#it's just really profound and captivating writing and GETS IT it gets the point so well and in a way i've never seen anything else quite do

[septembersghost]

Hi! :) Just wanted to say I finally got around to watching Bates Motel (finished season 4 today, so, a whole more season to go) and oh my goodness, I am BLOWN to pieces already. I think the last couple of episodes of season 4 will stay with me forever, Norman going full on insane and poisoning Norma, Romero's grief, the funeral scene and then, of course, the final one with the... body and Chritmas hallucinations. I just sat there for whole twenty minutes in total shock after the credits and cried. It was so nerve wrecking, devastating, sad and horrifying at the same time, and the acting and emotions are just PHENOMENAL. I don't think I'm quite ready for season 5, to be honest, but I already want to rewatch the whole show later. Um, I hope it's okay to talk to you about this. I remembered you said you loved Bates Motel and I want to say this again, YOUR TASTE ROCKS. I see why it left such a huge impact on you and I feel like it's already left an impact on me too. CHILLS. I love this, and I hate this, because the show is so beautifully made and the atmosphere is just... chef's kiss, I loved how many emotions it made me feel but god is it terrifying. P.S. After I'm finished get ready to me reblogging a whole bunch of Bates Motel content from your blog, because 1) I'm wrecked and 2) I've always loved YOUR posts and analysis, and I really want to know your thoughts. Also, if there are some articles\posts\analysis written by you or other people which you love and think are important, I would LOVE to read those as well. No pressure of course! P.P.S. Dylan and Emma are my darlings, they are so sweet together my heart melts, I love them and worry about them :(

hello my darling!!! it is ALWAYS okay to talk to me about things, and ahhhhh i love being able to share them. SO SPOOKY BECAUSE I WAS THINKING ABOUT BATES MOTEL THIS MORNING. (i still have not finished it. three episodes to go and i keep holding onto them...inexplicable behavior.) instead of finishing it, i looped back around and was rewatching it, and i need to go back to that.

the last two episodes of S4, i feel like i could write copious essays about them. they're just some of the most masterful television i've ever seen. every adjective you used: nerve-wracking, devastating, horrifying. tragic and yet rendered with such poignancy. the scene of norman quietly, deliberately walking through the hushed house, closing the vents, the eerie strains of mr. sandman playing over it, the flame of the pilot light, shots of the empty rooms already haunted, is on my list of top searing images rendered in a show. and it's so, so much more effective and impactful that what he's doing isn't out of rage or hatred, but out of a terribly warped sense of love, dedication, and protection. he isn't trying to destroy her because he hates her, because he feels suffocated by her, but because he's so lost that he believes they're too broken, he believes this will give them peace and reunion. it wouldn't be nearly as moving if he were acting out of anything but that distorted love. then his eulogy. the graveyard. the house and motel transforming for christmas. it's kind of a perfect distillation of modern gothic horror, because it's gruesome and cataclysmic, but somehow beautiful. and oh, alex romero. his searing agonizing grief and his mad rage. what really crushes me is both of these men, though they proclaim love and devotion to her, never entirely view norma as her own autonomous being - norma is always filtered through their needs and desires, their idealizations of her, the pedestals they want to put her on, the dreams they have of and for her. norma, in the entirety of who she is, only exists for us. the audience. we see her, and know her, in her whole self, with her agency, apart from the various men circling her, using her, wanting things from her, and there's nothing we can do to save her. we know going in that the basement awaits. the show's greatest magic trick is in getting us to sympathize and fall in love with her so that the impact of wrenching her away is still shocking and unfair. i sat in numb silence and shock after the end of 4x09, and wept after 4x10.

I remembered you said you loved Bates Motel and I want to say this again, YOUR TASTE ROCKS. 🥺😭💔💖 thank you so much, this makes me so happy (can we say that in this context?!) and is an honor.

I love this, and I hate this, because the show is so beautifully made and the atmosphere is just... chef's kiss, I loved how many emotions it made me feel but god is it terrifying. same on all counts.

my #bates motel tag is open to any time, there's always a vacancy for you. 😉 i'm certain there's good meta on here (unfortunately a lot of blogs are inactive or deactivated), i feel like i probably have some posts, but the only ones i could pull up quickly were my own? this one, on norma, and a simple one of literary references. if you find more, please send them my way too! i would love to read them and any more of your thoughts you'd like to share!!!

P.P.S. Dylan and Emma are my darlings, they are so sweet together my heart melts, I love them and worry about them :( something that took me quite by surprise was how much i grew to care about and empathize with both dylan and romero (emma's a sweetie from the beginning!), you wouldn't necessarily expect it, and yet the show did such a phenomenal job of building each character's depth and humanity, and really exploring the layers to them, why they do what they do, without the need to vilify them (the same being most prominently true of norma and norman themselves), and i respect that writing immensely, even when it's difficult and terrifying, it never forgets the human element.

[tama-fighting-artblock]

lmaooooooooo CM is really boarding the struggle bus! I could practically hear his heart attack at the word /love/. Your TB has a crush on SWK au is captivating. Maybe that drunken argument could lead to CM becoming TB's beta reader? *why not both gif*

Hear me out: a crossover between this au and Omniscient Reader's Viewpoint. CM reads Journey To The West to prove TB wrong and becomes TB's beta reader anyway. He wants to hang out with TB, but he's still a SWK hater, tangcheong write themselves into being small time demons gunning for SWK, etc.

tangcheong write that fanfic for so long that they get really good at it (maybe TB decides to rewrite the beginning parts that he's unhappy with the quality of at some point or readers get to see the style shift). The fanfic is so good and so long that it gets a huge fanbase and enters the cultural consciousness of the gangho* and gets tied to their mythos just like their accomplishments as the Dark Saint, Plum Blossom Sword Saint, and Divine Dragon.

tangcheong have enough stories that they come back and ascend as constellations when the scenarios start. But the thing is, all versions of stories and characters become true if someone or something gets popular to become a constellation. So now TB and CM actually are a part of Sun Wukong 's stories, and actually have to fight him in some scenarios.

So CM isn't jealous because of TB's character crush anymore. He's jealous because TB's got a celebrity crush on what is basically their coworker, who he can't even beat in a 1v1 fight. At least CM can marry TB if he didn't before and CM's loved ones from both of his lives can hang out together...in a torment nexus gauntlet. Yay? Well, I believe in their chances of survival.

*I think that gangho is the murim equivalent of the jianghu but my bad if I got it wrong 😔

Well I have to say is a pretty nice concept you have there. I'm so glad to see people taking a silly concept and develop something from it! 🥰

However, I'm not familiar with ORV, and it's lore to provide and insight, and sadly my interest died when I realized how profound is that rabbit hole when it's story wasn't my cup of tea to begin with. However! I am interested in whatever you have to say about it! (specially when it comes to Bo simping over Wukong!!!)

That being said @chuliann (who happens to know about orv better than I do) is the person I've been talking with about the silly Sun/Tang/Chung drama. And they think you're a genius! And they wanted me to tell you that!

We would love to hear more about it, if you come up with new ideas♥️

All I can provide is a bit more info about Sun wukong, since I'm currently reading journey to the west, and being watching some adaptations recently:

Sun Wukong is, to some degree, like a child despite his high intelligence, he gets excited and jump out of joy, he's very impulsive and confrontative. He's like a more friendly version of Chung Myung (with a friendly approach). He likes being recognized. He gets excited when being assigned task like taking care of the stables or watch over the peaches, but takes great offense when he's diminished. As well, he was very enthusiastic about serving Tang Sanzang in his journey until he reprimanded wukong for attacking some bandids.

Wukong can be genuinely adorable, but also frightening. Of course. Hes not naturally mean spirited with people. So, belive me, if Tang Bo approach Wukong and tries to befriend him being honest, he'll be just like Tang Bō.

A passage I really like is wukong asking for a needle after his first bath to properly sew a piece of leather he previously got. Stealing a piece of cloth from Tang sanzang that he forgot to put back on, and then going back to him and walked all around asking if he looks good now.

Adorable!

[earlgreytea68]

Hi! I’m a big fan of your writing, basically everything you put out there, fanfics, tumblr posts long and short, everything. Any topic you choose to discuss you manage to present very well, and get me interested every single time. If it is about a tv program I’ve never watched, or a theme park I’ve never been in - it’s captivating, it’s clever, it’s just GOOD writing! Are you subscribed to any newsletters? It’s quite a popular thing now, and a lot of time a real journalists are writing them. But unfortunately, very often this pieces are written pretty badly, like for example, they over edit and break the fourth wall at the same time, try to seem so deep, and profound, but at the same sentence drop some edgy joke and address me directly, as if we’re chatting and are buddies or something… like.. idk. And I know we all are very grateful for the Kerrang p2 interview, but did you see that sentence “the bassist grins at one point”? It’s like the worst #badfanfic cliche you can ever imagine. And it’s a big well known magazine, wtf??? What’s next? “The long haired man”, the “older boy”?? I’m sorry for the rant, but sometimes it just seems, that the best written articles about this band and others too, I’ve read on this website. Do you remember all those great things people wrote in retrospect about the tour this past year? A lot of very talented people are here. I’m really glad I’m subscribed to some of them.

Okay, first of all, thank you so much for the lovely compliment and I appreciate it, thank you, I'm so glad you enjoy listening to me babble. :-)

Second of all, though, I totally agree with you that I routinely read on Tumblr excellently written pieces that I do not read in professional publications, and it is infuriating to me. For some reason, "professional writing" is just so often...not good. Is it the editing? Is it, like, some kind of marketing data saying this is the tone everything should have? IS IT AI???? Like, for real, what is it??? But it is so frustrating to me.

I don't subscribe to any newsletters, I confess, but I have been trying to read more books, and I know I've talked about this before, but I keep reading highly recommended books and I'm just like, ....these are all terrible????? I read better fanfiction on literally a daily basis????? What is happening????? I just finished a queer romance and if anything should have been like a fic to read, you would have thought it would be that, but I was so distracted by how inconsistent the characters and even the story was, like, I was just like, This was professionally written and edited and this is what we ended up with?????

Anyway, I agree with you, everyone on here writes excellent Fall Out Boy analyses and reflections, thanks so much for them, I'm sure Pete Wentz also enjoys them.

