire and love, or greed, or hate. It radiates moods, just like people.

[…]

Paint as fur, as velvet, as brocade, as hair. Paint as a way of entering and becoming someone else. Paint as a device for stopping time.”

In another essay, Laing offers an exquisite counterpoint to the barbed-wire fencing off of identities that has increasingly made the free reach of human connection — that raw material and final product of all art — dangerous and damnable in a culture bristling with ready indignations and antagonisms:

“A writer I was on a panel with said, and I’m paraphrasing here, that it is no longer desirable to write about the lives of other people or experiences one hasn’t had. I didn’t agree. I think writing about other people, making art about other people, is both dangerous and necessary. There are moral lines. There are limits to the known. But there’s a difference between respecting people’s right to tell or not tell their own stories and refusing to look at all.

[…]

It depends whether you believe that we exist primarily as categories of people, who cannot communicate across our differences, or whether you think we have a common life, an obligation to regard and learn about each other.”

In a sense, the entire book is a quiet manifesto for unselfing through the art we make and the art we cherish — a subtle and steadfast act of resistance to the attrition of human connection under the cultural forces of self-righteousness and sanctimonious othering, a stance against those fashionable and corrosive forces that so often indict as appropriation the mere act of learning beautiful things from each other.

In another essay — about Ali Smith, the subject to whom Laing feels, or at least reads, the closest — she quotes a kindred sentiment of Smith’s:

“Art is one of the prime ways we have of opening ourselves and going beyond ourselves. That’s what art is, it’s the product of the human being in the world and imagination, all coming together. The irrepressibility of the life in the works, regardless of the times, the histories, the life stories, it’s like being given the world, its darks and lights. At which point we can go about the darks and lights with our imagination energised.”

Among the subjects of a subset of essays Laing aptly categorises as “love letters” is John Berger, whose lovely notion of “hospitality” radiates from Laing’s own work — a notion she defines as “a capacity to enlarge and open, a corrective to the overwhelming political imperative, in ascendance once again this decade, to wall off, separate and reject.” She reflects on being stopped up short by Berger’s embodiment of such hospitality when she saw him speak at the British Library at the end of his long, intellectually generous life:

“It struck me then how rare it is to see a writer on stage actually thinking, and how glib and polished most speakers are. For Berger, thought was work, as taxing and rewarding as physical labour, a bringing of something real into the world. You have to strive and sweat; the act is urgent but might also fail.

He talked that evening about hospitality. It was such a Bergerish notion. Hospitality: the friendly and generous reception and entertainment of guests, visitors or strangers, a word that shares its origin with hospital, a place to treat sick or injured people. This impetus towards kindness and care for the sick and strange, the vulnerable and dispossessed is everywhere in Berger’s work, the sprawling orchard of words he planted and tended over the decades.

[…]

Art he saw as a communal and vital possession, to be written about with sensual exactness… Capitalism, he wrote in Ways of Seeing, survives by forcing the majority to define their own interests as narrowly as possible. It was narrowness he set himself against, the toxic impulse to wall in or wall off. Be generous to the strange, be open to difference, cross-pollinate freely. He put his faith in the people, the whole host of us.”

In a superb 2015 essay titled “The Future of Loneliness” — an essay that bloomed into a book a year later, the splendid and unclassifiable book that first enchanted me with Laing’s writing and the mind from which it springs — she considers how technology is mediating our already uneasy relationship to loneliness, and how art redeems the simulacra of belonging with which social media entrap us in this Stockholm syndrome of self-regard. In a passage of chillingly intimate resonance to all of us alive in the age of screens and selfies and the vacant, addictive affirmation of people we have never dined with tapping heart- and thumb-shaped icons on cold LED screens, she writes:

“Loneliness centres around the act of being seen. When a person is lonely, they long to be witnessed, accepted, desired, at the same time as becoming intensely wary of exposure. According to research carried out over the past decade at the University of Chicago, the feeling of loneliness triggers what psychologists term hypervigilance for social threat. In this state, which is entered into unknowingly, the individual becomes hyperalert to rejection, becoming inclined to perceive their social interactions as tinged with hostility or scorn. The result of this shift in perception is a vicious circle of withdrawal, in which the lonely person becomes increasingly suspicious, intensifying their sense of isolation.

This is where online engagement seems to exercise its special charm. Hidden behind a computer screen, the lonely person has control. They can search for company without the danger of being revealed or found wanting. They can reach out or they can hide; they can lurk and they can show themselves, safe from the humiliation of face-to-face rejection. The screen acts as a kind of protective membrane, a scrim that permits invisibility and also transformation. You can filter your image, concealing unattractive elements, and you can emerge enhanced: an online avatar designed to attract likes. But now a problem arises, for the contact this produces is not quite the same thing as intimacy. Curating a perfected self might win followers or Facebook friends, but it will not necessarily cure loneliness, since the cure for loneliness is not being looked at, but being seen and accepted as a whole person: ugly, unhappy and awkward as well as radiant and selfie-ready.”

Having met with Ryan Trecartin — “a baby-faced thirty-four-year-old” of whom I had never heard (saying more about my odd nineteenth-century life than about his art) but whose early-twenty-first-century films about the lurid and discomposing thrill of digital culture prompted The New Yorker to describe him as “the most consequential artist to have emerged since the nineteen-eighties” — Laing reflects:

“My own understanding of loneliness relied on a belief in solid, separate selves that he saw as hopelessly outmoded. In his world view, everyone was perpetually slipping into each other, passing through perpetual cycles of transformation; no longer separate, but interspersed. Perhaps he was right. We aren’t as solid as we once thought. We’re embodied but we’re also networks, expanding out into empty space, living on inside machines and in other people’s heads, memories and data streams as well as flesh. We’re being watched and we do not have control. We long for contact and it makes us afraid. But as long as we’re still capable of feeling and expressing vulnerability, intimacy stands a chance.”

Vulnerability — which Laing unfussily terms “the necessary condition of love” — is indeed the bellowing undertone of these essays: vulnerability as frisson and function of art, of life itself, of the atavistic impulse for transmuting living into meaning that we call art.

Complement the thoroughly symphonic Funny Weather with Paul Klee on creativity and why an artist is like a tree, Kafka on why we make art, Egon Schiele on why visionary artists tend to come from the minority, and Virginia Woolf’s garden epiphany about what it means to be an artist — which remains, for me, the single most beautiful and penetrating thing ever written on the subject — then revisit Laing on life, loss, and the wisdom of rivers.

Source: Maria Popova, brainpickings.org (25th February 2021)

#quote #women writers #love #life #art #meaning #existential musings #all eternal things #love in a time of...#intelligence quotients #depth perception #creative power #mind matters #more than words #essential beauty #stands on its own #elisa english #elisaenglish

3 notes · View notes

halfasleepoetry · 5 years ago

Note

I wish you would write a fic where Ben and Joe go on holiday together. As a couple or as friends with feelings for each other.

Because I am unlike any sane person who answer asks normally, here you go, a 4K+ word count answer.

One Year Of Love

Joe and Ben found out early on in their friendship that they like travelling together. They make compatible travel buddies; Joe would do the research and Ben would plan the heck out of the trip down to the details and both of them try as much as they can to get everything to work out according to their plan and following their schedule. So far, they have successfully done so each time, until they decided to go to Morocco. They’ve been to almost all European and American destinations that they had wanted to see together, so they decided that the next downtime they have would be the best time to branch out a little, see new places. They had a few countries in mind, but ultimately chose Morocco for obvious reasons (“Casablanca!” Joe said, being the biggest fan of old, classical films), but after much research, they decided ultimately that they would go to Agadir, because Ben loves seaside towns and beaches.

“Do you know that Agadir’s weather is like LA’s?” Joe asked without looking away from his phone.

“No way,” Ben said after swallowing his food. “We’ve picked the perfect place.”

So when they got to Agadir and realized that the chill seaside town is exactly what it is; laid back and operates on its own concept of time, they met their first stumbling block. Their taxi was late, their room not ready for checking in. But the people smiled and carried on as if there’s nothing inherently wrong with a little tardiness here and there. “People around here are really that chill, huh?” Joe recognized the hint of irritation in Ben’s voice instantly. He’s tired. They both were. So he distracted the blonde by dragging him to the rooftop patio of their hotel, where it is also a lounge cafe during the day and a bar at night.

“The sunset here is going to be amazing, don’t you think?”

And Joe was right. They spent the evening looking at the amazing view from the rooftop before going along and around the promenade on a rented scooter, Joe at the front and Ben with his arms around Joe’s waist. They returned to their hotel when it’s pretty late, but the seafront never sleeps, it seems. They stayed out because it’s a shame not to do so, the sound of waves in their ears and night sky lit with stars and a silver crescent moon as they sipped wine and talked quietly and share comfortable silences as they tend to do whenever they are alone in each other’s company.

Morocco is both everything and nothing they had expected it to be; it’s breathtaking and different, quaint and modern, quiet and bustling. They explored the kasbah during the day, went through the restored ruins and returned to the promenade on the second evening, this time staying out longer to enjoy the nightlife. They went hiking at the Paradise Valley, taking in the view of square mudbrick houses and almond trees and olive orchards along the way. Joe had fallen in love with Moroccan mint tea, and even Ben, who isn’t a tea drinker, found himself liking its fresh and charming taste. They, or Ben in particular, had quickly forgotten the initial wariness towards the local’s warped sense of time and tendency to be over-friendly and inquisitive towards tourists. Partly because Joe is very good at handling both the situation and Ben in times like this, and partly because Morocco breathes its old magic everywhere and into everyone who sets foot on its soil. It’s impossible not to be lulled into its spell, as if they’ve drifted out of their lives into a completely different existence, especially as they make their way to Ouarzazate. Moroccan’s Little Hollywood. Games of Throne season 3, Lawrence of Arabia, Gladiator and a long list of Hollywood movies were shot there, according to Joe’s research. Joe is driving.

“I feel like--” he started.

“No, don’t say it,” Ben tried stopping him.

“--what, my inner Daenarys is coming out.” Ben groaned and Joe laughed.

When they stopped en route at Taroudant, they walked into the souq. Ben hasn’t stopped taking pictures since morning. He must have taken hundreds of pictures for the last few days, maybe thousands. Joe navigated the way, and they stopped by at a cafe to have mint tea. They--no, Joe--struck a conversation with a couple in their twenties, they’re from France and travelling on a tight budget, so Joe offered them a ride, which they gratefully accepted. They drove on to Taliouine, where they stopped by to try the freshly-made saffron tea, and it’s like no other. Joe bought some saffron stored in dark glass jar for his mom from the local seller before driving on to Ouarzazate, arriving at their riad late in the afternoon. The couple stayed at a budget place nearby, but Joe asked them to join him and Ben for a dip in the riad’s outdoor pool, and dinner later. They talked late into the night before parting ways, and later on as they were lying down on their respective beds in their room, Ben was about to fall asleep when Joe suddenly turned on his stomach and called his name. He told Ben the guy, Louis, told him earlier that he will propose to his girlfriend, Chloe, at the end of their Moroccan trip.

“That’s sweet.” Ben said, yawning.

“Get ready to be invited, if things go well for him.”

“What?”

“I exchanged phone numbers and emails with them.” Ben would have laughed if he wasn’t too sleepy.

“We could have another trip to the French countryside.”

Ben hummed an affirmative noncommittally.

Joe continued, “You know what’s funny?”

“What?”

“Chloe asked me if we’re together.”

There’s a pause before Ben says, “Oh.”

“Anyway, not the first time.” Joe turned to lie down on his back again. “Good night, honey.”

“Asshole.”

“Sleep tight, don’t let the bed bug bite.”

“Shut up, Joe.”

It’s dark but Ben thought he could see Joe grinning. He turned away to face the wall, closed his eyes, but it took him a long time to finally fall asleep.

The next day Ben let Joe slept in as he got up early to jump into the pool, work himself a little before eating breakfast. He ate quickly. One of the older and friendlier staff that Joe had struck a conversation with the evening before, approached him and asked about Joe in broken English. When Ben told him that he’s still asleep, the staff asked if they could send breakfast upstairs for him and Ben thanked him for the kind gesture, endlessly amused by the fact that no matter where Joe goes, he always manages to get people to spoil him.

“Wake up sleepyhead, we’re exploring the citadel today.”

Joe grunted, nodded and sat up, eyes still closed.

“Still tired?”

Joe nodded. Ben sighed.

“Want to sleep in a little bit more?”