[douchebagbrainwaves]

I WOULD HAVE BEEN DELIGHTED IF I'D REALIZED IN COLLEGE THAT THERE WERE PARTS OF THE WORLD THAT DIDN'T CORRESPOND TO REALITY, AND WORKED FROM THAT

So were the early Lisps. We're Jeff and Bob and we've built an easy to use web-based database as a system to allow people to collaboratively leverage the value of whatever solution you've got so far. This probably indicates room for improvement.1 What would you pay for right now?2 If you'd proposed at the time.3 I've read that the same is true in the military—that the swaggering recruits are no more likely to know they're being stupid. And yet by far the biggest problem.4

If you want to keep out more than bad people. I am self-indulgent in the sense of being very short, and also on topic. Another way to figure out how to describe your startup in one compelling phrase. Most people have learned to do a mysterious, undifferentiated thing we called business. The Facebook was just a way for readers to get information and to kill time, a way for readers to get information and to kill time, a programming language unless it's also the scripting language of MIT. Committees yield bad design. When you demo, don't run through a catalog of features. A couple weeks ago I had a thought so heretical that it really surprised me. If we want to fix the bad aspects of it—the things to remember if you want to start startups, they'll start startups.5

Cobol and hype Ada, Java also play a role—but I think it is the worry that made the broken windows theory famous, and the larger the organization, the more extroverted of the two paths should you take?6 And a safe bet is enough.7 Though in a sense attacking you. They didn't become art dealers after a difficult choice between that and a career in the hard sciences.8 You can, however, which makes me think I was wrong to emphasize demos so much before. Kids help. But the short version is that if you trust your instincts about people. That's becoming the test of mattering to hackers. One of the most successful startups almost all begin this way.9

But something is missing: individual initiative. He got away with it, but unless you're a captivating speaker, which most hackers aren't, it's better to play it safe. But if you want to avoid writing them. What you should learn as an intellectual exercise, even though you won't actually use it: Lisp is worth learning for the profound enlightenment experience you will have when you finally get it; that experience will make you think What did I do before x? If you had a handful of users who love you, and merely to call it an improved version of Python.10 The political correctness of Common Lisp probably expected users to have text editors that would type these long names for them. Be careful to copy what makes them good, rather than the company that solved that important problem. Since a successful startup founder, but that has not stood in the way of redesign.11 I would have been the starting point for their reputation. Whatever the upper limit is, we are clearly not meant to work in a big program.

I know because I've seen it burn off.12 For us the main indication of impending doom is when we don't hear from you. Maxim magazine publishes an annual volume of photographs, containing a mix of pin-ups and grisly accidents. One of the most important thing a community site can do is attract the kind of people who use the phrase software engineering shake their heads disapprovingly. We've barely given a thought to how to live with it. The usual way to avoid being taken by surprise by something is to be consciously aware of it.13 It took us a few iterations to learn to trust our senses. Gmail was one of the founders are just out of college, or even make sounds that tell what's happening.

And odds are that is in fact normal in a startup. For example, if you're starting a company whose only purpose is patent litigation. You're just looking for something to spark a thought.14 Wireless connectivity of various types can now be taken for granted.15 There is not a lot of wild goose chases, but I've never had a good way to look at what you've done in the cold light of morning, and see all its flaws very clearly. What sort of company might cause people in the future, and the classics.16 001 and understood it, for example. One trick is to ask yourself whether you'll care about it in the future. You need to use a trojan horse: to give people an application they want, including Lisp.

Notes

So it may be that some of the economy. Angels and super-angels will snap up stars that VCs miss.

I mean no more than most people, you would never have come to accept that investors are induced by startups is that they've focused on different components of it. I thought there wasn't, because people would do fairly well as down.

Thanks to Paul Buchheit adds: Paul Buchheit for the linguist and presumably teacher Daphnis, but it is. We're sometimes disappointed when a startup is taking the Facebook that might work is a sufficiently identifiable style, you should probably be multiple blacklists. I'm compressing the story.

Good and bad luck. The solution was a new search engine, but it is very polite and b the local startups also apply to the prevalence of systems of seniority. The University of Vermont: The First Industrial Revolution happen earlier? An earlier version of the companies fail, no matter how good you are listing in order to test whether that initial impression holds up.

So what ends up happening is that the lack of transparency. Letter to Ottoline Morrell, December 1912. Loosely speaking.

On Bullshit, Princeton University Press, 2005. Ashgate, 1998. No big deal.

Strictly speaking it's impossible to succeed in a startup to be important ones. The earnings turn out to be significantly pickier.

Many famous works of anthropology. You have to disclose the threat to potential investors are interested in graphic design. Japanese are only arrows on parts with unexpectedly sharp curves. Peter, Why Are We Getting a Divorce?

Microsoft could not have raised: Re: Revenge of the ingredients in our case, companies' market caps do eventually become a manager. I took so long.

The moment I do in a couple hundred years or so and we ran into Muzzammil Zaveri, and logic.

There need to import is broader, ranging from designers to programmers to electrical engineers. Parker, op.

We don't use Oracle. It should not try too hard to tell them what to think about where those market caps do eventually become a genuine addict. Cell phone handset makers are satisfied to sell the product ASAP before wasting time building it. One YC founder who used to build their sites.

In fact the secret weapon of the web and enables a new airport.

An Operational Definition. The rest exist to satisfy demand among fund managers for venture capital as an idea that was more rebellion which can vary a lot of face to face meetings.

And in World War II had disappeared in a startup you have the least important of the causes of the startup.

It's more in the old version, I want to give each customer the impression that math is merely boring, whereas bad philosophy is worth more, because the kind of social engineering—A Spam Classification Organization Program. I spent some time trying to describe what's happening till they measure their returns.

Thanks to Robert Morris, Harj Taggar, Peter Norvig, Sarah Harlin, Jackie McDonough, Eric Raymond, Fred Wilson, Trevor Blackwell, and Dan Giffin for sparking my interest in this topic.

[fortleegospel]

Gospel News

Dear members and friends of Fort Lee Gospel Church,

Today our Jewish friends and neighbors celebrate the first day of Passover. Today’s Gospel News is a reminder that the heart of Christianity is connected to Passover. Let me explain.

The central event of the Old Testament is the Exodus, when Israel was freed from Egyptian captivity. This is the Passover story. The central event of the New Testament was the cross and resurrection of Jesus. This took place Passover week, when Jesus became the ‘Passover lamb,’ dying for the sins of the world.

Passover 2024 does not align with Easter 2024 which is a quirk of the dating system. Our Easter was March 31st and the Eastern church marks Easter on May 5th. Just because the calendar separated Passover and Easter, do not miss the point that Jesus died on Passover and rose during Passover week.

The Apostle Paul writes the following:

6 Your boasting is not good. Don’t you know that a little yeast leavens the whole batch of dough? 7 Get rid of the old yeast, so that you may be a new unleavened batch—as you really are. For Christ, our Passover lamb, has been sacrificed. 8 Therefore let us keep the Festival, not with the old bread leavened with malice and wickedness, but with the unleavened bread of sincerity and truth. (I Cor. 5:6-8)

Here are three thoughts on Passover for us today:

Jesus Christ is Our Passover Lamb

To appreciate this idea, we must understand the importance of the Passover Lamb during the Exodus. The 10th and most serious plague against Egypt was the death of the first-born sons. The people of God were instructed to bring an unblemished lamb into their home for 4 days. On the night of Passover, each Jewish family was to kill the lamb and brush the blood of the lamb on the doorframe of their home. That night the angel of death would pass by and kill the first born of those homes without the blood and pass over the homes where the blood was on the door frame. There was great grief in Egypt that night and in the morning the Jewish people were sent out from Egypt, free from slavery.

The implications for us as Christ-followers is significant. When the blood of Jesus, the Passover Lamb, is applied to the figurative doorframes of our lives, we are protected from death. This death is often called the second death. Born once and die twice or born twice and die once. When we confess our sins, trust in Jesus for our salvation, and are born again (John 3:3), the blood of Jesus is applied to our hearts. The death of Jesus, the Passover Lamb, protects us from eternal punishment in hell.

Hebrews 10:19-22 says,

19 Therefore, brothers and sisters, since we have confidence to enter the Most Holy Place by the blood of Jesus, 20 by a new and living way opened for us through the curtain, that is, his body, 21 and since we have a great priest over the house of God, 22 let us draw near to God with a sincere heart and with the full assurance that faith brings, having our hearts sprinkled to cleanse us from a guilty conscience and having our bodies washed with pure water.

Passover Reminds Us to Remove the Leaven

The newspaper today shows some of our Jewish neighbors burning uneaten bread in an outdoor fire. A part of the Passover tradition is to remove leaven from the home. This is symbolic of removal of sin, as leaven is a picture of sin. When you make bread, it only takes a little leaven to cause the bread to rise. In a similar way, our small sins have a profound impact on our lives, and they separate us from God.

Jesus’ death on the cross cleanses us from sin and calls us to live a holy life. In the words of Hebrews, “having our hearts sprinkled to cleanse us from a guilty conscience.” (Heb. 10:22) Just as our Passover celebrating neighbors take effort to remove the yeast from their homes, we are called to pursue a righteous life.

Jesus Replaces Malice and Wickedness with Sincerity and Truth

Again, Paul wrote to the Christians in Corinth that Jesus is the Passover Lamb. Then he said, “Therefore let us keep the Festival, not with the old bread leavened with malice and wickedness, but with the unleavened bread of sincerity and truth.” (I Cor 5:8) We are to keep the Passover Festival with ‘sincerity and truth,’ rather than ‘malice and wickedness.’

This is an important reminder for us in 2024. With Israel at war, there is plenty of malice and wickedness. Our political system is driven by malice and wickedness. Our college campuses are in turmoil because of malice and wickedness. For those of us who love Jesus, are we joining in the ‘old bread’ of our culture, or can we live by the ethics of Jesus?

Jesus calls us to sincerity and truth. Loving those with whom we disagree. Wanting what’s best for our nation, even if it is against our self-interests. Seeing the pain and hurt of those who have been defined as our enemies.