Joe shook his head.

“They’ll send your breakfast upstairs.” When Joe neither moved nor made any sound, Ben called his name. He turned his face to Ben’s direction, eyes still closed. He’s pouting a little.

What a baby, Ben thought, but he kind of like this Joe. At least he’s quiet. “Try to wake yourself up while I got our stuff ready for the day.”

Exploring the citadel turned out to be one of the most fun they had as they endlessly struck poses reminiscent of movies they could recognize were filmed there. There were lots of silly ones, especially the ones with Joe and his ‘inner Daenarys’ coming out. They spent the entire morning there, and as the afternoon got unbearably hot, they returned to the riad to soak themselves in the cool water of the pool. Ben let his body float, buoyed by the gentle swaying of the water as Joe submerged himself completely under. His body was rocked by more pronounced swaying as Joe came up and out of the water.

“I could get used to this.” Ben said.

“The pool?” Joe asked.

“And the palm and olive trees. Cool water, hot afternoon, desert heat. All this.”

They spent the evening relaxing, enjoying dinner with wine before turning in early, they would have to be up by dawn to leave for the Sahara desert. That early in the day, the desert is windy and cold, and Ben made sure Joe is properly layered and covered for the journey, using his experience on location in Dubai, filming in the Arabian desert, to good use. As the day breaks and got hotter they lose the layers, which they would need again later at night. Their Berber travel guides made sure their journey went smoothly. They passed by Draa Valley where there are more kasbahs to be seen, palm groves and a village where pottery-making is the mainstay.

They arrived at the camp where they’re staying for the night as the sun set; it’s set up like nomadic tents fit for ancient royals. There’s clean water, delicious food, more wine and Berber traditional drum beats, conversation with fellow travellers. Joe practiced some of the Berber phrases he learned, much to their guides’ delight. As expected, a little bit of wine was all the encouragement he needed to start joining the Berbers and their tribal desert music, moving in time with the drum beats as Ben watched on with a smile on his face. He’s happy, contented and possibly a little bit in love.

The wine and the desert night must have gotten to my head, he told himself.

The bonfire crackled and shone golden-red on Joe. Ben thought the older man looked darkly ethereal, and he’s ready to fall beyond in love with him, ready to go right into the fire. The desert was magic, Joe its sorcerer. And Ben was spellbound.

As the night got deeper and colder they slept under the tent, cozy and warm under their blankets. The bonfire kept on burning. Ben wanted to know if he would still be under the desert's spell when he wakes up tomorrow.

“Ben.” It’s Joe. “Did you drink too much wine last night?” He could hear the tch-tch in his voice, but there were also fingers in his hair, rubbing his scalp, and he almost purred in sheer, unadulterated happiness. Everything is dim, almost dark. “Don’t want to miss the desert sunrise now, do we?” For a moment, he didn’t understand what was happening. And why was his head so heavy and foggy? He was holding on to something warm and soft, an arm and a leg thrown over it almost possessively, and he didn’t want to let go--

--until he realized it’s Joe that he was holding on to.

That jolted him out of sleep right away, and he sat up almost immediately, only to be greeted by a long, numbing pain in his skull. He had to put his head in his hands for a while. Joe sat up too and started massaging his head. He put both hands on Ben’s temples, kneading gently, moving across and around, on the sides of his head, at the back, down to his neck. This feels so good. He didn’t realize he had said it out loud until he heard Joe chuckling. “I should have told you to go light on the wine. They’re local, pretty strong stuff.”

He wanted to tell Joe, no, this doesn’t feel like a hangover at all, but he didn’t want Joe to stop either, so he merely grunted and lied down again, putting his head on Joe’s lap.

He could definitely get used to this.

They got up and moving when one of guides drew the curtain slightly open with his hand, not looking in, just letting them know that they’re ready to go anytime now. Joe replied and thanked him.

The guides brought them a little eastward on camels to see the desert sunrise. The sun came into sight as if it was lighting amber fire that burned across the vastness of the sand and sky all around them. It was magnificent. On Joe’s pale skin, it looked like he was bathed in gold.

Ben continued clicking away on his camera for a while.

When Joe turned to him he was smiling, and Ben found himself smiling too.

“That was bucket-list worthy,” he said, and Ben agreed.

They continued moving until they reached an oasis town, a quiet, rustic place with friendly dwellers, always with mint tea at hand. After looking around the oasis and the buildings, some lived in, some abandoned, they made their way back to Ouarzazate again, through Draa.

It was late afternoon when they were back at the riad; almost evening. Ben missed the clear-water pool and Joe joined him. They had more mint tea, Joe was again chatting away with seemingly everyone over dinner, and Ben was happy to occasionally interject. But mostly he was smiling and laughing. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt this relaxed and happy, and each time he looked at Joe talking and charming everyone at the dinner table, the feelings seemed to amplify.

When they went to bed that night it took a long time for Ben to finally fall asleep, but when he did, his sleep was dreamless and uninterrupted. He woke up feeling fresh and rejuvenated, ready to hit the road again. This time they’re driving to Marrakech on the winding road around the High Atlas mountain range. The view was amazing; snow-capped mountains lining their sight, punctuated by small villages clinging to the mountainsides. Joe decided earlier on to take a slightly more challenging route to Telouet through the Ounila Valley, where they were greeted with terraced valleys and orchards, abandoned houses carved deep into the mountains and more kasbahs, still very well preserved, sprawling and magnificent in their ruins. Ben hoped his camera wouldn’t run out of memory anytime soon.

When they arrived in Marrakech they immediately headed to the riad they’re staying in. It’s in a relatively quiet part of the city, which is saying a lot, since Marrakech is densely populated and its spirit is one of an endless open market. It’s also a lot more colourful than the sienna-hued desert areas and brown-grey of the mountainside. Shops filled with goods and trinkets of all kinds and shapes and small cafes lined the street, with people going in and out constantly. The walls are painted bright white or pastel hues, colourful tiles and geometrical shapes as interior decor. Ben immediately started clicking away at his camera the moment they arrived. Once they entered the riad, they were greeted by the indoor pool in the middle of the open courtyard, its edges tiled green, turquoise and white. It’s not as large and deep as the outdoor one in Ouarzazate, it’s more of a dipping pool if anything. Ben snapped a photo, and checked the display screen.

“We’re gonna have to get a new memory card.”

“Let’s get it when we go out to eat later,” Joe said, looking up and around the courtyard. “It’s gonna be hard to leave this place.” He shook his head apologetically.

They head upstairs, walking along the quiet and empty balcony to their room. The entire riad seemed to belong only to them, no other soul in sight, no sound heard from other rooms. Their room is spacious, with a large bed and a lounge chair big enough for an adult to lie down comfortably on. It’s decorated tastefully in that distinctively Moroccan style; the tilework beautiful and intricate and lining the walls and covering the floor, even in the bathroom. They decided to book this room despite the large bed because of the size and the view; the room with two single beds were much smaller too.

Joe let himself fall down on the bed, while Ben drew the curtain to the balcony. The view is of many other adobe buildings, rooftop patios and far beyond it is the High Atlas, still so majestic in its shadow. Ben began stripping down and out of his dusty travelling clothes, grabbing a pair of shorts from his bag and one of the towels provided in the room.

“Heading to the pool already?” Joe asked, sitting up with a groan.

“Yep.” He ran a hand through his hair, there’s fine dust in them. “You coming?”

“Yeah. Will join you in a minute.” Joe got up and grabbed his bag. Ben didn’t want to wait around for him to get undressed and changed so he went ahead and downstairs to the pool.

He got in and submerged himself completely in the water, and his entire body sighed at the cool relief that it’s been given. He likes the complete, bottled up silence underwater. Soon, from under the water, he could see Joe’s feet, making his way to the edge of the pool, sitting down with a small book, and two red apples in his hands. The thin book is a phrasebook he has been carrying around with him. He took one of the apples and bit into it.

Ben came up and out of the water.

“Look what I got,” Joe said, smirking and showing off the red apple in one hand.

“Were they from the room?” Ben asked, not recalling seeing any. Joe gestured to give him an apple, but Ben shook his head.

“No,” Joe answered around a mouthful. He swallowed before continuing. “Got them from a staff as I was coming here. There’s a kitchen apparently, but it’s hidden a little further away from the courtyard. She was carrying groceries and fruits so I helped her.”

“Been sweet-talking again, haven’t you?” Ben shook his head, but he’s smiling.

“Hey, I helped her.” Joe was indignant. “Even asked for another apple for you.”

Ben waded through the water to come closer to Joe. He stopped in front of the redhead and put an arm across his bare lap. Is it him or is Joe’s skin a lot less paler now since they got here? He seemed to have gotten a bit of healthy colour on them. He leaned forward and stole a bite from the apple in Joe’s hand.

"Hey!" Joe laughed before shaking his head disapprovingly.

“I’ll eat mine later,” Ben said, a little cheekily, but clearly liking the apple’s taste and sweetness.

“No way,” Joe protested, chuckling. “They’re both mine now. Thief.”

Ben just smiled, clearly up to something. “Put that down, I’m pulling you in,” he said suddenly, hooking his arm behind and around Joe’s knees.

“What--” Joe let out a surprised yelp as the younger man pulled him into the dipping pool. It wasn’t that the pool was deep or even remotely dangerous; Ben could stand perfectly fine in it and the water goes up just until his chest, but Joe had noticed an undercurrent of irritation and strain in Ben’s mood since they were in Agadir and then in Ouarzazate, but suddenly it seemed to have disappeared completely in Marrakech, replaced by this cheeky playfulness that Joe hadn’t seen for quite some time. Not since the last time they had taken a long trip away together like this, at least.

It took him awhile to realize that the sudden jump had their bodies pressed close together now, Ben’s arms around him and his arm around Ben’s neck, in each other’s attempt to not let the other person fall down into the water earlier. Ben always came up with some childish, playful ideas like this when he’s in the right mood. How immature, Joe thought, but he likes this Ben better anyway.

He told himself that he should pull away from Ben now, suddenly realizing that not only they’re too close, they’re also wet and almost naked. But neither of them seemed to want to move.

“Hey,” Ben said, and Joe thought he could hear his voice shaking a little, “Remember you told me the other day Chloe thought that we’re together?”

Joe looked straight and unwaveringly into Ben’s green eyes. “Yeah.”

“Do you--” he started and paused, swallowing. “Do you really think it’s funny?”

“No.” He didn’t know why it came out of his mouth almost like a whisper. Suddenly it seemed like the pool water he’s standing in had turned warm, or maybe it was Ben’s arms around him, or the heat he could feel pooling at the base of his gut, and now spreading everywhere in his body, to his head, and colouring his cheeks.

On the other hand, Ben looked like he had lost all colour from his face.

“Me neither,” he said. It must have been barely a whisper too, considering how closely they’re standing in each other’s arms right now, but Ben’s voice sounded too loud in his ears, like the sheepskin drum banging and clear voiced singing piercing the silence of the desert. Ben had been unusually quiet the entire first day they were out on the Sahara, and Joe had tried every little, subtle trick he knew to lift the mood of the younger man, to no avail. He ate less than usual, and had been steadily sipping glass after glass of wine, and his eyes--Joe knew Ben’s eyes better than anyone--they’re filled to the brim with things that were threatening to break and spill anyway no matter how much he--or they, for that matter--tried to hide.

“Joe, I--”

It felt like this conversation that they’re struggling to have, with stuttering words and half-whispers, was the only conversation they have been waiting to have since forever. Since they first met and Joe thought Ben hated him, the American actor who’s playing the bass player of a British iconic rock band. Since Joe’s birthday when Ben apologized and kissed him with an apple between their mouths. Since they hate being away and apart from each other’s side. Since they started using endearments in texts, like they don’t really mean it. Since they first snapped a photo of Ben kissing Joe’s cheek and sent it to Gwil, and it became a normal thing for them to do to rile the poor man up. They’re all just a joke, after all. Joe used to think it didn’t matter, the feelings he had for the younger man, until he learned to read Ben’s eyes, and he could see something more in them. But he kept telling himself it was absurd, it was all merely his imagination.

That is until they found themselves standing here, in a dipping pool with the sun shining through the open, unroofed courtyard, arms around each other, him looking straight into Ben’s eyes and the younger man looking like he’s about to stop breathing, stumbling and choking on his own words.

So Joe did the only thing he could think of. He leaned in, as close as possible without actually touching Ben’s lips, closed his eyes, and kissed him.

There was that initial second where they pretended like they were playing it coy, like they were being careful with each other. But Joe took that half step closer to Ben, and the water around buoyed them on, until two steps and a half later, Ben was pressed against the tiled wall of the pool, and Joe was kissing him with one hand under his jaw, his thumb grazing the corner of Ben’s lips, and the other arm slung over his shoulder, around his neck, keeping his close, even as Ben slips both his arms tighter around Joe, very clearly not going to let him go. At least not anytime soon. They pulled apart for a moment, just enough to breathe, before kissing open mouthed again, savouring each other like making up for lost time. There’s a hint of apple sweetness still on their tongues, but other than that they’re just tasting and breathing in each other, so familiar and yet so new. And touching skin. There’s just so much skin. So when Ben’s roaming hands rather deliberately ran along and inside the waistband of Joe’s shorts, causing him to shudder involuntarily and pull away, he moaned a little into Ben’s neck.

“Wait--” he said, lips still on skin.

“Wait what?” Ben sounded a little confused.

“Wait until we get upstairs?” Joe offered.

“Don’t say things like that.” Ben closed his eyes, pressing their foreheads together before kissing Joe again.

“Like what?” Joe said when Ben let go of his lips to start kissing the skin along his jawline instead.

“Like that.” Ben said, catching Joe's upper lip between his lip and teeth.

“Like, let’s get upstairs, get dressed and go out so we can get the memory card for your camera and something to eat?” He was teasing him.

Ben made a sound in his throat that sounded clearly like a protest and kissed Joe again. “No, like, get upstairs so I can kiss you all day long like this.”

And Joe could honestly, really, see no point in arguing with that, so he kissed Ben one more time.

#hardzello #hardzzello #joe mazzello x ben hardy #joe x ben #one year of love #oneshot #borhap fanfic #fanfic #fic #answer #ask me

37 notes · View notes

bluepenguinstories · 5 years ago

Text

Remoras Full Chapter IV: Funiculì, Funiculà

It’s been over a year and a half since the incident. To think that so much time passed and yet I find myself unable to say “a lot has changed since then.”

Still, as my therapist often told me, it was all a process.

That I had a therapist was, in of itself, a process. One which took much deliberation. Sensible or stubborn, I refused to seek help from my old place of work, and instead sought out a private therapist who would come visit every other week. There were other places I could have gone, I realize, but I was just too afraid to venture outside. Even with the idea of a brighter future ahead, I was just so afraid of the outside world and its potential to be cruel.

Our most recent session in particular was rather devastating (but each one was, just as it was devastating to have an earnest conversation with anyone) and left me drained afterward. It had went something like this:

“I thought things would be better from here on out,” I told her, who sat across from me on the sofa, and jotted notes down as I spoke. “Like, I was finally free – and I am, don’t get me wrong. But in spite of that, I’m still so scared that there are still people out there who mean to do me harm. Or that I may snap and cause them harm. I feel like such a mean person, but I don’t want to be.”

“There are scary people out there, for sure,” was her reply.

“That’s all? No ‘but’?”

She shook her head.

“But I don’t want to live in fear!” I protested.

“It’s normal to have such a response to the outside world, given what you’ve been through.”

“It’s just...I feel so weak, you know? I feel like I used to be so strong, but now I can hardly do anything. This was supposed to be the start of better things for me, but instead I’m finding it difficult.”

“It is difficult, and the start of better things often are.”

“But it feels like I’ve regressed, rather than moved forward.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I break down easily. I think about how I used to act and it appalls me. But at the same time, I miss aspects of who I was. How I could keep in all these feelings and keep a face of someone calm. I would do whatever I felt necessary in order to do the things I wanted in my life. But...I knew it was coming to an end, even then. I just couldn’t sustain myself that way. I was starting to give up. Even back then, I missed who I was before that: someone who could fight and say whatever was on her mind. I thought I accepted the idea that if I were to die the next day, I would be content, because there nothing else I could do.”

“But here you are. You’re still strong. You need to see that just because you’ve dealt with traumatic events in your life doesn’t make you weak.”

“I know, but I don’t want to be this way.”

“Battles often aren’t without their scars.”

“I guess…” I looked away for a bit. The apartment really was small. There were so many thing I still didn’t feel ready for, yet I wanted to dive right into them. “Is there nothing I can do?”

“I wouldn’t say that. It may be difficult, but I think you can live a better life. You’ve already made so much progress, I hope you see that.”

My initial thought was to ask “such as?” Instead, I thought about what kind of progress that could be.

“Yeah. I moved into a new apartment. I still don’t feel like I can work a job, but I’ve started to cultivate some plants out on the back deck and I think I want to have an orchard eventually. This apartment is really just a first step. I want to live away from the city, have a garden in a remote area, growing my own fruits and vegetables. I’m not sure if, or when, it will happen, but at least I have someone who supports me.” I took a deep breath. “I managed to seek therapy. Talk to someone other than who I live with.”

“I’m glad you acknowledge that.”

“Yeah, I, I just don’t know,” my voice started to crack. Come on, hold back the waterworks for just five minutes. She’ll be gone soon. “I want to be able to go outside without being so afraid.”

“You don’t have to go into crowds, you know. Even just going to the back deck is something.”

“Yeah, but what if I need to, like, to get groceries or something?”

“Hmm…” She pondered, tapping the end of her pen against her chin. “Maybe you could start slow. Would it help if you held your wife’s hand and took a walk around? You don’t have to go very far.”

“Yeah, I think that could work. I’m afraid of crowds, but I think I could even visit her every now and then at the Saturday Market. She’d probably like that. I think I’d like that, too.”

“Oh yeah, you told me about that last time.”

“I’m the one who encouraged her to do so, since she’s always making things, anyway. It’s surprising, but enough people like what she does that we’re able to pay rent with the earnings.”

Why is it so surprising? You wouldn’t have encouraged her if you didn’t have confidence in her skills.

“That’s great. See? That’s a strong thing right there.”

“Mm,” I looked down. “I guess. It’s just hard. Like I’m learning to be the person I want to be.”

“Life is a constant learning process.”

There were other talks after that; back and forths about mindfulness and acknowledging each moment. By that time, however, I had already zoned most of it out and was just nodding along. I was too emotionally drained. She could tell as well, so we wrapped up our session, arranged a time for our next session, and I saw her off.

Then, I leaned my head back on the couch. One problem that never got brought up was a recent development: gaps in my memory have started to resurface. Things from long ago, and even things that by all accounts, I should’ve remembered. Like the early days with the one who I would end up spending the rest of my life with. Speaking of, I decided to text her:

Me: I’m done with my session jskjsksjksjskjskjs

Then I passed out.

I woke up to feel someone nudging me.

“Oh my! I thought you were keysmashing but turns out you fell asleep with your thumbs on your phone!”

I rubbed my eyes as I groaned. “Therapy is exhausting,” I informed her, my voice groggy.

“Uh, yeah? Everyone knows that.”

“How did I ever manage it?”

She shrugged. “Beats me. You were never that good at it.” “Hey!” I retorted.

“Well, okay, you were good at making people think you were good at it. You did what you thought would help with what little knowledge you had. Presentation counts for a lot, so your colleagues probably never thought to question it.”

“Why did you ever let me go through with it?”

“I think I said at the time that you didn’t have to, but you were pretty insistent.”

Sounds about right, given what I knew about myself.

“It’s not fair,” I grumbled. “I always end up crying during these sessions. I bet therapists never cry.”

“How much you got?” She took to a sly expression. “I bet they do. They probably wait after the session and then bawl their eyes out.”

We both laughed at that remark.

“So what’d you two talk about, anyway?”

I crossed my arms. “I don’t really want to rehash it.”

“Okay, fine by me! But I’ll be around if you do.”

“...It was just about how I’m scared to go out in public and she suggested you come with me and we could hold hands.”

She gasped. “You just breached confidentiality! You have to go to jail now!”

“What?! No! That’s not how that works!” I protested. “It’s the therapist who can’t talk about the things said without express permission from the client! I volunteered that information to you!”

“Nope. Do not pass go. Sorry, babe. I don’t make the rules. I’ll miss you, but I promise to write.”

“Oh my god! You’re too much!” I burst into laughter.

“So, wanna try it?”

“Hm?” I looked at her.

“The handholding thing. Sounds fun.”

“We’ve held hands before. Practically all the time.”

“Yeah, but wanna do it...therapeutically?”

“Yeah. I think it would help.”

“And, y’know, if it helps, I could sit in on one of your sessions sometimes. Hold your hand while you tackle tough emotions.”

To that, I shook my head. “This is something I want to confront alone.”

“There you go again, bein’ all stubborn. That part of you’s never changed,” she wagged her finger.

“Well, if you want, you could sit in on me...in the bedroom…” I covered my hands over my face. “That was phrased weird. I can’t do suggestive talk.”

She rolled around the couch in hysterics, laughing it up.

“Will there be biting?” She asked, once she finally calmed down.

“Lovingly.”

“Yay!”

We walked together into the bedroom and curled up, our legs tangled in each other. She tittered, ran her fingers through my hair, and smiled. That she acted so giddy every time we would lay together made it so that I couldn’t help but smile as well. First, we started off by kissing, arms wrapped around each other, then we sat up; I watched as she unbuttoned her blouse, and I, in turn, slipped out of my shirt.

Everything was going well, with me giving her light pecks across her neck, down her chest. But then, from the corner of my eye, I saw the scar on her shoulder and remembered the cause of her injury.

“I’m sorry,” I pulled away. The tears were already starting to work their way down even though I knew she didn’t think ill of the whole thing. “I don’t think I can continue.”

“Aw, it’s okay.”

Instead, I leaned in close, and she held me tight against her. The image would have been an odd one, had I the ability to see outside of myself. Although I was taller, often times I thought of her as the bigger person.

“Would you like to take a nap?” She asked.

“Not yet,” I muttered.

“Would you like me to take over and help you feel better?”

Weak, I nodded, then I leaned back and let her shower me in affection and pleasure. It felt wrong, selfish of me, not to reciprocate, but it was just like that: images of the past come to mind and sometimes they affected me, while other times I was able to take a more active role and exist in the moment.

At least there was no desire to be aggressive. No itch for greater and greater levels of intensity. Instead, I could take my time and let it come in its own time. There would be another opportunity to bring her pleasure later in the evening. For the time being, I found myself brought to a high, and then, as I reached my peak, I fell back. She kissed my cheek, then, snuggled up to each other, we both fell asleep.

Needless to say, there were still a few difficulties to overcome. It was all an adjustment process, I knew that. But I didn’t want to find myself so needy that I couldn’t do the most basic of things, like going outside in public, unless she was around.

So a few days later, I got up out of bed, after having slept in. She had already left earlier in the morning to go work at the Saturday Market. While home alone, I bathed, then slipped into a bath robe, made myself a bowl of oatmeal for breakfast, and after, took to the couch and read a book.

Around noon, I began to grow restless. I knew that if I just waited a few hours, she would come back home, but that wasn’t it. I wanted to try going out on my own. After changing into a tie dye shirt and jeans and slipping on some shoes, I inched toward the door, my heart pounding all the while.

Once out, I started to feel more and more agitated. I wasn’t very far from home, but the thought that there were other people nearby already got to me.

“Not much further. I don’t need to go far,” I told myself under my breath. But each step, I thought to be more daring, and soon, I was near where the crowded streets began. Soon, the sea of others’ voices drowned out my own thoughts and both my mind and my heart were racing. I was about to turn back when one voice stood out among the others.

“How long does it take to do such a simple assignment? ‘Divide and conquer’, she said. Well, I’ve already taken care of my targets, so what’s taking her so long?” Came a low and icy voice, from someone who sounded rather annoyed.

Assignment? Divide and conquer? Targets? This isn’t good; I’m having irrational thoughts of what the implications of those words could mean.

I looked around to find whose voice that belonged to, and at last, I saw her: someone about as tall as I was in stature, with a thick red vest, who stood in the middle of the sidewalk, as if everyone around her didn’t exist. She shivered, was hunched over, and seemed to be typing at her phone.

Images of that incident flashed in my mind, but rather than run away and cower, I found myself approaching her, and then the words escaped from me:

“Rhea? Is that you?”

“Huh?” She turned around. It was more clear that it wasn’t her from up close: she had darker hair, almost blackened, but with a hint of red to it. “Do I know you?”

“I’m sorry, I thought you were someone else, but you couldn’t be her, since she died.”