As this week is Passover week for many of our neighbors, may we be reminded of Passover’s connection to the cross and the resurrection. Jesus is our Passover Lamb who sets us free from sin and death. Thanks be to God! -Pastor Rick

Weekly Announcements

Sunday worship services at 11:00 AM continue to be livestreamed on our Fort Lee Gospel Facebook page, YouTube channel, and our website, www.fortleegospel.org. We meet in the building where we include a time of worship after the online portion of the service. The Tuesday Men’s Lunch and study meets at the church at 12:30 PM. The Tuesday Bible Study meets at 7:00 PM weekly. We are studying the book of Romans. The 6:00 AM Prayer Meeting on Wednesdays and Saturdays is at the church with an option to connect on Google Meet. The Women’s Bible Study meets this Saturday, April 27th at 2:00 PM. The study continues from the book of Ephesians. All women are welcome. Connect info for Tuesday Bible Studies and Morning Prayer is: Meeting URL :

https://meet.google.com/suk-xpsf-nwh

For dial in: Phone: +1 567-351-1104 PIN: 469 349 929#

[fledermoved]

🌻🌻🌻

Send me a 🌻 and I talk about whatever I want || Accepting

I don't think anyone around here really remembers Hilda, but she was certainly a beloved OC of mine and I do miss her sometimes. Y'know those myths about the maltese tiger / blue tigers? She was meant as one of those, but she was being paraded in a showside circus and subject to mistreatment. Because of poor diet and conditions, her blue-ish fur turned to a more green hue, but she was still a popular act.

Anyway I like to think that once she's freed from captivity and learns how to be a tiger again, her fur returns to blue and maybe she gets herself a gf. Maybe it's Sabor. Who knows really.

pretty venty below so i'm putting it under a cut

I want to dedicate more time to my @ableplay blog but I just haven't had the time to lately. Tbh I haven't had the time for much of anything. Work has been devouring all of my energy and I haven't had the time to do what I love. What little time I do get away, my mind starts developing all of these new ideas that I want to implement or these new muses I want to write... But I know better than to add them, because I already owe so much. It sucks, because then I catch myself feeling like I'm not allowed to initiate these ideas until I get a good handle on what I have on my plate. It's like, a whole thing.

I need to write more, rather than just saying that I will. I need to find energy where there isn't any. I need to make progress in ableplay, and I need to do drafts for all of my blogs. It just feels like there's a lot going on. The main thing I've been feeling lately is exhausted.

I really miss Catface. I think I've gotten over the sort of initial grief sting of it, at least to the point where I don't cry about it, but I feel this profound hole where she used to be. A large part of it is that I just miss having a companion there.

We have another cat, but he wants nothing to do with me. He's my grandmother's cat, and I have a very bad relationship with my grandmother. I don't know if I'm ready for another cat, but I know my sister isn't. Hell, I don't think we can afford having another one.

But I do notice her absence every day. She spent most of the day with me when I was home and now that's over. It's an incredibly sad, incredibly empty sort of feeling.

[dimonds456]

Some highlights I wanna bring attention to from this article:

Israel revised its estimated October 7 death toll down from 1,400 to 1,140.

That's sneaky as fuck. Unless you KNOW it was 1,400, you probably wouldn't notice the change down because the same literal numbers are being used (ones, fours, and zeros). 300 people is a pretty damn significant change, though.

Hezbollah launches over 250 rockets and 20 guided drones at Israeli positions, at distances of up to 35 kilometers into the Galilee and the Golan heights, in response to Israel’s assassination of a Hezbollah senior commander in Tyre, southern Lebanon. Hezbollah commander identified as Muhammad Naameh Naser, 59, head of the “Aziz” unit. Israel bombs surroundings of southern Lebanese towns of Kufr Shuba, Rashaya al-Fakhar, and Kuf Hamam. 

Highlighting this because I want to point out that this is NOT self-contained within Palestine. Israel is targeting other nearby countries as well, most prominently Lebanon, but they have also targeted Iraq in the past. Once they take Palestine, they're going to turn their weapons outward into neighboring countries.

Israeli Channel 12 quotes Israeli officials saying that Hamas response “for the first time allows for making progress in negotiations.”

Okay this is just a lie no matter how you slice it. Hamas has accepted a ceasefire deal before. What they mean by this is more than likely that Hamas is more willing to roll over than stand their ground now. This just shows how desperate they are for this "war" to end.

Israeli captives’ families demand Netanyahu accept deal, warn “millions will take to the streets” if he doesn’t.

This is the big one I really wanted to highlight. I think it's easy for us to forget that the Israeli people are not "Israel". Netanyahu is operating of his own accord, and statistically, at least half the population in Israel protests the genocide, most even calling it what it is. The government officials are outliers. The people within the country care. So get your damn antisemitism out of here.

Israeli army recognizes killing of 7 soldiers since Monday, July 1, and 50 wounded, including 39 in Gaza.

Compared to the hundreds of people that die every day, they should be ashamed of these numbers. Not in that more people need to die, but in how clearly this IS NOT A WAR. This is nothing but genocide to ANYONE who is paying attention.

UN says 90% of Gaza’s population has been displaced at least once since October 7.

90%. That is a huge number. 90% of Palestinians have had to do a Trail of Tears-esk walk at least once. I shouldn't have to explain how horrid that is.

Israeli government approves confiscation of 13 square kilometers in Jordan Valley area, becoming largest single Israeli land grab in past 30 years.

THERE IT IS. This is their true endgame. They just want to steal all of Palestine away from Palestinians, and possibly gain even more land after that. This is just the latest piece of confirmation after dozens and dozens of examples.

Hamas responds positively to amended U.S. deal, but Israeli security branches accuse Netanyahu of sabotage

I cannot get over this headline. It's not Hamas accusing Netanyahu of sabotage, but Israel's VERY OWN SECURITY. Even the people closest to the president are turning against him here, it's just incredible. Once again, most people in Israel protest this genocide. If this isn't proof of that then I don't know what is.

The families of Israeli captives in Gaza warned that they would increase their protests to include “millions in the streets” if Netanyahu doesn’t accept the deal this time. Protests demanding a captive exchange deal and new elections in Israel have been escalating in recent weeks, and on Wednesday, protesters demonstrated outside Netanyahu’s residence in Cesarea, blocking main highways between Tel Aviv and Haifa.

I want to write something profound here, but I think this section speaks for itself, honestly. Humanity is good.

There is more I haven't gotten into, but I am pressed for time IRL. I highly recommend reading this yourself cuz there is so much shit in this article. Israel is a fucking joke. Every day they seem more and more like a powerful child who is throwing a tantrum over someone else stealing their toy. It would be funny of thousands of people didn't die in the fallout.

The one thing I can really say we can hope for is Netanyahu being thrown out of power soon, either via election or by force. I cannot overstate how much the civilians of Israel hate this guy. I don't know enough about Israeli politics to predict the future, but I do think we can hope that he will be gone soon. And after that, hopefully this genocide can come to an end.

There is no looking away. The whole world can see what Netanyahu truly is. You cannot erase this.

‘Operation al-Aqsa Flood’ Day 272: Israelis urge Netanyahu to accept U.S. ceasefire deal as Hamas gives its response

Hezbollah has fired hundreds of rockets on the Galilee after Israel's assassination of one of its senior commanders.

[link]

[superealme]

this kind of ending -이런 엔딩

synopsis: reliving the breakup with Yoshi through a letter and all of the memories.

tw:// su*ic*de, smoking, death

song inspo: ending scene - IU

To Yoshi.

My only defense was to write out every word you said. I'm reminded of the you I recorded in my diaries and suddenly all the prettiest words, sceneries, songs, and smells flood into my mind. I’m reminded of sunlight filtering through open windows, of moonlight spilling onto high ceilings. I’m reminded of childish peachy daydreams atop fluffy clouds, of blazing nighttime and riding the high of neon lights. Places I’ve been and things I’ve seen gradually rush into my mind to the point that I’m overwhelmed by sensation. There’s so much that you remind me of, and so much that reminds me of you.

"That tickles," he laughs as you smear bubbly cleanser on his face.

"Hold still or I'll get cleanser in your mouth," you threaten him jokingly, and he scrunches his nose at you in childish spite.

Your matching bunny headbands still hung next to the medicine cabinet where they'd always been; you didn't have the heart to move them yet.

Then there were the things you left behind. The things that WERE you, not just the you I saw you as. And memories unlock like music from my musical jewelry box, the nostalgia of it all engulfs me. Your t-shirts, the one that we bought together at the rock concert of your favorite band, smelling like heat and adrenaline, like passion and hearts set ablaze. Like youth and intensity and captivating whirlwinds of emotional wreck and repair. Your refurbished polaroid, a holding snapshots of our glorious moments, yet its strap worn-out and tarnished like us.

"What are you doing Yosh?"

He peeks his head out from behind the giant white easel. "Painting you." He answers simply, as if it's the most natural thing to do.

You rise from your spot in front of his easel and shuffle to inspect his work. Left in awe at what you see, he's drawn you frozen in time; a smiling expression displayed on your face, eyes shining with some profound emotion- love.

"Yosh! You've really outdone yourself! I look more beautiful than I've ever seen myself!"

He takes his eyes away from his painting. "No, I just painted you. Art."

That painting of you used to hang on the living room bookshelf, but you've stored it away from prying eyes in the secluded darkness of your closet- behind layers of thick winter jackets, hidden behind summer blouses and spring skirts. Sometimes you grab a jacket a bit too quickly in haste, and your shimmering eyes glance back at you with an emotion no longer called love, but longing. It's an occurrence that happens quite often, but you could never forget the way your heart stings with a certain sharpness every time.

My favorite thing to do then was to watch how starlight sparkles and shimmers in your eyes. Like two infinite pools I’m sure I could drown in. Wondrous eyes who have seen and remembered, windows into effervescent stories of eternity and forever. Your eyes tell. Of happy, exuberant moments that make me want to chase the sunset and its radiant golden, fuschia streaks-  as well as all of those sad memories that leave you sobbing on the bathroom floor. Eyes that have loved and lost, and….. have captured a reflection of me. 

You two walk hand in hand across rows of marble and flowers. It's incredibly peaceful and harmonious, and you realize why people choose here to be their final resting places. You follow him as he stops by one that you feel seems vaguely familiar, even though you had never been here in your life. Yoshi removes the wilted flowers placed in a vase, sweeping away the scattered petals and refills them with a bouquet of fresh hyacinths. You watch your boyfriend silently as he pays his respects to his late father.