“I see. That’s rather strange to come up to strangers and mistake them for dead people,” she remarked as she slipped her phone back into her pocket. Beside her were a couple of bags. “Do you do that often?”

“No, I –”

“Also, I’m Remora. Not whatever you just said.”

“Sorry. Really.”

She went back to her phone. “Seriously? She still hasn’t replied?”

“Um...may I ask what’s wrong?”

“Just my partner. We were going grocery shopping and we decided to split the list, but she’s taking forever. I’m considering just leaving without her.”

“Partner? As in couple?”

She glared, almost a scowl.

“No.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

I considered walking away, since I had already troubled that Remora person enough, but I figured she was frustrated and I thought I could try to help diffuse the situation.

“Are you in a hurry?” I asked. “If not, maybe you could find something to do in the meantime.”

She looked around, her arms still huddled as she shivered, then returned her gaze to me. “No. None of these things are perishable. What would you suggest?”

Crap. I just put myself on the spot. Great.

“Well, you could, uh...sit at a park, maybe?”

“No.” She shot me down. “Hm…who are you, anyway?”

That took me by surprise, but I told her my name.

“I see. Do you want to get a drink?”

“Like, at a bar?”

“No, at the denist’s office,” she replied. Okay. I could tell when someone was being sarcastic.

She waited for a response, but when I didn’t know what to say, she spoke again: “yes, I meant a bar.”

“Maybe I should let my wife know first. I don’t know.”

“Do you need your wife’s permission to do everything?”

“It’s...It’s not like that!”

“Well, are you coming or what?” She tapped her heel.

“Y-Yes!” I didn’t know why, but I felt like I should accept the offer and hang out with her.

She started to walk off and I hurried behind, my eagerness to interact with someone other than the person I lived with outweighing my anxiousness of being out in public.

“Sorry again, by the way. You really did seem like her from a distance, you even talk and act a little like she did.”

“People don’t come back from the dead, Vesuvius.”

“Right! I know that!”

“Pick up the pace,” she instructed. I didn’t know what it was about her, but there was something there that itched at me, as if no matter how hard it was to think otherwise, it really did seem like I was face to face with Rhea with the key exception being that we were doing something so normal as going out drinking together. It both excited and terrified me.

At the bar, we next to each other at the counter. Few other occupants resided; it must have had to do with the time of day.

“Get me a cold one,” she told the bartender.

“A cold what?” He replied.

“I don’t know. Whiskey? Vodka? Does it matter? Something strong and cold.”

Just like you?

“What about you, missy?” He turned to me. That annoyed me. ‘Missy’.

“Miss is just fine,” I replied. “I’ll just have a pomegranate martini.”

“My bad, miss.”

“Good. You’re sticking up for yourself,” she commented.

That took me by surprise. I turned to her. “I try my best. People scare me, but I still need to assert myself.”

“It might irritate other people, but that shouldn’t matter,” it sounded like she was agreeing with me. “Others can deal with it, if it’s what matters to you, you should speak up about it.”

“Um, thank you?”

“Just stating facts.”

Well, in that case, I prefer Ves.”

“What?”

“My name.”

“Oh. Then why didn’t you tell me that was your name?”

“Vesuvius is my name, it’s just that I like Ves more.”

“All right, then. Ves it is.”

“Thank you.”

She shrugged. “I’m just here to kill time. I can spare a few courtesies.”

Right, and I was just there because I mistook her for someone who used to want me dead and who I, in turn, caused her death. But yeah, let’s just say we were both killing time and I wasn’t nervous as all hell.

I turned to her and noticed her arms crossed as she rubbed her hands against her upper arms while her back was hunched over. Her back was hunched over and I watched her take labored breaths.

“Are you all right?” I asked her.

“It’s the atmosphere,” she replied, brisk and low in her tone.

“You were shivering when we were outside, too.”

“I’m not used to the climate, that’s all. I live up north.”

So that’s what it was. For a second, I thought…Ah. Here I was, sitting next to someone I had just met and all I could think about was someone I barely knew for three days before said person died. To think that the time we met was so short, but I found myself so affected by her. Not to mention, how we were enemies.

“What? Why are you crying?” She sounded genuinely surprised. I reached for a napkin to wipe my eyes with.

“Sorry, I...sometimes I cry when I get sad,” I tried to explain.

“Isn’t that normal for most people?” She gave a perplexed look.

“Yeah, I suppose it is,” I replied with a soft laugh. “I’m just not used to it.”

“I see. Why is that?”

I shrugged, then tried to explain.

“Much of my life was spent on edge. Either fighting, running, or hiding. After a while, it started to weigh on me. So I kept my emotions hidden and laid low. My pain, my rage, I just held it down and instead carried a calm demeanor.”

Our drinks arrived. Hers, a glass of whiskey (not just a shot glass, either, a rather tall glass) and my pomegranate martini. I took my finger to the rim of my glass and licked the sugar off of it.

“Mm. Yeah. That’s no good. Holding in emotions is unhealthy,” she replied after downing her drink.

“What about you?”

“I don’t have many emotions to begin with. Not much to hold in.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why? Doesn’t bother me.”

“Maybe so. Sorry, you seem okay, but I still can’t help but think of this other person. I guess I’m still not over her.”

“What was she to you? An ex or something?”

“Not exactly. She tried to kill me.”

“Huh? What was her reason?”

“Well, she was hired to do so and she said I was a threat to humanity. Truth is, I could see her reasoning, being that I was pretty sick at the time and it was affecting people around me.”

“You’re better now, though, right?”

“Mhm.”

“Good.”

There were many things that filled my mind then. The events of those fateful few days – how I attempted several means to give myself a better life, but they ended up only making things worse for me. Then, I found myself saying:

“I know we were enemies, but it seemed like she was just as exhausted of fighting as I was. Even if circumstances led us to being opposed to each other, I really wish I could have gotten to know her better. Maybe I could have helped her somehow.”

She took another swig of her drink, then wiped her mouth with her sleeve and set the glass down.

“Sounds like it was for the best. Everyone has their own ideas of a ‘happy ending’. Sounds like that was hers.”

I wanted to say how it was she died, but I knew it would have been incriminating. Especially in a public place.

“I take it you killed her, huh?”

“Wait, what?” I blinked.

“If you two were enemies and she’s dead, that’s how I imagine things went down.”

“Yes, but I didn’t want to. I just think she wanted me to. At least it seems that way.”

Remora looked like she was about to speak up again, but then we both heard her phone buzz. She pulled it out from her pocket.

“Oh. Great. It’s her.”

“Your partner?”

“Hold on.” She began texting. I could hear her say under her breath what she was typing. “You do not need a sombrero. That is not why we’re here.”

Cue a few seconds later, she jolted, as if she was getting pissed off.

“No. You don’t need a set of neon green throwing knives, either. What’s taking you so long?” Then she glared at me. “See what I have to deal with?”

The phone buzzed again, and again, she recited what she was typing.

“How is that relevant?”

Puzzled, I leaned over. She must have noticed, so showed me the conversation. The first thing I noticed was the contact name, which simply said ‘Pest’:

Pest: Someone’s selling sombreros! I want one!

Me: You do not need a sombrero. That is not why we’re here.

Pest: Send me money so I can buy some neon green throwing knives! I need them to look badass! ;_;

Me: No. You don’t need a set of neon green throwing knives, either. What’s taking you so long?

Pest: I just realized that my name is so close to ‘dementia’! I need to change my name! D:

Me: How is that relevant?

Pest: YOU MAY AS WELL PUT EBONY DARKNESS IN FRONT OF MY NAME AKSJKSJFSKJF ;_;

I blinked. That sure was something.

“I can see how your guys’ personalities clash.”

She shook her head. “Too high energy for me.”

“Hey, I’m married to someone who’s high energy.”

“Married couples annoy me.”

I looked down at my drink. Still hadn’t even given it a sip. Maybe I just wasn’t in the mood for it. Shame, too. It probably tasted great.

“Hey,” she poked me. “Give me your address.”

“Why?”

“So I can tell her to meet me there.”

“Oh. Uh, I guess that’s fine. She’s not dangerous, is she?”

Remora laughed. “She’s only a danger to herself.”

“That’s a relief.”

I wrote down my address on a napkin and passed it to her. Remora went ahead and texted it to her, then she ordered another drink.

“We’re not gonna head over there?” I asked.

“Knowing her, it’s gonna take another hour before she shows up.”

“Oh, well in that case…” My thoughts drifted once again to Rhea. “Can I try something out?”

“What?”

“Can I pretend it’s Rhea sitting next to me? I know it sounds weird, but I think it would help me move on.”

“Sure, if you think it’ll help.”

“Thank you,” I cleared my throat. “Okay, here goes…”

I thought of the right words to say, as if I was having a conversation with someone I could never have. How would I address them? I figured starting with their name was a good starting point.

“Rhea,” I began.

“Yeah? What is it?” Remora replied.

“What?” I paused.

“I wasn’t sure if you wanted me to pretend to be her or not.”

“You can respond if you want. I’d mostly like it if you listened.”

“Okay. Go on.”

“It just pains me to know that there’s so much about you I’ll never know. Like what life must have been like for you. I know you gave off the impression of a cold and merciless mercenary, but for whatever reason, you showed me mercy. Even though I killed your partner, Douglas Fir. I still wish I hadn’t done that to him, even knowing how he terrorized my home, I’m still disgusted at myself for that.”

“Eh, he had it coming,” she replied.

“What?”

“Oh. Nothing. He just sounds like a sleazy guy. Carry on.”

“Now that I think of it, it wasn’t that you simply showed me mercy. You offered me a choice I could not accept. When I refused the first time, you tried to stop at nothing to kill me. When that didn’t work, you decided to try to talk with me and see if you reach a different solution. I don’t really understand why. You could have killed me while I was recovering. I wish I could have known what it was.”

She didn’t respond that time. I continued.

“You knew about me through files written on me. Could deduce my personality just through a few sentence descriptions. But I, even from what little I saw of you, still didn’t really know you. I knew you had a condition. It fascinated me, truth be told. Thoughts like ‘I wonder what it is that made you this way’. Even if I knew, I don’t think I could have helped you, as much as it pains me to say. Whether it was a physical or mental condition, I don’t think I would have known what to do. Whether or not there really was a cure, it didn’t seem like something I could have figured out.”

“Why should I feel sympathetic when our roles were more antagonistic? I cannot say. Maybe I saw us as kindred spirits, in spite of our roles. To me, it looked like you were in pain, just as I was. It may have been expressed differently, but I still sensed a pain, a certain tiredness in you. I think that’s what affected me so deeply about your death.”

“I wonder...did you really mean it when you said I was a disappointment? I know, such a strange thing to dwell on.”

She took another drink. “If you want my opinion, the only person you should worry about disappointing is yourself.”

“Well, I’m rather remorseful of how I used to act.”

“Hmm...Remorseful...Gah! I should’ve changed my last name, too! I just couldn’t come up with a pun, so I decided to leave my last name as is!”

“...What?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Remora waved her hand away. “Just frustrated. I could’ve worked with that! I only chose this name because I saw a remora at an aquarium and they seemed interesting.”

“Wait, is Remora not your real name?”

“It is. I just had a previous name. I liked to work with name puns. Giving myself this name, it felt like a sense of freedom for me.”

“My birth name was Etna,” I told her in an attempt to relate.

“Yeah, but your name is Ves. Just as mine is Remora. We don’t need to worry about past names.”

“Yeah, but what about past actions? Experiences?”

“You said you acted with the intention of being happier. Well, are you happier now?”

I had to stop and think. Was I? In a way, I had made myself unhappy. But through that, I was able to experience what I had been missing for so long, so in that sense, I found it worth it.

“Yes. It’s taken me a while to get there and it’s still a long journey, but I’m in a much better place now. It’s just been a slow process.”

“Good. That’s all you need to worry about. Is making sure you keep moving forward and realize that the journey has been worth it.”

“What about you?”

“Eh. Same. It’s an adjustment, but I’m open to it.”

“That’s good. I’m glad for you.”

“Why? You just met me.”

“I don’t know. I just feel like I’ve known you already.”

She pointed at my glass. “You haven’t finished your drink.”

“Oh. Lemme do that right now,” I held up the glass and downed it in one big gulp.

“Isn’t that the wrong kind of drink to be chugging down?”

My head was already starting to feel funny. “Yes. I. Think I’m ready to go home.”

“Oh, bother,” she held her palm to her forehead and shook her head. “Are you going to be all right?”

“I should be fine.”

Besides the fact that I felt like I was going to collapse on the sidewalk.

“Here, let me walk you home. That’s where I’m meeting my partner, anyway.” She slipped a hundred dollar bill on the counter, then stood up.

Before I could object, she carried me on her shoulders as I felt myself start to get drowsy.

While we walked home, through my sleepy voice, I continued to try to strike conversation with her.

“Do you and this person live together?” I asked.

“If you’re referring to the grocery partner, no. We just happen to work at the same place and the manager asked us to go shopping here.”

“Oh? What do you do for work?”

“I work at a restaurant. I never thought I’d see myself doing that kind of work, but it’s better than my old job.”

“What was your old job?”

“I killed people.”

Ah, for whatever reason, that didn’t sound so bad. Probably because I was just hazy enough that I didn’t think much of it.

“I used to work as a therapist, myself. But I think I did more harm than good. It’s a real shame. I think I’ve done better for both mine and others’ mental health since I quit,” I droned on.

“Sometimes you just gotta say ‘fuck work’,” she replied.

“Yeah,” I agreed, then smiled. “Fuck work.

We arrived, and she let go. I managed to stand on my own. Already, I felt more clear.

“Say, would you like to meet my wife?” I asked, rather on a whim.

Remora looked around, then shrugged. “Sure. She’s still not here yet.”

I went up to the door, unsure if she had come home yet. I could have texted her, but I figured if she didn’t show up after I knocked, I’d have my answer. After my knock, she came up right away.

“Oh hey, look at you! You’re outside on your own!”

I nodded, a bright smile upon my face. “Actually, I ran into someone.”

“Oh? Who?” She leaned her head over. After she gasped, she turned back to me. “Is that the weird stalker lady?”

“No, but the resemblance is uncanny,” I whispered. “She’s friendly. Her name is Remora.”

“Oh!” She shoved past me and ran out to see Remora up close. “It’s nice to meet you!”

“Why?” Remora asked in response.

“Because if Ves says you’re friendly, you must be friendly!”

“You’re cute,” Remora stated. It could have been interpreted in a sarcastic manner, and yet it came out so plain as to be nothing more than a general statement.

“Thanks! So are you! So is Ves!”

Remora looked like she was about to get a word in, but before she could, someone came running up with a backpack on and a shopping bag in their hand. I focused on the figure, she was someone small, didn’t even look five feet tall. Her hair, dark green and wavy. Plus, she wore a sombrero over her hair. The creature didn’t notice my wife and I, and instead focused on Remora.

“Found you! And look! I got it! There was a dollar on the ground and I was able to get it! Still missing the throwing knives, though…” She looked down at the ground, as if she suffered a great loss.

“Good for you. Did you get the groceries?”

“Of course! They’re in my backpack! What have you been up to?”

Remora pointed her thumb toward me.

The girl (pardon me for referring to her as “creature” just a bit ago) looked over and gasped. “I was too late! You seduced them both!”

“What are you talking about?” Remora asked.

“Or...maybe it was those two who did the seducing!”

“I’m lost.”

Me too. Did I know her? Did she know Juniper and I?

She took off the sombrero and set it on the ground, then reached into the shopping bag and pulled out a blonde wig, then placed it on her head. The wig in question had pigtails. With furious motions, she pointed at my wife, then herself, then looked up at Remora and opened her mouth, but didn’t make a sound, just had it open wide as if she would have yelled had she made a sound. But as she looked at Remora, she continued to point at the woman beside me.

“What is she doing?” Remora asked Juniper and I.

We both shrugged.

“I think it’s called pantomiming?” Juniper suggested. “I’ll be honest, though: I was never that good at charades.”

“Yeah, me neither,” I admitted.

The girl looked furious, took off the wig, then undid the pigtails and tried to straighten up the wig. Then, she took out a pair of glasses from her pocket, put them on, and then put the wig back on. This time, she chose to point at me, just as furious.

Her finger, at first at me, then back at the one beside me, then she faced her thumb at herself.

“Is she your guys’ daughter?” Remora asked my wife and I.

We both shook our heads.

She tore the wig from off of her head, threw it on the ground and stomped on it.

“I can’t believe you guys!” She yelled at last, as I assume she had been holding it in. “That’s my cousin!” She faced Remora, then pointed once again at my wife. “Juniper Bark!”

Wait. Something dawned on me. But before I could say it, Juniper spoke up instead.

“Oh, I remember you! From the wedding, right? Demetria!”

“Bingo. And I came to stop you!”

“From what?”

“From stealing Remora! I saw her first!”

Juniper clapped. “Good job!”

Demetria blinked. “Oh. Thanks. I mean, I’m not actually into her. I just think she’s cool. Yeah. That’s all.”

What was with her demeanor? At one point she really was high-energy, like the impression of her I got from Remora suggested, but now she seemed stunned.

“Uh, well, anyway,” She looked away, embarrassed. Of her previous actions? Hard to say. “Juniper, your brother’s still a doctor, right?”

“In a sense!”

“Is he here? Can I talk to him?”

Juniper shook her head. “He lives at the same apartment he did before, Vespiquen and I just moved to a new one. Why do you ask?”

“I wanted to ask him what the condition was when you see this tall, strong lady and your whole personality changes and all you can think about is being in her strong arms and how hot she is. I was wondering if he could diagnose me.”

Juniper put her hand over her mouth and had a devilish grin on her face. “Ohoho, I can tell you that right now.”

“What? You can?”

“Mhm. I’m afraid it’s terminal.”

“What?!”

“Yup! And there’s no cure!”

“That’s horrible!” Demetria cried out.

I nudged Juniper and gave her a glare.

“Oh, all right,” Juniper relented. “I diagnose you with gay.”

“I can’t believe you! You had me in quite a shock! I’m going to remember this!”

Although the focus had been on Demetria, I shifted my attention back to Remora, to which a scowl was forming on her face.

“Ves.”

Startled, I asked, “what is it?”

“Does the name ‘Clara Waters’ mean anything to you?”

I took a minute to think about it, but then it came.

“Actually, yes. That was one of the names Rhea had used.”

“Figured as much,” the last syllable on her breath had a tinge of a snarl to it.

“Which city was it that she died in?” Was the next question from her.

“This one. Why?” She seemed to be piecing something together.

“I see.”

“Is there something that I’m missing, here?” Demetria looked at all three of us.

“Demetria,” Remora growled.

“Eep! Was It something I did? I’ll behave!”

“Can you wait for me at the airport?”

There was a definite anger to her voice, though it didn’t sound like it was directed at Demetria, but someplace else.

“Oh. Yeah. I can do that.” Demetria picked up both the bag with the wig as well as the bag of groceries that Remora had carried just a bit ago. “Um, see you later?”

Remora nodded.

I opened my mouth, curiosity or concern having overtaken me. “What is this about?”

“I’m about to find out. It was nice to meet you. Now I must meet a corpse.”

“Huh?”

“This was never about grocery shopping and the fact that I didn’t figure it out sooner disgusts me.”

That didn’t clear anything up for me, but what was clear was that she was about to take off.

“Um, before you go…”

“Yes?”

“Would you like to be friends?”

“Why?”

“I think it’s what Rhea would have wanted.”

It felt rather manipulative of me; a dirty trick. Even if that was the case, I just couldn’t bring myself to tell her that the reason was that I saw it as a second chance for me. To befriend someone so similar to Rhea.

“What does this person’s wishes have to do with me?”

Oh no. Her words sounded hostile. But then, she let out a sigh.

“All right. Fine. I’ll put your number in my phone.”

“Ooh!” Juniper jumped up. “Me too!”

“Ladies, one at a time.”

After she entered our names into her contacts, we waved goodbye to her. It was somewhat of a relief to see her off, just as it was to meet her in the first place.

“So, that was interesting, huh?” Juniper observed.

“Mhm. Didn’t expect to run into Demetria, either. I thought she was pursuing her Master’s degree. Maybe she graduated already.”

“Oh! I didn’t even think about that!”

Juniper locked her fingers within mine, and the two of us went back into our apartment. The day had turned out to be quite overwhelming, though a large portion of it was a good kind of overwhelming.

Once we were both on the couch and curled up next to each other, I pieced something together of my own.

“Remora really was Rhea.”

“Huh?” Juniper looked up at me.

“Well, not the one that we knew. If I had to guess, I’d say it was similar to how I met another you once.”

Though such a thing wasn’t something I expected to encounter ever again. Still, there was no doubt in my mind; Even if I had deduced without total confirmation, since I believed I had an answer as to why I thought of Rhea so much around Remora, I also believed that was all the more reason to treat her as if she were someone new.

#wriitng #remoras full #old friends #enemies to friends #some minor reveals #stories #vesuvius #remora #rhea #demeter #lgbt #wives

4 notes · View notes

bhushita · 7 years ago

Text

Lopamudra’s Wedding

BY BHUSHITA VASISTHA | FICTION

Many years ago, when the earth was still very young and her every toss and turn frightened mortals, propelling them to create a pantheon of omnipresent gods, there was a great learned yogi-alchemist named Agastya. He was convinced that there was a mysterious pattern, which governed the earth, and knowing these patterns would free humans of their enslavement to the Devas, the race of fair-skinned ones, who claimed to possess secret powers to the mystery of nature.

He believed that no man knew any more than the other man to make him any superior. He often argued that humans were enslaved not because of any innate inferiority but simply because they were too lazy to find out for themselves. They didn’t, he thought, put their heart into solving the questions that puzzled them and therefore settled for myths and stories. He was determined to find the way nature truly worked, and spent hours studying the movement of birds, the swiftness of their flight against gravity and tried to create a flying contraption that could emulate this motion.

Naturally, Agastya wasn’t an easy Brahmin to be around. He asked questions difficult to answer, challenged the long-standing traditions and argued that our scriptures perpetuated fear and bigotry. His ways gradually drove him to the fringes of Brahmin community and they dismissed his existence not with vehement censure but simply with sardonic smiles. He was often found toiling in his lab, playing with strange evanescent chemicals. Strange stories abounded around the solitary alchemist. They said he stole and operated on dead carcasses, some claimed to have heard him speak to them. People had slowly forgotten all about him,until much later when he successfully designed the first flying machine. He was already an old man when he launched his first flight.

The Devas, who were always quick to recruit scientists to advance their Goddom, recognized and made Agastya one of their own. It was a strange twist of fate that Agastya, who started his scientific endeavors to debunk the myth of superior race, was granted a place among them as the reward of his discovery. Some of his young disciples, who called themselves Anarchists, accused Agastya of compromising their ideology for the luxury and comfort of the pantheon. They went ahead to accuse Agastya of all kinds of debaucheries, but to be quite honest we don’t know much about that. These are hearsays, the unauthenticated voices of history, which always threaten to malign a great man like Agastya.Any serious scholar will stick to the official pages of history in which Agastya appears as a glorious scientist, who devoted his entire life to the pursuit of truth. So single-minded was Agastya in his pursuit that he would have never married if not for the strange encounter with his dead ancestors one day.

It was a beautiful morning. The cool breeze rolled down the mountains in gentle waves, unfurling the petals of fragrant tuberose and plumeria. The sky was clear. Agastya had just finished his morning ablutions and was wrapping loincloth around his waist. His lithe body glistened under the tender morning sun. After finishing his prayers, Agastya set out towards his abode. There was a kind of playfulness in nature. A bunch of sparrows glided with elegant ease through the crisp air, singing along a chorus of a happy tune. The raspberry shrubs were laden with ripe fruits that gave off a sweet, tangy flavor to the air. Agastya plucked a few berries and ate them. They melted gently, leaving the exquisite flavor of spring in his mouth. Riveted, he walked along the trail humming a hymn, an ode to spring, that he had composed a few days ago. As he reached near the huge banyan tree, which stood on the bank of a small creek, which winded around his ashram, he caught a strange sight – a bunch of elderly people hung upside down by a not so tall bush, the silver tuft of their hair swaying to the whims of the wind.

“Who are you?” asked Agastya with no small wonder. “And why are you hanging upside down on this puny bush?”

“We are your ancestors,” they replied in unison. “We are hanging by in this bush because unless you marry and give birth to a son, we cannot transcend the earthly realm and ascend to the otherworld.”

“That is rather strange,” replied the yogi. “Do we not ascend to heaven because of our own merit?”

“No, it is not enough,” said one his ancestors. “Good deeds are desirable but not enough. Unless your lineage is expanding on earth, you cannot enter heaven, so is written in our scriptures.”