After a moment, Yoshi returns to his place beside you, intertwining your hands again, this time tighter than he had ever held then in a plea of desperation. 'don't leave me.' He was trying to say. It is then your eyes flicker to meet his and you are taken aback, contrasting to his lively self, now filled with sadness, yearning, and misplaced love that had become grief for his father. You so easily mirror his pain, pulling him into a close embrace as he burst into sobs on your shoulder.

It had been a while since you lasted visited, and the first time you are here alone. You find your place in front of Yoshi's father's grave, bowing in respect silently. Flickering your eyes downward you freeze- recognizing the familiar branches of purple. You almost reach out to replace them with the flowers you had brought, but deciding otherwise after a moment’s hesitation. You set down the simple arrangement of white roses beside it instead.

‘There you go, making up lies again.’ That’s what they told me. But it's true- I cannot tell or even begin to explain in words, no written character in this world or the next could be enough to tell the things I haven’t lived. I lack wisdom and visionary eyes.  I see a kaleidoscope of swallowed moons and infinite suns and water swirling at our feet and wind running through our hair that swallows me whole. And day by day the night stretches its indigo curtain over our heads, slowly but surely dissolving into brilliant crimson daybreak.

"Come here, y/n!" He shouts to you excitedly, arms motioning you to his side amongst the fields of gold. You smile at him widely, running into his embrace instantly, finding solace within him. He catches you softly, but the force of your run knocks him off-balance, and you topple over, falling to the floor with a thud. You'd closed your eyes, anticipating the fall but the feeling of hitting ground never comes. Peeling your eyes open, you notice with burning cheeks that Yoshi was hovering over you, one hand tucked behind your head and other perched at your side. Beaming at him, you pull him closer from the nape of his neck, making your lips meet in a kiss. It was a moment you’d remember forever.

You were flipping through your diary, when a loose polaroid slips out of one of the pages. Upon closer examination; the image pulls at a deep heartstring- the streaks of gold rippling eternally behind two figures. You are looking at yourself beaming into the camera as Yoshi gazes ever so affectionately at you, and all the memories trickle back like gilded sand. So much emotion in so little time overwhelms you, so much that you begin to cry, wetting the written ink of your past with your tears until the words began to bleed.

Suddenly I'm brought back into reality but my heart still aches. I want to go back. To melting in your arms like melted lemon sherbet ice cream on the kitchen counter, to smelling your scent, to tasting your lips. To feeling like nothing mattered because you were by my side. To know that someone in this world loved me the exact same way I loved them back. I remember you so well because it’s you that I miss. Out of this giant enigma of blue planetary mass and through all of the people I have loved and lost it is you and all of the memories that matter most to me.

“I can’t do this anymore,” Yoshi said through his tears as the rain drenched through his shirt.

“Why?”

“Because I’m in love with someone else.” He’d said the real words in his heart. Yours clenches in pain, eyes blurry with moist warmth and the emotions make you drown, falling to the wet ground with a thud, abandoning the umbrella in your grip, letting it go with the current of the winds.

“Yoshinori, you’re throwing away eight years; eight YEARS of us for someone you met three months ago? Really? Is that all that I mean to you? Is that all we mean to you?” you snap at him, choking on your words through the tears that won’t stop flowing.

“I don’t feel the same anymore. I’m sorry,” and he turns, disappearing into the misty metropolis, blending into the crowds of passerby and the rhythm of the pouring rain- seeming so painfully empty in the moment. The water is drenching, soaking, drowning; heaviness like your broken heart.

You’re walking silently down the streets, lights smothered blurry by wetness, sounds muffled by the current. You breathe out a weak sigh, chills rising up your arms, the sweater around your arms not doing much to keep you warm. As the rain gets heavier, you pick up the pace hastily, mentally cursing yourself for not bringing an umbrella. You used to love the rain. The peaceful tinkle, the gentle breeze that grazes your forearms. Now the rain only brings back the washed up memories of your past. Not wanting to hurt, you rush home quickly to shut out the rhythmic beating of the painful familiarity.

Do you remember our days? Memories that slip and gather through cracks of sidewalks. The days that linger in my mind constantly but disperse quickly like fluttering butterflies. Tinkling showers of petals and morning dew, the crisp cool afternoons as we danced under the autumn moonlight, lacelike saffron foliage swept up by the wind. Drinking in your blurred face as the snow fell, sounds drowning out quiet conversations, my table lamp as our only light. You were all of my seasons and I picked you as my favorite weather. Clothes wet but hearts on fire, beating in sync as we kissed in the rain. You, all of you, are drawn in my heart. 

Sitting alone somberly on your bathroom tile floor; the moonlight casting a sapphire glow on you and illuminating the space. You pull a lighter out from your bag, stuffed in an almost empty cigarette box and flick it open. It takes a moment to warm up but it begins sparking in anticipation for destruction and utter ruin. Grabbing a random polaroid from the pile strewn before you, not an ounce of hesitation crosses your mind as you start setting its corner ablaze. Watching emotionlessly as the girl in a white dress embracing the blonde-haired boy become engulfed by the flames until all that is left is ruined film and ashes. It gives you a sense of comfort and closure, something you crave, something you have become addicted to.

On Friday night I will pack my bags and begin my escape. These days it feels like all the people in the world are in deep sleep, brushing past me in a state of dreamlike indifference and ignorance. These days I often find myself left alone in my own corner, drifting into dreamless sleep.  These days I see how all of the colors have  faded into bleak hues of gray and heathen. Then the today that has passed, I find myself the only one awake because I couldn’t let go, couldn’t move on. These days it feels that turning time trickles deeper into the darkness of night and the sunlight only escapes my windowsill farther. And I will escape, back into my very mind and rediscovering the moments and memories that were us.

You meet him for the first time since the ending in a coffee shop by the university. Spotting him from the entrance, you are quick to act nonchalant and merely survey him from the corner of your eyes. He’s different now, taller and hair dyed red but you would be lying if you said he did not look just as handsome, maybe even more than you remember. You do not notice you are staring until you notice his familiar golden orbs peering back at you with the same curiosity and nostalgia you are showing him. Embarrassed, you tear your eyes away from him, disappearing behind the lines of people and making your way out of the building- but not before your hear him call your name, the voice still echoing in your mind long after you’ve disappeared down the street.

My quiet eyes. Not nearly as captivating as yours, but still holding history, and so, so many memories of our breathtaking, miraculous love. I fell asleep tonight with the thought of our history on my mind. Perhaps I will awaken and realize that all of this is a dream, a disillusioned reality so easily washed away like letters drawn on sand. A story you and I weren’t able to finish but already washed-up and worn-out like the erasers on all those chewed-on pencils. 

It was exceptionally warm for an April night. You chose to wear your favorite white dress, the one he had said looked angelic on you. The stars twinkled so monotonously, so peacefully you wondered if that was where you were headed. Standing atop the highest rung of the bridge, there was absolutely nothing that rushed through your mind but anticipation for the peace, the salvation that was to follow. Too many people had held your heart hostage, taken it with force and left you with broken pieces. And that one final person whom you’ve given your all to- had left you just the same. You were tired, so, so tired.

Looking down there was only miles and miles of river, and you wondered what kind of ripple you could make. Looking out and there was only the skyscrapers, so enigmatic from close-up but so small in proportion. You knew this was stupid, but this was the only escape.‘I’m sorry to those who have loved me. And you, Yoshi, whom I loved most fiercely and most effervescently,’ a lone tear of relief trickles down your cheek and you smile at its warmth, wiping it away with your sleeve. It’s time.

You took in one last inhale, and jumped.

Perhaps tomorrow will be the day I forget stunning you and all the broken promises you made me. Perhaps I will awake with the same stuffy heart and lost eyes I fell asleep with. And these, the words in my heart, will all just become an ancient letter about someone that was once my everything. 

I think it all will disappear. 

love(d), y/n

[outofangband]

nighttime scattered thoughts on The Wanderings of Húrin and complex trauma and how much I love this man and how much a complex trauma informed reading of the Wanderings hurts 

(this will hopefully be converted into something more eloquent later on but this one can absolutely be reblogged to spread the pain! I did work pretty hard editing this!)

Part one of my posts about The Wanderings is here

Edit: I started an analysis of the trial of Húrin Thalion and the first part is here And Part Two 

The Wanderings of Húrin is honestly a great study in complex trauma and every page makes me feel genuinely depressed. I mean I love it of course but G-d I know even the concept of complex trauma has not existed for very long and HoME predates it by a lot but I could write (and actually am writing) literally thousands of words examining Húrin’s actions post Angband through this lens

I talk a lot too about this on my introduction to complex trauma and Silm post here!

If I was in First Age Beleriand and Húrin was rude to me after decades of captivity and torture, I wouldn’t make a capital case out of it. RIP to a lot of people in this story but I’m different. I’m sorry for using a post format I saw last year but I’m frustrated. 

I'm not saying that being a trauma survivor means you can just treat people however you want but obviously such an extended period of imprisonment is going to have a profound effect on your social and interpersonal skills. And this is in the immediate aftermath.  Especially given that years and years of what Húrin suffered was essentially solitary confinement. He has been deprived of companionship, of kindness, of interaction with anyone who didn’t mean him harm for nearly thirty years.

I mentioned it in my comfort and safety after torture post but the fact that he is like...anything resembling lucid is frankly impressive 

Avranc even comments “You bring your manners from Angband” to him. This just...hurts, not just for the insult but because it’s so close to awareness and yet he somehow misses it! Like…YES exactly, he IS bringing his manners from Angband and that should have been cause for compassion and patience, not anger and ridicule.

Of course he is bringing mannerisms he learned or adapted in the place he was held for about half his life. And has been until very recently.

And I do know that some of these instances were more complicated than just overreactions to poor social graces up to and including outright violence, (though there are a few instances that are more or less that) but honestly I just feel so sad reading about him having encounter after encounter that becomes hostile, or that involves things that are presumably alarming or uncomfortable for him after his imprisonment (like literally being chained up again)

Also a tangent but can we talk more about the fact that Húrin gets put on trial with one of the charges being that he was ‘ungrateful’ to the guards that found him? (this scene also has a really interesting detail about Húrin and food) also with causing injury to Hardang which I still don’t think requires the level of restraint they put on him but) 

Then again, Hardang, I’ve got some advice for you! If you want the cooperation of a severely traumatized recently released prisoner, maybe don’t chain them up by their hands and neck? (p278). Like *screams in frustration*. Who could have guessed that would end badly! Also I think that level of restraint was too much regardless of psychological effects. Especially as at that point he had stopped fighting and seemed to be, what isn’t explicitly stated but which very much seems to be a dissociated, or detached state. 