“Alas! I am already an old man now. I am not sure anyone would be willing to marry me, much less beget a child for me.” Agastya tried to reason his way out, but his ancestors assured that the yogis have always been desired by the most beautiful of the women and he would find no trouble finding the bride given his accomplishment.

They might have been right about other yogis but not about Agastya. It turned out that Agastya had accomplished so much as a man that it was difficult to find a woman who could be of his match. For months, Agastya wandered far and wide looking for a bride. There was no shortage of young and beautiful maiden, well-adorned, well-spoken, adept in household work and art of love. However, when it came to Agastya, he found them far too meek and submissive to arouse his passion.

After roaming for months together, Agastya decided what he sought in a woman was nothing less than perfect, so the only way to find such a bride was to mould one. So, he carefully assembled the most beautiful parts of all animals, the most sublime essence of all flowers, the sensitivity of water, the infinite wisdom of the ether, the gentleness of wind and brilliance of fire and created a girl child – Lopamudra.

Lopamudra was, by definition, the essence of everything sublime – from beauty to wisdom to aesthetics. Agastya looked at his brainchild in awe and decided to leave her in care of King of Vidarbha until Lopamudra would come of age. The king was utterly pleased to welcome Lopamudra, as he had been desirous of progeny at the moment. Princess Lopamudra grew up not just to be exceedingly beautiful but equally astute. Her spontaneous wit and relentless curiosity often put the royal scholars in trouble. But her father, the king, revelled in his young and prodigal daughter. When Lopamudra came of marriageable age, the king started looking for suitors. The princes came from far and away in the hope of winning the beautiful bride, but Lopamudra rejected them all for she found them inferior to her.

When Agastya heard of it, he set out to the kingdom of Vidarbha for Lopamudra. He was received amicably by the king, however, when he heard the sage’s proposal, he was heartbroken. He had brought up Lopamudra with great care and in luxury. Imagining her as the wife of an ascetic, and an ascetic who was old enough to be her father, his heart sank. He told Agastya that he would consult with the queen and give his decision the next day. That night the king summoned queen to his quarter and discussed the issue. Agastya was renowned for his esoteric powers. Rejecting his proposal might be provoking his wrath, which would be inauspicious for the kingdom.

Meanwhile, the princess Lopamudra was told by her maids that an old sage had arrived with the marriage proposal for her. That evening the Princess sat before her dressing table for a long time, taking off her ornaments one by one until she shed them all. She took off her silk drapes and wore a modest cotton wrap. Her large kohled eyes shone like pristine lakes on her moon-like face. She kept staring at the image on the mirror searchingly. The sun rolled down the skies, and the moon soared noiselessly through the mango orchard. The harshness of daylight had given away to the quivering, mercurial light that made all inanimate objects stir back to life. The silk drapes on the window danced to the tunes of wind in graceful swings. The slender eucalyptus tree outside her window quivered in some silvery feverishness. The princess felt a strange restlessness assail her being, too. The owl hooted twice. Lopamudra listened carefully to the sound of footfall in the corridor; there were none. She wrapped a shawl around her head and walked into the garden. The black, inky waters of the darkness filled the garden, making the pathways, so well trodden in the daytime, suddenly unknown and mysterious. She walked cautiously, trying not to disturb the calm of the night or to stir wrathful monsters from her womb. She walked as light as the shy parijata buds that landed weightlessly on the garden-floor, leaving behind their heady fragrance on the wind. When Lopamudra opened the gates of the lodge where Agastya had chosen to stay, it was the dense fragrance of parijata blossoms that first hit him. Inhaling the sweet, intoxicating air, Agastya turned around to find the princess, who was lighter than the wind. She almost appeared to be floating on air, just like the parijata fragrance. Agastya examined his unannounced guest with some strain in the dim light of kerosene lamp. She appeared as ferocious as she was calm. Her face had the solemn gravity of the moon, but something of fire blazed from within her skin. Agastya couldn’t say she was beautiful — she was far more than that. He couldn’t phrase how he felt about the princess. Her being was not just an invitation but a challenge.

“You cannot be anyone else but Lopamudra,” said Agastya. The princess thought she could detect a hint of relief in his tone but relief from what she did not know.

“Why couldn’t it be anyone else?” she questioned as she locked the wooden lattice door behind her. Agastya thought it was uncharacteristically bold of her to shut the door.

“Because there has been no woman in this world, who can captivate me. Except one, who goes by the name of Lopamudra. Considering how I, the great sage Agastya, feel utterly helpless in front of you at the moment, I know that you are Lopamudra.”

The princess smiled, thought over the statement for a while and said, “You really are proud of yourself, aren’t you?”

“Well, I could be,” he replied laughing and gesturing her to sit on a wooden chair, next to his bed. “But many would agree that my pride isn’t entirely unfounded.”

The princess, instead, sat on his bed. As she sat cross-legged on the bed, facing the sage directly, she took off her shawl. Yet again, Agastya was at a loss for words. Lopamudra was unlike anything he had seen or imagined. Indeed, in one way, she seemed to mirror himself, in a younger body of a woman. But there was also something decidedly boyish about her. She reminded him of something of himself, but he could not say just what. She sat with no feminine self-consciousness or with any calculated poise to intrigue. She simply sat there with authority, with a strange asexual, transcendental charm about her.

“Of course,” she said, “I was very thrilled when I first read of your alchemic formulas and theories on aviation. But what had really impressed me was how you thought marriage was a futile institution and were determined to pursue your scientific discoveries without submitting to these social formalities. And now suddenly, you are looking for a bride. Agastya, I am curious — what made you change your mind?”

Lopamudra spoke with great passion and conviction. She made him feel that she spoke each word with great earnestness and expected nothing less in return.

“You seem to know a great deal about me already, my dear princess,” the sage replied. “You might as well know that I have agreed to marry only to free the souls of my ancestors from their earthly bondage.”

“We both know that it is only an excuse. Such baseless and superstitious fabrications cannot fool a man of your mind. Tell me Agastya why did you decide to marry?” Lopamudra insisted.

“I do not think they are baseless, princess. It has been written in the Scripture.”

Princess replied rather irritatedly, “You certainly don’t think that everything that is written in the Scripture is true. Not you of all people, Agastya!”

“They have been handed down the generations for a certain reason. Only truth stands against the test of time, Lopamudra,” Agastya replied.

“Don’t be so naïve, Agastya,” the princess quipped. “The scriptures are nothing but documented histories. And we know well enough that history reflects the bias of its authors. So, history is bound to be partial and therefore didactic and oppressive. Anyone who lives as dictated by history is unwilling to use his power of reason, which is not something I expected from you.”

“But what fault do you find with the scripture, give me an example and I will explain it to you, princess,” replied the sage. The moon was now right across the window, throwing the shadow of the tall parijata tree on Lopamudra’s body. Its coolness did nothing to sooth the young princess, consumed by the heat of a passionate discussion. The cool breeze could only sweep past her lithe body, releasing the fragrance sweeter than that of the flower.

“What do you make of the story of Samudra Manthan, the Great Churning of the Ocean, where the Devas claimed everything precious that came out of the churning as theirs, depriving Danavas of their rightful share, for instance?”

“Well, you are probably taking about Amreet, the elixir of life,” Agastya said and paused for a while. A firefly had come and settled on Lopamudra’s hair. He looked at this tiny creature, which pulsated with so much life. Agastya tried to remember the days when he used to question the validity of the rules of Devas like Lopamudra, but it seemed so distant that it might as well have been in a previous life. He reminisced about this phase of his life with some amusement. He thought when we are young we must find some fault with the world that we shall set out to change but on growing old we realize the world had always been perfect.

“Yes!” Lopamudra demanded, nudging him out of his reverie.

“Lord Vishnu did so to prevent the world from destruction,” said Agatsya. “Imagine if the Danavas had attained the power of immortality, they would have destroyed everything.”

“See?” the princess said solemnly. “How could you just make assumptions? When you look into the pages of histories, the Devas have been involved in all sorts of atrocities from stealing the wives of others to deluding the yogis and yet none questions what have the Devas done with their immortality. If you read the ancient scripture, there is no evidence as to why the Devas might be more righteous than the Danavas. It only mentions that Devas were relatively fair complexioned and more proportionately built, whereas Danavas were dark skinned and more heavily built. There is no moral ground to suspect they might be any eviler than the Devas. That is pure racism and nothing else. Imagine, if the Danavas had somehow managed to get exclusive claim over the elixir and write the scriptures, what would be the prices you would be paying to free your ancestors?”

Agastya laughed and replied, “It’s a charming debate, but if you really want to know Lopamudra, we always speak in symbols and lore. The Good and the Evil are two extremes poles on which the rope of life extends. In reality, there is no isolated good or evil.”

“No, but I still find the assumption of the superiority of the Devas questionable. And I find it equally questionable that you are ready to marry against your principle because these scriptures written by the Devas tell you to do so to free your ancestors.” Lopamudra persisted stubbornly. A gust of wind rolled freshly into the room. The firefly flew away from her hair.

“Well, the scriptures are valid not because I can furnish logic to prove it but because they are so by nature” Agastya said.

“Now you are talking like Hitler,” Lopamudra replied quickly. “You repeat a lie for thousand times and it becomes truth”

Agastya looked at her in disbelief. He didn’t know Lopamudra was also adept in time-traveling. “That is an inappropriate comparison. But more importantly, time-traveling is unadvisable to ordinary people, and you shouldn’t be citing examples from the time that hasn’t happened yet.”

“On the contrary, Agastya, I think everyone should do time-traveling at least once in their lifetime.” The princess replied with ease but it was evident that she immediately realized the foolishness of her thoughtless disclosure. Further, she had practised the time-traveling meditation from one of the treatises of Agastya himself. No one knew of her lofty flights across time, except the owl, who lived in a tree outside her window. Lopamudra was twelve years old when she first traveled across time successfully.

“Why would you want to travel across time, Lopamudra?” Agastya asked her after looking out the window for a rather long time. The silence was thick, punctuated only by the distant hoot of an owl.

“I don’t know, Agastya. In the beginning, it was just pure curiosity. I used to be so bored at the palace, as you can imagine. And I started reading books, all sorts of books. I read one of your books on time traveling, and since then I have wanted nothing more than to meet you. So initially, I just time traveled in the future to see if I would ever meet you. I was surprised by how I was fated to marry you. So, I was further intrigued, and I started traveling backwards to know who you were. There were things that I liked and there were things, I couldn’t quite cope with. The present was bland and mundane. It didn’t offer much meaning to my queries. So, I started traveling across time frequently. I came across many interesting people like Jaratkaru, who reminds me of you. I met women like Damyanti and Shakuntala, so devoted to their husbands. But as I started travelling forward, I also met women like Simone De Beauvoir, Joan Moreau and Anais Nin. Looking at all these different kinds of women, so admirable and inspirational in so many different ways, I started to realize no ideal of truth, beauty or justice was fixed; every ideal was in continuous flux. That way Hegel is going to be quite right. This infinite vastness of possibilities both intrigued me and comforted me. I realized without exploring the dimensions of time, we make the mistake of considering our opinions or privileges as right and God-given, not realizing our ideals of truth or justice or beauty are simply manufactured to suit the status-quo of the given time.”

They both kept quiet. Lopamudra was playing with her shawl, braiding the threads listlessly. Agastya was filled with the most tender feelings for Lopamudra. One could not even call it love as such.He could only approximate it to the feeling that King Jadabharat had for the young fawn, for whose love the king relinquished his merits to enter heaven and chose the earthly bondage and suffering. She was playing with the fire and he was worried if Lopamudra was sufficiently armed not to be crushed by so much knowledge. He did not even know what to say to her. He wanted to embrace her but that would be inappropriate.

He sighed and asked Lopamudra, “So, coming back to our point, why do you think I might have decided to marry you?”

“I don’t know, Agastya,” Lopamudra said. “If it was just the matter of a son to free your ancestors as the scriptures say, you, who created me from your mind, could have easily created a son. But that wouldn’t do. You have desired for a woman, Agastya. Not for your ancestors, but for yourself. Freud would have been quicker to decipher your unconscious motive. I can only say that you are rationalizing yourself; perhaps because you consider yourself too sagely to admit to yourself that like everyone else, you crave for human flesh.”

“If it was just a matter of a human body, why it couldn’t be anyone else? Why did I have to create you?” Agastya asked. His cheeks had grown redder under the silver of his beard. He was afraid if Lopamudra could see through them.