He walked as one in a dream is the exact description. It’s a very vivid one especially given the circumstances. (Although actually I do want to talk more about that scene in detail because the descriptions of Húrin‘s emotional state are actually really poignant and interesting, before, during, and after he’s imprisoned again) And like I do acknowledge that Húrin was unlikely to be very cooperative  regardless, his demeanor is (honestly understandably) bordering from paranoid to hostile but there were still almost certainly things that could have mitigated this and things that would have massively exacerbated them.  Unsurprisingly, what happened fell into the latter category and people died. 

And there are people throughout the chapter who lightly try to intervene on his behalf or even just are stated in the text as having pity so it’s not like it’s impossible for people to understand. 

It’s just...really devastating. He has so much hope prior to leaving for the Nirnaeth and he’s just released into this world that is bitter and hostile and hopeless, he says himself that unless he can achieve vengeance for his children, there is no place for him in Middle Earth. 

the rest is just my plans for future posts and a sad comment at the end

I’m still in the process of editing to include Húrin my series of posts that previously covered only Maedhros when examining complex trauma following prolonged captivity in the Silm but I did at least manage to do a preliminary rewrite of my general post about it here (when I have managed to add to all the posts in the series I will make a post about it, I apologize for any inconvenience)

But I want to explore through several categories and there’s actually a lot to work with; his reactions to food and water (canonically poor, I’ll go into that in a post soon), his paranoia and mistrust, his fatalism*, sense of unreality he mentions a couple of times, and many more.

*I talked about this in the post linked above but many aspects of his life after Angband which are framed in the context of the curse and having seen through Morgoth’s eyes are also common symptoms of complex trauma

Húrin post Angband reminds me of this meme I actually saw in another fandom that’s like this old man saying “call an ambulance!” Then pulling out a weapon and clarifying “but not for me”

Except actually someone call him one too. Or at least a crisis counselor or CVT advocate or something. 

[mymelodyheart]

Miles Between Us Chapter 2 ~Words~

Picture Source

Previously in Stories She Wrote ...

Claire ignored the jest. "So you really think I should publish my story?"

Her friend nodded excitedly. "Absolutely! You should have let me read it sooner. From what I've seen so far, you have good, solid material, and I'm convinced, when I read the rest, it will not disappoint." She stood up and smiled. "Come on, in as much as I'm all fired up after reading your story, I'm famished." She got up and left the room.

Instead of moving from her position, Claire stared at her work for a few seconds and just breathed. Although Willie and Annalise were sincere with their praises, she couldn't help but still feel nervous. This next step in her life could either turn out to be huge, or it could get her mocked out of a dream career she loved. 

Pushing aside her doubts and thinking of Jamie, she quickly compressed a copy of her story's file and sent it to him via email to read, hoping he would like her written work too

  If you wish to read this on AO3, here is the link.

If you wish to read this from the beginning:

AO3 link

Tumblr link

 WARNING: VERY EXPLICIT SEXUAL & LANGUAGE CONTENT

  Jamie walked into his cottage and was greeted by his dog Rollo and cat, Adso. He tossed his keys on the dining table as he absentmindedly rubbed his pets alternately behind the ears and scrolled through his phone. He smiled. There was an email notification from Claire and a text letting him know she would be calling after dinner. After turning on his laptop, he shrugged off his jacket, placed it on the back of his chair, and then went to the kitchen to feed his companions, thinking his own dinner would have to wait, too eager to read Claire's email. 

Feeling the chill, he put firewood onto the grate and set it alight, before making a mug of black tea and heading back to the dining table. Once there, instead of immediately opening his email, he stared at his desktop photo. It was of Claire, wearing nothing but his shirt and sitting cross-legged by the fireplace with a bowl of breakfast. Without conscious volition, he touched the picture on the screen and then brought his fingers against his lips. Miss you, Sassenach. Although work and obligations had filled his days, time seemed to go so painstakingly slow, his mind constantly wandering to her. It pained him not to have her by his side, but he knew it was a little sacrifice for what lay ahead of them.

Sighing, he opened the email. Please read and tell me what you think, love C, it said. 

After clicking on the attachment, he extracted the content and found a file with Word documents. He enlarged the first page, skimmed through the paragraphs and realised it was Claire's work. After taking a sip of his tea, he proceeded to read from the beginning.

A few paragraphs later, he was hooked. Not because Claire wrote it, but because of the beautiful marrying of emotions with words. He was instantly captivated. How could she have downplayed her talent when she had this innate gift? She once mentioned, there were talks among her peers, that editors were just frustrated authors. Weel, not this editor! he thought. But more than the mental images her storyline evoked, it was the words that moved him. It was as if he was reading a personal confession disguised in the characters she'd created and it spoked straight to his soul. He continued to read, and when he came upon a particular plot, his eyes slightly misted. 

From across the room, her gaze locked with his, and for a moment, she forgot to breathe. A live wire crackled and sparked, launching showers of tiny fireworks to light every dark recess of her weary soul. 

It was always going to be like this every time she saw him, she sighed. After all these years, nothing had changed. 

In their youth, she'd believed, they were bound together, not by something tangible, but by a profound, powerful connection that is ancient and older than the planets. It was as if she'd envisioned them a million times aeons ago and the stars finally heeded and arranged for their paths to cross. 

It had started with a touch, a soft kiss, a subtle stirring of their souls, and as if by magic, their story began to write itself from thereon. His strength had been her protection, her heart, his shelter, and in each others' arms, they were home. For at one time, love between them had been powerful than the fate and deeper than a naked eye. But that was then, she reminded herself ...before he found out she was from another place and time. Out of this tragedy, which altered the course of her life, was the infinite curse she must bear alone. But she couldn't blame him. It was her fault.

As a tiny sob escaped her throat, a man bumped into her, jarringly breaking her reverie. Annoyed with herself for feeling weak, she straightened her spine and squared her shoulders. And as she slowly made her way over to him, she hoped and prayed her face would not betray her emotions. There comes that significant point in life when one had to choose to either turn the page, write another book or simply close it. She chose the latter.

Jamie's heart drummed, and he puffed out a lungful of air. Settling back on his seat, he rubbed a hand over his face. He had this sudden burning urge to bundle Claire's story and gift it to the world. Why has she waited this long to pursue her dream? This is bloody insane! In each of the characters, he saw her - beautifully flawed and full of heart. She wielded words in her story as if she was tearing apart her own issues and exposing her loss and regrets, the courage and honesty so palpable, it jumped right off the screen. Och, Sassenach!

He needed more time to go through the story at a leisurely pace, so he skipped a few chapters out of mere curiosity and what he read next, made his heart rate doubled.

As soon as they were alone, she grabbed at his belt, her shaking fingers tugging the zipper. She'd waited for far too long and needed him now. Dropping down to her knees, she lowered his jeans to take him fully in her mouth, feeling him throb and jerk at her touch ...oh how she'd crave for the taste of him. She was hungry, oh so hungry, to feel his most private pulse beating against her palm. Despite the urgency she was feeling, she didn't rush as she wanted to savour every moment and taste of him.

He swallowed and realised his jeans were becoming too constricted. Ah Christ! There were only so many blows to the system a man could take and what he just read sent all the blood in his brain rushing southward so fast it nearly knocked him out of commission. Who would have thought a sex scene in a romance story could affect him so much?

He read a few more excerpts from the story, and when he eventually looked at the bottom right corner of his screen, he realised it was nearly ten. He'd been so engrossed with reading, he hadn't noticed the time. Claire was supposed to call. But maybe she's fallen asleep.

Reaching for his phone, he got up, shifted the bulging discomfort in his jeans and headed for the fridge. As his screen lit up, he tapped Claire's name and waited.

"Hello?" she answered, her voice thick and muffled, causing a sudden pulsing rush of longing in his stomach. A fog of cataclysmic lust descended, increasing the weight between his legs.

"Sassenach?" He grabbed a tin of beer, popped it open with one hand and made his way to the living room. "It's me." 

"I know." She yawned. "What time is it? Are you just coming home?"

"Ummm, no. I got yer email earlier." Smiling, he sat on the armchair and toed off a shoe. "I got caught up reading yer story, I forgot the time."

"A long day then. Sorry, I was supposed to call, but ...." He heard some rustling sound and then quiet.

He got his second shoe off and rested his feet on the coffee table. Right now, he wished he could teleport himself to Claire's side and slip in bed next to her. He'd wanted to come to London, but he'd been advised by Willie it was still too soon, and coming along could trigger his PTSD. Although the nightmares had stopped and he'd been following the meditation exercises Claire had told him to do, there were still times when panic attack got hold of him. They weren't as bad as before, but still, it was there lurking, ready to pounce at any time. He hadn't dared told his sister, Jenny, in case she nagged him to attend the therapy conducted by her friend Geneva. He knew what his sister was up to, and he wasn't about to fall for her matchmaking schemes.

He was just contemplating the merits of dropping everything and flying to London when he realised Claire had gone too quiet.

"Sassenach?"

"Hmmm?"

"Did ye just fall asleep on me?"

"Oh, umm, a little," she responded, utterly lacking in apology.

"Shall I let ye sleep? I can call again tomorrow."

"No!"

Relieved, he smiled. "So working too hard, I presume?"

"Yes," she mumbled. "Worked for seven hours straight. Then had too much food and wine, and too little fresh air. It made me drowsy afterwards. It's Willie's and Annalise's faults. They overfed me over dinner." 

"Mmm, in as much as I appreciate why ye're doing it, I dinnae want ye to become ill because of it." He heard another yawn and imagined her long, lean body stretching, her hair all wild against the pillow and her breast bare. When he realised where his mind was wandering to, he immediately put a stop to it. Christ, get a grip! With a steel will, he extinguished his filthy thoughts. "Ye should take care more of yersel', Sassenach."

"I'm fine ...honestly."

He was unconvinced but didn't push. "By the way, I read yer story. It's bloody good. No ...correction. It's great!"

"You like it!"

"I love it. Was that a story ye wrote a while ago? Or did ye write it recently?"

"A while ago," she hummed, her words muffled as if she had a pillow over the phone. 

He loved the way she sounded when sleep laced her voice. 