“Don’t be foolish, Agastya. You did not create me any more than God created Eve out of Adam’s bone. It is logically incongruent because if God indeed created Eve out of Adam’s rib, there would only be the male chromosomes, and therefore God might have created Evan but not Eve. I am well aware that I am your illegitimate child. You forget that I often do time-traveling.”

Agastya heart drummed a loud tick and it went quiet. Despite the cool breeze, he broke out into a sweat. When his heart resumed pounding, a rush of blood surged and he felt momentarily blinded. Agastya closed his eyes, his face was disfigured by the painful convulsions. “I don’t remember that Lopamudra,” he said finally, his voice thin and shivering.

“It is hardly surprising,” the princess replied. “We often shove the unpleasant memories into our unconscious mind, don’t we? We never know who we are.” She looked at Agastya with prying eyes but he remained impenetrable like a blind marble statue. The princess continued, “We continuously create our image of who we think we are by selecting a few flattering memories and discarding the rest. But I don’t blame you. It is the same with me. Trapped in millions of memories, I struggle to understand who I am but I only manage to catch a few fleeting phantoms and mistake those apparitions to be me. It’s a tiresome business.” Lopamudra sighed and closed her eyes. Her face had grown tired and old somehow. When she noticed that Agastya still didn’t elicit any visible reaction she continued with her soliloquy. “For example, knowing it all too well that I am your illegitimate child, I still find myself attracted to you. In all certainty, I shall agree to marry you. Of course, this truth won’t go into history. The scriptures will say that the great sage Agastya created a beautiful brainchild to release his ancestors from earthly bondage. I have read those future scriptures too. History is not what it says, but often, what it tries to hide, and all scriptures are nothing but histories. I don’t fool myself that you are marrying me to free your ancestors and nor should you.”

The wind shook the parijata flowers and they went twirling in the air. Agastya opened his eyes and saw that a few of them woven themselves into Lopamudra’s hair. Agastya stared blankly at those flowers for a long time. White wasn’t just white, he remembered from the Book of Alchemy; it was a rainbow, trapped cleverly.

Lopamudra’s flesh shone like a lump of soft, kneaded dough under the pale moon. Agastya felt terrified of her. He abruptly shut his both eyes with his palms and began to weep.

“Don’t weep,” Lopamudra said. “Tomorrow morning I shall announce my desire to marry you to my father, the king. And don’t weep over the stories. All stories are lies, including mine. To speak is to lie. What is told is always partial. I love you Agastya, not because we are holy or special or sacred. We are none. We are beings trapped in a human body, craving things that are not always holy. You, despite your wisdom, crave for a woman’s body just like anyone else. And I, knowing all too well that you are my father, desire for you. We are this. We are what defies our conscience. We are what baffles us. We are what we condemn. And we are together not because we are going to do holy things together but because we are going to allow ourselves what it is to be a human. Your ancestors are not suspended because you don’t have a son but because you have misunderstood your own desires. Fame or knowledge doesn’t liberate, Agastya, we are only liberated when we embrace tenderly that which is the darkest and the ugliest in us. I embrace you, I embrace you like thousand fragrant lotus blossoms, I embrace you like the levitating light of heaven, I embrace you like you were my own newborn. Don’t be afraid Agastya, the moon shall not wait for us forever.”

Agastya only remembered that white flower with the delicate orange stalk in her hair. He couldn’t remember when the princess left or when the morning arrived. When he regained himself, the bright orange sun was floating above the white, muslin-like clouds, which reminded him of the parijata flowers again.

http://mithilareview.com/vasistha_06_18/

#bhushita vasistha #Mithilia Review #science fiction #south asian speculative fiction #fiction #Original Work #spilled ink

4 notes · View notes

johnfrenchlandscapes · 4 years ago

Text

Permaculture and the Home Garden: Finding a Balance

Written by Christy Wilhelmi and published on https://grocycle.com/.

“Permaculture” means different things to different people, as it should, since it is a whole systems approach, and systems are diverse in use and in method. Coined by David Holmgren and Bill Mollison in the late ’70s, “permaculture” was defined, according to Holmgren.com.au, as “Consciously designed landscapes which mimic the patterns and relationships found in nature, while yielding an abundance of food, fiber, and energy for provision of local needs.”

The term now encompasses many strategies and goals in gardening, agriculture, and landscaping. Just as our Western medicine has begun to embrace some Eastern-based beliefs of mind-body, or whole system health care, we gardeners embrace a larger picture: permaculture as a way of sustainability for future generations. Sustainable practices are perceived as a noble pursuit for some, a way of life for others, a catch-phrase for even more.

Through permaculture we are recalling in our gardens and landscapes the way plants grow in nature. However, since many of us move often—from one town or suburb to another, across the state or the country—we, the backyard gardeners, the growers of salads, berries, herbs, and flowers, may think that it takes heavy labor, much time, and a big budget to accomplish permaculture. Otherwise, why would anyone NOT prioritize sustainable practices?

Permaculture Farming: The Ultimate Guide and Examples

If you’re looking for a way to produce food while working with nature instead of against it, permaculture is your answer.

What is permaculture farming? Permaculture gives farmers a way to achieve high yields and productivity while doing it in a more sustainable and environmentally-friendly way than conventional farming methods. It applies a more holistic approach to farming crops or livestock.

In this article, you’ll learn what permaculture is, the 12 principles of permaculture, its benefits, and several real-world permaculture practices.

What Is Permaculture?

Permaculture is an approach to agricultural design that focuses on whole systems thinking, as well as using or simulating patterns from nature.

The term originated from David Holmgren in 1978, but the practices of permaculture date back much further.

Permaculture has 3 core tenants:

Care for the earth. In other words, help all life systems continue to exist and multiply. Because if we don’t have a healthy planet, humans can’t exist at all.

Care for the people. Allow people to access resources they need to survive.

Fair share. You should only take what you need, and reinvest any surplus. Any extra can go forward to helping fulfill the two other core tenants. This includes returning waste products back into the system so it can be made useful again.

Conventional agriculture tends to work against nature, instead of with it.

We tear up whatever natural ecosystem was on the land before, and turn it into a blank slate that we can plant crops or raise livestock on. But there’s another way.

By using principles of permaculture, you’re working with nature, instead of against it. That means that you can let nature do most of the work for you.

Read my beginners guide of How To Start A Permaculture Garden

Learn How To Create A Permaculture Orchard Guide

The 12 Principles of Permaculture

David Holmgren’s original ideas regarding permaculture can be broken down into twelve design principles.

1. Observe and Interact

Take time to observe nature before making any decisions or changes. Often just by observing, we can get a lot of insight into how to design our farm or garden to suit what’s already there.

2. Catch and Store Energy

In nature, resources tend to come in peak periods. We get a lot of sunlight in the summer, but much less in the winter. In some places there are rainy seasons some of the time, and droughts other parts of the time.

Permaculture is big on capturing resources like rainwater or solar electricity so they can be used later as needed.

3. Obtain a Yield

Make sure you’re being rewarded for the work that you’re putting in. After all, you probably aren’t farming just for a hobby. You want to get food, an income, or something else in return. You can’t work on an empty stomach.

4. Apply Self-regulation and Accept Feedback

Hold yourself accountable, and also be open to suggestions and critiques from others. If there is something you’re doing that’s inappropriate for your situation, you want to know about it, so your systems can function well.

5. Use and Value Renewable Resources and Services

Nature has an abundance of renewable resources that we can make use of. We should prioritize those, and try to reduce the consumption of non-renewable resources.

6. Produce No Waste

Being “zero waste” is a big trend right now, but really it all started with permaculture. If we value all of the resources that we have available and use a bit of ingenuity, we can make sure that nothing goes to waste.

7. Design From Patterns to Details

Take a look at nature and society. You can usually observe patterns in things like how beehives are organized, the design on a snail shell, or other things to give inspiration for your designs.

You can borrow from these designs and add some details and flair of your own.

8. Integrate Rather Than Segregate

Permaculture is all about having things support each other and work together, instead of having everything exist as an island unto itself.

By pairing different plants, livestock, and other objects together correctly, we can take advantage of relationships they can have with each other.

9. Use Small and Slow Solutions

Permaculture isn’t about making big changes overnight. Making gradual changes and working with slow systems makes them much easier to maintain.

Plus they tend to have a more sustainable outcome. When it comes to permaculture, slow and steady wins the race.

10. Use and Value Diversity

Where conventional farming is all about monoculture and many farmers traditionally only grow one or two crops, permaculture is big on diversity.

A diverse system is much less vulnerable to threats like pests, diseases, and other problems than a homogeneous one. Don’t put your eggs all in one basket.

11. Use Edges and Value The Marginal

Where two different things meet is usually where the most interesting stuff happens. It’s usually the most productive and diverse part of the whole system.

12. Creatively Use and Respond to Change

Change is inevitable. By making careful observations and then stepping in at the right time, we can make a positive outcome based on changes instead of negative ones.

Read my guide on How To Start A Permaculture Garden here.

The Benefits of Permaculture

Permaculture has a bunch of benefits that make it an attractive choice for anyone who has land and is looking to grow food, from farmers all the way down to backyard gardeners. Some of the benefits include:

Reduced water usage

You can save on water bills by making use of wastewater and rainwater. Even for homeowners this is worthwhile, but for larger farms it really becomes a more cost effective and efficient way of watering your crops.

It costs less

Permaculture is more cost-effective than growing plants conventionally. You don’t have to spend money on things like pesticides or fertilizers.

Since permaculture systems require less maintenance, usually all you need to do is water crops and occasionally mulch, they also save money in terms of labor.

Reduced waste

If you’re using a permaculture system, nothing goes to waste. Garden waste, leaves, table scraps, and other waste products get turned into fertilizer or food for livestock.

Some permaculture enthusiasts take this further and even make use of things like compost toilets to truly live a zero waste lifestyle. Making use of byproducts is what really makes permaculture sustainable.

Nature does most of the work

Once everything is correctly set up in your permaculture garden, it will take care of itself much more than a conventional one.

Water can be stored in human-made water features to attract birds, frogs, and other beneficial wildlife that will help remove pests as well. Companion planting similarly helps to keep insect problems to a minimum.

Permaculture gardens require a lot less maintenance overall.

Less pollution

Permaculture is a more natural way of growing food and the use of any motorized farm equipment like tractors is rare.

Less toxins

Permaculture uses natural fertilizers and pest control methods and is usually considered organic, so you’re not getting exposed to all of the chemicals you might be if you’re using pesticides and other artificial products on your crops.

Improved values

By practicing permaculture, you’ll naturally develop more ethical and positive values like wasting less, only using as much as you need, reducing pollution, and helping others.

You’ll promote green living through use of only natural fertilizers and pesticides.

More self-sufficiency

Permaculture allows a farmer or gardener to have a wider array of crops on their land. It gives you the self-reliance of being able to grow whatever you want or need to eat.

If there’s extras leftover, you can always learn how to preserve it for later use.

Applicable to existing systems

Existing agricultural systems and land can be transitioned over to the principles of permaculture. Anywhere that you can typically grow food can be used for permaculture on a large or small scale.

Common Permaculture Practices

In the decades since Holmgren first wrote about permaculture, a wide variety of new techniques and practices that fall under the general umbrella of permaculture have sprung up and become included under the topic.

Here are some of the more common subcategories of permaculture.

1) Agroforestry

Agroforestry is an approach to permaculture that combines trees or shrubs along with livestock or crops. The name comes from the combination of agriculture and forestry.

These two seemingly separate fields work together to create more sustainable, healthy, profitable, and productive systems.

Under the heading of agroforestry, you have forest farming, which is really an entire permaculture topic unto itself. But the basic idea is to use a seven-layered system to create your food forest.

This includes a canopy layer, low tree layer, shrub layer, herbaceous layer, rhizosphere, ground cover layer, and vertical layer.

It’s designed to mimic naturally-occurring forests, but using nut and fruit trees, vegetables, herbs, and other plants that are useful for humans.

Other agroforestry systems include silvopastoral and silvoarable. Silvopastoral systems combine trees with foraging livestock, while silvoarable combines trees with companion crops.

Alley cropping is another agroforestry technique that involves cultivating food, specialty crops, or forage in between wide rows of trees.

As you might imagine, there is a lot of overlap between these different types of agroforestry and they have a lot in common, so the lines aren’t always perfectly clear.

For example, alley cropping can be used as part of a silvoarable system.