"Hmmm, a question ...how'd ye learn to write a sex scene like that, when ..." He needed a couple of seconds to find the right words. "...when ye were a virgin before we met."

"I might have been a virgin, but I never said I was a nun." 

He laughed out loud. It couldn't be helped. Though Claire could be shy at times, she always spoke her mind. "I'm sorry I didnae mean to laugh, Sassenach," he apologised when he finally sobered up. "It's just that ye wrote the sex part so vivid and graphic, it made me wonder how ye could have known the mechanics of lovemaking when ye were still a virgin at the time ye wrote that story."

"Well, I suppose I should confess ...before I met you, there might have been on a few occasions, that I had ..." 

"Watched porn?" 

"Yes ...but for research purposes," she said rapidly, her voice not sounding muffled anymore. She must have rolled on her back. "But what I meant to say was, I've had ...um ..." She trailed off.

He frowned. "Had what?"

"Physical contact, of course!" she replied with mild exasperation. 

Something heavy rolled over in his stomach. "Excuse me?"

She sighed. "When I use to date, dates sometimes end up in making out, kissing and petting, and I sort of got the gist of what normally happens afterwards." He heard her swallow. "I -I mean nothing happened of course ...at least, not in the biblical sense anyway. W-what I'm trying to say is, before we met ... I've never made it to the Old Testament with anyone. B-but you ... you're pretty special because you and I ...well, we're almost at the Revelations."

What the hell? She was rambling, and he realised she was becoming flustered. Her attempt to calm him down using the books of the Bible for analogy put a dent on his jealousy. He puffed out a breath. "I get it. I get it. Just do me a favour, Sassenach, will ye, huh? In the future, dinnae mention physical contact with other men ever again to me even if it's no' the biblical variety. It's bad enough we're separated, and here I am missing ye loads ..."

"Sorry, but you did ask how I knew about the mechanics of ..." she stopped and then sighed. "Let's change the subject, shall we?"

"Of course." He slugged back a mouthful of beer and placed it on the coffee table, before leaning back once more on his armchair. "We were talking about yer writing. I've read a few chapters, and I'm really enjoying it. Cannae wait to read the rest."

"I'm glad. Willie and Annalise liked it too," she replied, a smile in her voice.

"I'm not surprised. Ye should have published it a long time ago. Ye have a gift, Sassenach, one that I'm verra proud of." 

"Thank you. Writing does take a bit of time, and I needed a job while I was at it. I'm still glad I waited, though."

He shifted uncomfortably on his seat and paused, contemplating if ... "Are ye in the bedroom? Or did ye fall asleep on the couch?" 

"In my bedroom. I couldn't stand watching a movie with Willie and Annalise when all they do is snog in front of me. So I left them to it, thinking I'll rest my eyes for a few minutes before calling you. And that's when I fell asleep." Ah, the poor thing, she must have been so tired. At least she sounded a little more alert compared to earlier. "Seeing them cuddled up like that made me miss you loads," she added, huskily, "...and think of our time together."

Ah, hell! Her voice wasn't the only thing that was alert. His cock suddenly needed a wee adjustment. Again! He unzipped his jeans, purely for ease and comfort and to give himself room for a breathing space.

"You should sleep in tomorrow and get some fresh air too," he suggested, inhaling deeply through his nose as he felt the effects of the beer, reminding him he didn't have any food in his stomach.

"Definitely, I will have a sleep in." She drank something audibly and let out a sigh. "As for that fresh air, it will depend if it's raining or not. Annalise mentioned we're in for a horrendous weather tomorrow." He heard another delicate gulp.

"What are ye wearing, Sassenach?" His words came out before he could think and put a stop to it. It sounded much more sexual than he'd intended, gruff and hoarse, his dirty mind wandering to that explicit scene he read earlier.

There was a few seconds of silence. "Why?"

"Because I want to know ...if ye're warm enough."

"I'm warm enough." 

"So what are ye wearing?"

There was another moment of silence before she replied. "Oooh, I know what this is, James Fraser" she throatily laughed into his ears. "And, we are so not doing this." 

"Doing what?" he groaned, this time pulling out his cock. He couldn't deny himself any longer, when this woman on the other end of the line, rained havoc to his good sense. Running a calloused hand down the length of himself, he gave his throbbing erection a nice hard squeeze. "I'm only asking solely out of concern for yer health. It's cold, and I worry ye might catch ...umm ...pneumonia." He almost laughed out loud at his lame logic.

"Pneumonia? You don't have to worry, Jamie. It's warm in the apartment, and it doesn't take much to heat a small place,," she said with a hint of amusement. "And I'm not naked ...not totally anyway."

"Oh," he gritted, fisting his cock from the base to the head, as a blow of harsh breath escaped his mouth. He felt like a depraved, desperate man, but it couldn't be helped when his cock was so achingly stiff, and he wanted relief. No amount of wanking in the shower earlier had eased his need for her. In fact, it only intensified it.

As he continued to stroke himself, the house's interior closed in around him, the sounds of fire popping doing nothing to reduce the extreme feeling of airlessness. At this moment, as far as he was concerned, they were the only two people in the whole wide world awake, right here and right now, and he would die if he didn't get any release soon.

"I'm wearing undies," she finally said.

Allelujah! His fist tightened around his hardness, moisture seeping from its head. "Ah, Sassenach," he murmured. He imagined her, stretched out on her bed, the duvet kicked off, and how she had looked in those tiny cotton knickers. "And a pyjama top?" he muttered. 

"No," she sighed in sweet response, a slight shyness creeping in her next words. "I forgot to turn off the radiator before I went to bed. It's so warm I must have yanked off my top while sleeping." 

"Sweet Jesus!" He stilled his hand and cupped his balls, seeing her creamy breasts in his mind's eye. 

"Jamie ...what are ye doing? I mean, I think I know what you are doing. But I've never done this before," she whispered. "Maybe I should go and let you ...um ...finish your business?"

"No! Please." He closed his eyes and slumped deeper into the armchair, his feet spreading apart and his head falling back. "I need ye." 

"I ...I don't know how ..." 

"Sassenach." Saying his pet name for her was a mild distraction from the throbbing ache in his hand, as he swiped a thumb over the head of his erection and spread the moisture seeping out. "My cock is so rock hard, I think I might black the fuck out from wanting ye. Dinnae torture me by leaving me hanging."

Her breath hitched, and it was the most beautiful sound in his ears. "So you really are touching yourself?" she asked on a huffed breath.

"Jesus, Sassenach! Ye have nae idea, do ye? I wank every day and night to yer image in my head ...stroking so hard I can hardly breathe, thinking of our last night together ..." he swallowed with difficulty, his hand busy fisting himself. "It's so lonely without ye, and every waking moment is filled with thoughts of ye naked in my bed and every night ye haunt my dreams. What I would give to touch ye right now and plunge my cock between yer thighs." 

She gasped, and he wished he could feel her hot breath on his neck. "Jamie ...I don't even know what to say ... I ...this is out of my comfort zone.." 

"Touch yersel', and tell what ye're thinking," he commanded as he closed his eyes, the heels of his feet pushing against the floor and his muscles thighs tightening hard. "Have ye ever touched yersel'? Tell me." 

"Before you came along, there's been no one, and you know that," she said haughtily. "Giving myself an orgasm is the only reason why I remained a virgin for so long. I call it self-service." 

He let out a burst of pained laughter despite himself. "Ah, Christ, I'd love to kiss that smart-arsed mouth while taking ye hard ..." 

"I like it when you ..." she cut in, and he held his breath, agonisingly waiting for her to complete the sentence. "...kiss me between the legs." He heard her voice fade a little and swishing movements. "I think of you doing that when ...um, my hand is between my thighs."

"Is yer hand between yer thighs now?"

"Y-yes ..."

"Slide yer fingers in, Sassenach. And tell me ...are ye wet?"

"Yes ..." she softly moaned.

"How wet?"

"Very."

Ah, fuck!

He always thought dirty talks were arousing, but each shy admission by Claire was too bloody erotic for words, it made the already taut and strained tether of his self-control about to snap. He uttered her name with a litany of invocations to the saints, his hips shifting against the soft of his seat and his breathing becoming heavier. "Ye ken what I'll do to ye when I get to finally see ye? I'm no' letting ye out of bed," he groaned. "I'm gonnae worship that beautiful body of yers with my mouth until my lips are branded to your skin, and yer scent embedded in mine and yer taste in my mouth. Ye still have yer fingers inside ye?"

"Yes ..."

"Now imagine it's my tongue lapping ye up."

She sobbed, a whimpering sound full of longing and his heart twisted in a knot, creating a cluster that descended down to his belly and found its way to his cock, making his balls draw higher. His exhale came out like an animalistic grunt as Claire's breathing became more shallow. She gasped out his name, a soft plea that he badly wanted so much to pacify.

"Oh, sweet Lord, I want you so much, Jamie. I miss your hands on me," she whispered, her voice enveloping him, he could almost feel her breath on his heated skin. "Please don't stop talking ..."

"Ye think I could stop, Sassenach? I'd sell my soul just to hear ye come." Something told him the cries coming from Claire's mouth would ring in his head for days to come. Broken, sweet, desperate moans, interrupted by her breath hitching. Like she was drowning, just like him. "Ye miss me touching ye, is that right? Weel, let me tell ye something," he said hoarsely. "I spend every night looking at the bloody ceiling of my bedroom, envisioning yer sweet tits bouncing like wee temptations while ye ride me on my creaky bed. It hasn't creaked the way it used to, ever since ye left. And on some nights, I would lay on my tummy and grind myself against the mattress just to hear it creak and pretend it's not the bed I'm fucking," His hand went into overdrive stroking himself, fast and relentless. "But we both know we want the real thing, don't we now?"

"Yes, yes, yes," she whispered in a husky loop.

"Jesus, so sweet, my beautiful Sassenach ..." A drumming began in his head, inflicted by the raspy sound of her voice, the way her breath became laboured when he talked dirty to her. 

The pressure within him rose, and his breath came out in short, head-spinning gulps of air, his senses more heightened for knowing who the cause was for his predicament. Claire. Ah, Christ, he'd never anticipated for the possessiveness that tightened around his heart with a permanence that didn't alarm him. In fact, he'd always known, right from the beginning, she was the one for him. She was the only one who moved him to take a risk in love, to abuse his body for relief ...

"Jamie ...oh God ..."

Hissing out a wounded groan, Jamie fisted the base of his cock and pumped furiously. "I'm here, Sassenach," he whispered. "I hear ye. Always here for ye."

"I'm coming ..." she moaned. "Oh, my God ..."

His heart expanded as he listened to her, her breath shallow, his name a whisper, and he could picture her, turning and twisting against the sheets with her hand between her thighs. He was so close, it hurt. When he couldn't hold off any longer, he let go, his own orgasm coming in full force, spouting out of from his cock, seizing his body in an almost paralysing bliss. It went on forever, his seed spurting into his hand and thighs, his shouts reverberating off the walls and ceiling as the pleasure surged through him and rearranging everything in its route.

Finally spent, he slumped back on his seat, his breathing coming out in choppy waves as his chest rose and fell. After a long stretch of silence between them, he put down his phone and whipped off his shirt to clean himself up. By the time he grabbed it back and placed it against his ear, Claire's breath was calmer.

"Jamie?" There was a trace of doubt or maybe guilt in her voice.

Knowing Claire's strict Catholic upbringing in the boarding school, he didn't want her thinking what they did was wrong as it would only cheapen what they just shared. He needed to reassure her. "Sssh, Sassenach, I ken what ye're gonnae say. What happened between us was ... incredible. And ye ken, why?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Because we love each other. Ye understand?"

There was a long pause before she replied and he imagined her biting her lower lip in contemplation. "Yes," she replied eventually, her voice barely a whisper. And after waiting a few seconds more, he heard her soft snore and even breathing.

Smiling, he murmured good night and turned off the phone. He was just about to close his eyes to savour the moment when the doorbell rang, and a spooked Adso suddenly leapt onto his lap. Bloody hell! He plopped the cat down, righted his jeans and quickly got up, and as he peered through the window, he saw Mrs Fitz, the owner of the Airbnb from across the road, holding a dish in her hands.

What the ...? He opened the door. "Mrs Fitz!" The scent of freshly baked apple pie wafted from the dish she was carrying, making his stomach grumble. "It's kinda late. Is everything alright?" he asked, eyeing the aluminium covered plate. 

"Aye, son," she said, frowning, her eyes bypassing him as if she was in search of something or someone. "I saw the light, and I thought ye might like a bit of pudding ...for after tea perhaps or for breakfast. Yer lass ...Miss Beauchamp, I mean Claire is not here so I thought I'd check up on ye."

Jamie thought the older woman was acting a bit odd, the way she was trying to strain her neck to look beyond him. "Oh, Claire ...I was just on the phone with her."

Both her eyebrows arched. Then the frown on her face dissipated, replaced with a relieved smile and a reddening on her plump cheeks. "Oh, of course. I thought I heard some strange sounds. Ye must have been talking to her." She pushed the dish towards him. "Very well then, now that everything seems to be in order, I must go." Without waiting for him to reply, she whirled around and hurriedly left.

As Jamie stared at her disappearing figure, it slowly dawned on him, Mrs Fitz must have heard the sound he'd made while in the throes of self-love passion. Groaning inwardly, he realised Claire's writing studio shed wasn't the only place that needed soundproofing. If Claire was going to stay with him, he needed to soundproof the whole cottage. Bloody nosy neighbours!

  Dear Readers,

Thank you all for the positive feedback from the previous chapter - what a warm welcome from my readers. So chuffed reading the comments and seeing the kudos. Kudos right back at you, you wonderful lot!

I'll keep this short and sweet because I have heaps of things to do, but before I go, I'm sending you all my best wishes during this very odd times. Keep the good vibes rolling, ditched the negativity and most of all, take care of your health. Until next time ... X

[lilydalexf]

Old School X is a project interviewing X-Files fanfic authors who were posting fic during the original run of the show. New interviews are posted every Tuesday.

Interview with Chimerical

Chimerical’s stories aren’t at Gossamer, but you can now find them at AO3. If you have not read them, are you in for a treat! For instance, Regular People and Regular People Still are some of the X-Files fics I have read and re-read. You may also know Chimerical from her site Chimerical Publications, which was an extensive Mulder and David Duchovny fansite. Big thanks to Chimerical for doing this interview.

Does it surprise you that people are still interested in reading your X-Files fanfics and others that were posted during the original run of the show (1993-2002)?

I’m not surprised at all that X-Files fandom is still popular, it was an amazing, creative show with iconic characters. Aside from just being entertaining, like all good Sci-Fi it asked deep, profound questions about the nature of relationships and humanity. It’s these things that people remember more than the MOWs.

However, I’m surprised to hear that my stories are still read, mostly because there is always something new, someone has a new take, and of course, we have the more recent episodes which provides all new fodder for writers, which is wonderful. But it’s super nice to hear that stories from the classic show still mean something. Also, I wasn’t a prolific writer, there are only 12 stories, but perhaps they struck a chord and people like to revisit them the way you like to re-watch a favorite episode or movie.

What do you think of when you think about your X-Files fandom experience? What did you take away from it?

Fanfic is certainly not new, but The X-Files was absolutely at the right place, at the right time. The internet was just really taking off, and it enabled fans to connect instantly in ways that hadn’t before. I remember that Fox used to send out Cease & Desist letters in an ill-considered attempt to stem fanfic because the Suits just didn’t understand what it was. Nowadays, of course, they embrace much of it, encourage it, even. Supernatural wrote whole episodes about it. But in the early days they were really stupid about it.

But what I took away from it was that great community can exist with people you have never met in person. There is a great sharing of ideas and love of great characters.

Social media didn't really exist during the show's original run. How were you most involved with the X-Files online (atxc, message board, email mailing list, etc.)?

It’s true, no Facebook, twitter, tiktok – it seems strange!

But I connected to fandom though the old Usenet message boards, you couldn’t wait until the episode was over until you could leap on and start discussing the episode. And it was painful if you were on the west coast as I was because you would get spoiled. In truth, it wasn’t must different than Twitter, just without the character limitation. But it was rather the wild, wild, west, no moderators and no terms of service. It could be a free-for-all, and some of the disagreements were legendary! For writing, certainly ATXC was the big dog for fic, and of course alt.tv.x-files for discussion. There were many different Yahoo Groups and AOL mailing lists, that catered to interests in fanfic (Friendship/Adult/Slash) or to the characters and/or actors.

But frankly, the main thing I remember was what a complete PITA it was to just get anything posted. There were all these size limitations and ASCII issues that don’t exist today, you had font and formatting limitations, which cause people to get weirdly creative with italics, bolding, quotes and so on. And you had to break your story up in weird way simply to jam it into the email because there were size limitations. And it never failed that no matter how many Beta Reads you had, you didn’t see that last damn typo until AFTER you hit the send button. There was no edit button, all you could do resend the whole damn thing. It was the fanfic version of the 20 mile walk to school through the snow……Kids today have it so easy!  LOL….

What did you take away from your experience with X-Files fic or with the fandom in general?

Actors are, and always will be, the face of the show. David Duchovny and Gillian Anderson are amazing actors, and the nuance they brought each week was a wonder.

But one of the things that the X-Files also did was make people aware of the people behind the scenes, the showrunners, the writers, the directors. This was also something new. For most TV dramas, most people couldn’t tell you who wrote an episode if you had a gun to their head.

But people knew the writers like Vince Gilligan, James Wong, Darin Morgan, and of course Chris Carter and Frank Spotnitz. And they knew the directors, Rob, Chris and the late great, Kim Manners.. It was like a repertory company. You could count on Morgan & Wong for the creepy, you could count of Vince Gilligan for the humor and relationship stuff, you could count on Darin Morgan for the “what the hell was that, but I loved it.”

So I guess what I took away was a deep appreciation for the craft, for the work. This carried over to other fandoms. I’m more aware of the creative team beyond the actors.

What was it that got you hooked on the X-Files as a show?

Believe it not, I didn’t watch at the beginning. I’ve always been a Sci-Fi fan but for some reason this wasn’t on my radar. I came in about the middle of Season 1. I was channel surfing and stopped the X-Files, it was the episode “Ice.”  I won’t lie, I stopped because I saw David Duchovny in a henley and I’m never one to pass by an attractive man. But as I watched, I became intrigued by these two characters, and their conflicted relationship with each other, even though I didn’t really know what was really going on. But I had to know more. That’s good writing, where you can walk in half-way through an episode and be captured.

I immediately checked out the old AOL Service forums and found a group. Of course, back then, there was no streaming, there was no BitTorrent. So, you just had to wait until when and if the network decided to show a repeat, which meant you were screwed if you were trying to catch up. But someone on one of the boards offered to send me VHS tapes of the episodes of missed. That’s fandom as its best - I’m excited about this and I want to share it with you. So in about a week I was caught up and hooked. I had to see how these two people’s story turned out.

What got you involved with X-Files fanfic?

I’ve always written as a hobby, taken many writing classes, have always written short stories, worked on a novel or two. I’ve got friends who are writers by profession. But the closest I ever came to doing it professionally was co-writing a play that ran for a month off Broadway many years ago, so I’m a dabbler, at best. I’m a big reader, and good stories always make me think, “well, what if this happened….”

So, X-Files wasn’t my first fanfic rodeo. I had been involved in Quantum Leap fandom and Beauty and the Beast, some Star Trek. Once I good hooked on the show, I immediately began searching out fanfic. But it took me a long time before I wrote anything. I’m not sure why, perhaps I was waiting to see where the story went. But X-Files was different in that it blended one of my favorite genres with a truly compelling relationship story. And I don’t just mean romance, it was a melding of two entirely different ways of looking at the world that was captivating. Scully was so strong and Mulder so complex, how could you not love them.

So, I enjoy writing, I learn from it. I learn from the feedback, both good and bad. I’ve never understood fanfic writers who say “just sent me nice feedback.”  No one loves criticism, and not all criticism is valid. But you learn from it. I’ve had people tell me they hadn’t looked at an episode from that point of view and they like it - and I’ve had people tell me that I didn’t know what I was doing, everyone knew that Scully would never cuss (to which I say, please, she grew up on military bases!)  But it helps you improve.

What is your relationship like now to X-Files fandom?

It was a period of my life I cherish because I met some friends who are still my friends to this day, all these years later because we found other things in common besides a show. It was great to share ideas and debate storylines. And it was a fun, creative, and exciting time. Each episode was must-see and then talking to my friends about it later was the best part.