What all types of agroforestry have in common is that they can help to improve crop production, diversify farm income, and provide protection and other benefits to crops.

Having nut trees alongside foraging livestock means that you get the benefits of additional income from the nuts that you gather.

The trees provide protection from the wind, rain and other elements for livestock and reduce the risk of mortality. And animals produce waste as they forge which in turn fertilizes the trees and boosts their production capacity. Examples of cultures around the world combining agriculture with forestry are surprisingly common. They stretch back hundreds of years or more, from Southeast Asia to North America.

Learn more agroforestry technics in this Agroforestry Ultimate Guide and Examples.

2) Hügelkultur

Hügelkultur is German meaning “hill culture.” It’s a technique whereby large amounts of wood are buried to improve the water retention abilities of the soil.

This decaying wood acts like a sponge to hold onto water that seeps into the ground. Often compostable plant materials are planted on top of the mound and eventually composted into the soil as well.

A Hügelkultur is a great way to follow the permaculture principle of catching and storing energy.

Water during rainy times of year gets trapped in the underground wood, which can often hold enough volume to help keep plants alive even through an extended dry season.

This practice is a great alternative to burning wooden debris and other unwanted wood. Instead of releasing carbon into the atmosphere when it’s burned, the wood’s carbon gets sequestered back into the ground.

A Hügelkultur mound usually has a lifespan of 5 or 6 years before the wood fully rots and the process needs to be repeated again.

3) Harvesting Rainwater and Greywater

Instead of just letting rainwater run off your land, you can accumulate and store it to use later on. This is embodying the permaculture principle of “catch and store energy.”

Most rainwater is collected from roofs. Homes, barns, and other structures on your farm likely already have eavestroughs that collect and move water away from the buildings.

To harvest rainwater, all you need to do is hook up a large tank to your downspout collect this water, instead of simply letting it soak into the ground and go to waste.

Another water catchment method is stormwater harvesting. It differs from rainwater harvesting in that it deals with the collection of stormwater from creeks, drains, and other waterways instead of from roofs.

One way farmers can create a stormwater harvesting system is by making a cistern or water reservoir at the base of a hill. This will catch most of the water which flows down the hillside. The advantage to stormwater harvesting over rainwater harvesting is that a much larger volume of water than rainwater harvesting can. The downside is that it collects a larger amount of pollutants.

To mitigate this, normally rocks and silt are incorporated into the hill to partially filter the water before it arrives at the cistern.

Both rainwater and stormwater can be used for a variety of applications, including water for irrigation and livestock, as well as even drinking water if properly treated first.

What the water will be used for determines the extent to which it needs to be treated. The water would need to be screened, disinfected, and filtered before it’s potable for humans.

One final source of reusable water on the farm is greywater. This is water that comes from activities in the home or around the farm like taking a bath, washing dishes, or doing the laundry.

This water is different and kept separate from the blackwater of toilets or septic systems, which is difficult to reuse.

Greywater can’t be reused for drinking water since it contains soaps and detergents, but can be used for landscape irrigation and other purposes.

Human waste can be repurposed, although the process is harder and less practical. The two most common approaches are composting or using the material to create biogas.

Biogas is methane from human waste which can be used as a fuel for cooking or heating. Even after composting, it’s not recommended to use human manure on crops because of the high risk of pathogens and bacterial contamination, although they can be used on trees and shrubs.

Getting composting toilets approved by your local sanitation authorities can be a difficult ordeal, so they’re less commonly used.

4) Cell Grazing

Grazing is usually seen as a negative activity that has the ability to destroy the environment if not practiced responsibly. And it’s true that allowing livestock to overgraze an area can have negative consequences.

Under permaculture, cell grazing (also called rotational grazing) is the preferred method. This involves moving groups of livestock regularly between different fields, pastures, or forests. Either ruminant animals (like cows, goats, and sheep) or non-ruminant animals (like pigs, rabbits, or flocks of geese) can be used effectively for cell grazing.

When done responsibly, the disturbances caused by grazing animals can actually prompt a better ecology and allow plants to regrow more quickly.

Cell grazing involves closely monitoring and monitoring livestock and how they’re interacting with the land.

Plants need adequate rest between grazings, so it’s important that an area gets a rest period to regrow after it has been grazed.

However, you also don’t want to over rest an area or plants can go through lignification (become woody), resulting in lower productivity. So it’s a delicate balancing act.

Even vegans and others opposed to using animals for meat, milk, or fiber can still keep livestock for grazing by using what’s called conservation grazing.

This is the practice of using animals like sheep and goats to eat invasive plants, or allowing them to replace your lawnmower to keep grass short. Animal welfare is maximized, as they’re closely monitored.

Farmers can ensure their livestock are getting sufficient quality and quantity of water, and their nutrition can be managed and supplementation provided as needed.

Conservation farming provides a low-stress environment for domestic animals while also allowing them to contribute productively to the farm and earn their keep.

5) Sheet Mulching

Many farmers and gardeners already make use of mulching, which is just any kind of protective cover placed on top of the soil to retain water and prevent weed growth.

Wood chips, cardboard, plastic, stones, and other materials are all commonly used.

Sheet mulching is an organic no-dig technique that tries to mimic the soil buildup that happens naturally in forests, namely how leaves cover the ground. The practice of sheet mulching is also sometimes referred to as “lasagna gardening” since it uses many alternating layers of materials. In a cross-section, land that has had sheet mulching applied to it would look like a slice of lasagna.

Most commonly, sheet mulching uses alternating layers of “green” and “brown” materials. Brown materials include fallen leaves, shredded paper and cardboard, pine needles, wood chips, and straw.

Green materials include manure, grass clippings, worm casings, vegetable scraps, hay, coffee grounds, and compost.

Anywhere from 5 to 10 layers of materials may be used. Your sheet mulching should always be topped with straw or wood chips.

Sheet mulching helps add nutrients and organic matter to the soil, suppress weed growth, moderate temperatures and protect against frost, reduce erosion and evaporation, and absorbs rainfall.

6) Natural Building

Natural building is a more sustainable approach to construction than going down to your local hardware store or lumber yard for materials.

In a permaculture system, you should strive to use as many recycled or salvaged materials as is practical.

There are plenty of renewable resources on the land that you might be able to make use of in your next building project.

Clay, rocks, wood, reeds, straw, and sand are all readily available materials that most people overlook.

For example, subsoil, water, straw, and lime can be combined to create cob. This building material is very low cost, but it’s also fireproof, resistant to seismic activities, and is strong enough to build entire houses out of.

Despite being made of natural materials, cob is very resistant to weathering. With proper maintenance, a cob structure will last a very long time. In fact, the oldest cob house still standing is estimated to be 10,000 years old. Not bad, considering the cost to build a small cob house is only about $5,000 to $10,000.

Cob also allows for some very unique architecture that isn’t possible with bricks or other traditional building materials, since you can mold it like clay into any shape that you want.

Adobe is another material similar to cob which is used all over the world, from Mexico to the Middle East.

Less natural materials like tires can also be used for construction. Earthship homes are a type of passive solar earth shelter that are constructed by stacking tires filled with earth to form walls, and then covering them.

This can be a great way to repurpose used tires that would otherwise end up in landfills or incinerated. Discarded glass windows are also often similarly used instead of buying new.

7) No-Till or Minimum-Till Farming

Minimum-till or no-till farming aims to leave soil undisturbed. Instead of breaking up the soil before planting, it’s simply left undisturbed.

This helps retain water, prevents carbon from leaving the soil, improves soil quality, and reduces the amount of weed seeds being brought closer to the surface to germinate.

Conventional farming disturbs the soil. This lets carbon dioxide into the atmosphere and overly oxygenizes the soil.

Loosening the soil like this can also lead to erosion and nutrient runoff, as well as destroying beneficial fungi networks in the land.

With the proper techniques, tilling is something that can be minimized, or potentially even eliminated entirely for some systems.

8) Intercropping and Companion Planting

Intercropping is the combining of two or more plant species into an area which have beneficial effects on one another.

One example is companion planting, where strong-smelling plants and herbs like basil, oregano, chives, or garlic alongside main crops like tomatoes, carrots, or cabbage.

Pests hate the smell of many of these strong-smelling companion plants. Not only that, but some of them actually improve the growth and flavor of the plants they’re paired with as well.

Others loosen the soil or give other benefits.

You will need to look up different plant companions and carefully plan your garden accordingly.

While many plants work well if combined with other plants, there are other plants that don’t get along because they require the same nutrients, or for other reasons. For example, carrots don’t like to be planted near dill, sage attracts pests that feed on cucumbers, and most plants dislike being planted near fennel.

9) Market Gardening

Market gardening is an interesting move away from traditional agriculture, which is done on large tracts of land far out in the country, to smaller plots of land that are sometimes even located in urban environments.

Like the name suggests, market gardeners often sell their produce at farmer’s markets, although some may supply restaurants and grocery stores directly as well.

In market gardening, cash crops are intensively grown on a small scale (usually less than an acre of land.)

A market gardener can earn as much as $100,000 per year while growing on as little as a quarter acre of land. Permaculture and other sustainable practices are a big part of what makes this possible.

Check out these small scale farming ideas which you can grow into your farm.

The Importance of Permaculture Farm Design

Permaculture is crucial, because right now, it’s the only food production system we have that’s beyond sustainable.

Conventional agriculture tends not to be sustainable at all, so it’s not really something to measure against. Really we should set the bar at sustainability because that’s what’s necessary for humanity to survive in the long term.

But really we strive for food production systems that will give a net positive result. Otherwise, the human population won’t be able to grow and still have all of its food needs met.

So the goal of permaculture is to design a system where more energy gets extracted from the system over its lifetime than what you have to put in.

Usually, this involves working with a closed-loop system that incorporates waste products back into the system.

Permaculture is adaptable. It’s constantly under development and permaculture farmers are constantly trying to find better and more efficient ways of doing things, and to have a better understanding of nature.

Biodiversity thrives under permaculture. We don’t have to make the tradeoff of destroying forests and other habitats for wild plants and animals, just to produce our food or earn an income. It’s a way of people living more symbiotically and sustainably, and being better stewards of the environment while still getting our own needs met.

Learn more about farmers lifestyle, learn what a homestead is, and why you should start homesteading.

The History of Permaculture

Permaculture as we know it today was originally developed by David Holmgren and Bill Mollinson of Australia in the 1970s.

It came about a decade after the world began to learn about the dangers of pesticides like DDT and the threat they posed to humans and the environment.

The term was made from a combination of the words “permanent” and “agriculture” since it was designed for the creation of sustainable (in other words, permanent) systems.

It was one of the first agricultural systems devised where we began to understand that local actions could have global impacts.

Although Holmgren is credited with popularizing permaculture, it’s worth noting that several works on topics like agroforestry and forest farming had existed since the 1930s or earlier, and unwritten records of similar techniques most likely date back much farther than that.

Frequently Asked Questions

Q: What is the difference between permaculture and organic farming?

A: Organic farming means not using chemical fertilizers, pesticides, or genetically modified organisms.

Permaculture includes organic farming practices, but goes beyond that and lays out larger systems about how a farm should be structured, how to reduce waste, and other important considerations as well.

Q: What is the difference between horticulture and permaculture?

A: Horticulture simply refers to the growing of plants for commercial consumption, usually vegetables. There is some overlap, and parts of permaculture can be classified as horticulture.

But horticulture also applies to other farming techniques like monoculture, and permaculture includes things like raising livestock that aren’t part of horticulture.

Q: Where can I find permaculture farms near me?

A: Many permaculture farms are eager to show the great work they’re doing to the public and allow visitors. But there isn’t necessarily one directory where you can look to find permaculture farms in your area.

I recommend doing a Google search for “permaculture farm + (your city)” to find farms in your area. Many of them will have websites or social media pages where you can contact them to learn more.

Conclusion

Permaculture is a great way to continue generating high yields and maintain your current level of productivity, even if you’re switching away from a more conventional farming model or system.

It gives a more environmentally-friendly and sustainable system for agriculture by taking a more holistic approach to managing livestock and crops.

Not only can permaculture be just as profitable as conventional farming, it’s often easier and less labor-intensive as well.

This is because using the 12 principles of permaculture, you allow nature to work for you, instead of trying to work against it.

Original post here https://grocycle.com/permaculture-farming/.

The post Permaculture and the Home Garden: Finding a Balance appeared first on John French Landscapes.

John French Landscapes

0 notes