I started to drift away when David Duchovny left the show. I thought then, and still think, they should have called it a day because the beating heart of that show was Mulder and Scully together. You can’t rip out half the heart and expect the patient to live. On an intellectual level, I got why Duchovny left, I got why Anderson stayed and I got that Fox was a fledging network back then and XF was a cash cow. But on an emotional level, it all turned upside down, especially when the much-promised “search for Mulder” never really happened.

Fans got angry. They were angry at David for leaving, they were angry at Gillian for staying, and they were angry at poor Robert Patrick, perfectly decent person, for merely existing. It got ugly and I got up caught up in that. Frankly, I was as much to blame as anyone in carrying on stupid arguments about crap that didn’t matter. And one day I just realized I’d let all the joy be sucked away, and this just wasn’t who I wanted to be, or how I wanted to spend my time. So, I took a break, I still watched the show as it limped on, but I disconnected from the fandom part of it. And by the time I’d had my break, the show was done!

Were you involved with any fandoms after the X-Files? If so, what was it like compared to X-Files?

I’m always a fan. There are many shows I’ve followed and liked, Supernatural, Fringe, Walking Dead, but I don’t get involved in the internet drama. So, I don’t get as invested.

Who are some of your favorite fictional characters? Why?

I assume you mean besides Mulder and Scully!  In literature, My favorite writer is John Steinbeck and every character he created was indelible and singular. East of Eden is my favorite book and the characters of Adam & Caleb Trask, as well as Cathy Ames are so well drawn.  Of Mice and Men, Cannery Row, they’re all perfect.  Another favorite book and character is Alexandre’s Demas, The Count of Monte Cristo.  The arc that Edmond Dantès’ life take is quite Mulder-esque.  And of course, Harry Potter, I’m a sucker for a character fighting against overwhelming odds.

On TV, Sam Beckett from Quantum Leap.  That was an amazingly well-crafted series, also featuring a female show runner, Deborah Pratt.  I love the character of Raymond Reddington on The Blacklist, there is something about a completely unapologetic bad guy. I would have once said Dean and Sam Winchester, but sadly that turned into a case of staying too long at the fair and I stopped watching a couple seasons ago - But the early seasons rocked. Literally every single character in M*A*S*H was golden, and they knew when to call it quits. Thomas Magnum from the original Magnum PI. (People my age will still remember the “Did you see the Sun Rise, Ivan” episode!)

Do you ever still watch The X-Files or think about Mulder and Scully?

Oddly enough, a few weeks before you reached out to me, I watched the X-Files movie again. I remembered the incredible excitement when it came out. Fox did this tour across the county; it was like a mini-con. But I remember they had the trailer on a loop and my friends and I sat through it so many times we could recite the entire thing by heart. TV shows, such as Star Trek, had made the leap to movie, but I don’t believe a TV show had ever made the leap to films while the show was still on TV. But damn, it was good.

I watched the two recent XF mini-series. They did much to revive the old feeling, especially the episodes by Darin Morgan, who is a national treasure. And it was wonderful to see David, Gillian and Mitch. I’m sorry there won’t be more.

Do you ever still read X-Files fic? Fic in another fandom?

I haven’t in quite a while. Mostly because real life has interfered (work, personal stuff, Covid) over this last year and I have trouble concentrating. But I would certainly return to it, you need the escape of a good story.

Do you have any favorite X-Files fanfic stories or authors?

Oh yes! But they were all from the time I was writing. Lydia Bower, DashaK, BlueSwirl, XFBandit, Paula Graves, Taverl, Prufrock’s Love, and dozens of other are still on my PC.

What is your favorite of your own fics, X-Files and/or otherwise?

Like children, they each have their virtues but some may be harder to love than others. While I love a good smutty MSR, I was also a big fan of conflict resolution. So, I’m going to cheat and split the baby here. Based on feedback, I’d have to day my most popular story was Regular People and its sequel. And I really enjoyed writing that. It’s simple, it’s sweet, it’s what I hope for Mulder and Scully. The chance to just BE, if only for a while.

I wanted to try a slash story, so Wind River. That story was inspired by the murder of Matthew Shepard. I have dear friends in the gay community and I was so angry that this could happen in this country, so that one was about the need to treat people compassionately and who better to do that than Mulder and Scully.

But in truth, my own favorite is one that didn’t get much attention, called Rock Bottom. I wanted to explore that the fact Mulder and Scully, were, on occasion, just truly awful to each other and yet still reason to come back together.

Do you think you'll ever write another X-Files story? Or dust off and post an oldie that for whatever reason never made it online?

I have a couple unfinished stories. There’s one from Quantum Leap, I want to finish first and when that’s done, I would like to finish the two X-Files that are half-baked.

Do you still write fic now? Or other creative work?

I do legal writing as a profession now, so I write all day long, but analyzing a case or a legal matter is not the same creatively and I do miss that, so I see returning someday, you need to feed your soul.

Where do you get ideas for stories?

Well that’s all over the place, much like my mind! Often I was inspired by something I thought was unaddressed in the episodes. That’s where the Just One series came from. Or it’s a Rosencrantz and Guildenstern kind of thing -- That is, what’s happening off screen while the main action is going on. I find that intriguing, and that’s where Risking Everything came from. The incident in By Coincidence actually happened to a friend of a friend and I thought it would make good fodder. Pentimento came to me following a lecture I attended at a gallery, what happens when you peel back the layers you thought were true. You never know what’s going to connect.

What's the story behind your pen name?

“Chimerical” means existing  as the product of unchecked imagination, given to unrealistic flights of fantasy- which seemed right for a fiction writer, especially for XF. In the early days, it became the phonetic “KiMeriKal” when I was on the old AOL service simply because Chimerical wasn’t available as a screen name! But I’m finally Chimerical1975@gmail.com!

Do your friends and family know about your fic and, if so, what have been their reactions?

Yes, my friends are aware, some of them have been my betas over the years. My brother knows I write, but I don’t think he’s ever read anything because he would find the smut elements uncomfortable coming from his little sister!

Is there a place online (Tumblr, twitter, AO3, etc.) where people can find you and/or your stories now?

The most recent versions of my stories are at AO3. If I ever get around to anything new it will be posted there as well.

Is there anything else you'd like to share with fans of X-Files fic?

Thanks for reading, thanks for remembering me, and it was a great time in my life. Fandoms are great communities as long as we can always remember there’s a human being at the other end of the keyboard.  Be kind, be compassionate, and never stop imagining the possibilities.

(Posted by Lilydale on February 23, 2021)

[foxymoxynoona]

I’m curious how much responsibility you think jk has in Mishka’s assault. I know everyone has a different answer. For me him not taking any action (even him staking out in a tree to keep watch of the hut would suffice) puts a lot of responsibility on him, so much so that I realistically don’t think Mishka could ever forgive him for the trauma. But I know everyone has their own opinions

I’ll use this second version of your ask even though this is a ballsy question to ask the writer before the story is even over, lol, especially as you tell me you consider this a very black and white moral issue. So I’m going to whip out my undergraduate philosophy degree and make you suffer a long answer. But my short answer is that I do not see indirect culpability as a simple moral issue :)

For starters, I of course always have my own opinions about how I think characters are behaving, and I strike a balance of being aware of these things while also setting them aside when I write. If I judge my characters with every word, I don’t do the human experience of being flawed and growing as people any justice. 

But if you want my real judgment on my own story it’s this: the entire thing has been morally bankrupt from the beginning. Marguerite is JK's prisoner. She has no actual security or agency. She does not have the power to consent to anything they have done together, not really. So if you're asking me to pass moral judgment on my own story, that's it, and I said that pretty much in my opening author's note This captor/captive trope is fundamentally flawed and this story is my attempt to recognize and subvert that power dynamic, but that power dynamic exists here and I can’t pretend like it doesn’t. There is no way for M to know if she actually loves JK or not and vice versa because they are not in an equally-balanced situation where she can honestly assess that without her powerlessness being a component. 

Now, for JK's culpability in Marguerite's assault, there are many things true at once that I feel prevent it from actually being a simple answer: -JK had more power than Mishka and I believe people in power are morally obligated to protect those without power (even at their own expense) but this is a moral judgment of my own -By not being honest and upfront and allowing M to understand everything he was doing and why, he denied her agency in assessing the risks SHE was willing to take/be part of -M did not deserve this to happen to her but it also does not ruin her or destroy her  -Anything JK chose had the risk of grave consequences -JK does not have equal power to the Thane -JK does not understand the weight of what he risked with M because he comes from a place of privilege where sexual assault is not a thing he experiences or fully understands, as ingrained in him by his culture (not a moral excuse, but still a truth); he feels like he has convinced her not to consider suicide

Do I think JK did/didn't do things that directly contributed to the position she's in? Of course! Tons! Does that mean I think he's responsible for those things happening to her? You're asking one of the BIGGEST QUESTIONS IN PHILOSOPHY lol. Which matters more when debating whether an act was ethical: the person's intent or the consequences? Most people believe the “truth” falls somewhere in the middle of that...

So here are some things to think about because I'm the writer and can play God and tell you other things that could have happened: -JK immediately challenged the Thane in the very beginning of this story. Based on the rules of that challenge, JK was killed because he is half the age and strength of the Thane and when you challenge a Thane, it is NOT an even fight. JK would have been killed and M immediately becomes the Thane’s. The Thane is immediately bored with this victory and just kills her. -JK secretly kills the Thane. When it’s uncovered what happened, the Hold is torn apart in a bloody battle and ultimately JK is put to death for murdering his Thane. M becomes a slave of the new Thane or of the Hold. That doesn’t go great for her. -JK takes her back to her family early on. While he’s gone, the Thane kills his family as punishment for JK breaking their deal and breaking the “spoils of war” rules by freeing a slave against his Thane’s command -JK challenged the Thane as soon as the Augurs said M wasn’t pregnant, and dies in combat. M becomes the Thane’s. -JK murders the Thane towards the end of the month. He’s put on trial for murdering the Thane. Maybe he wins but is murdered by people who believe he acted without the blessing of the gods. Maybe he is put to death and M is sold back to the Stone Cleavers. -JK and the Augurs keep M locked away in a hut for three weeks and it’s proven in that time she actually is with child and rightfully “belongs” to JK. He is then free to choose whether he keeps her or allows her to return to her family. -JK and the Augurs lock M up for safe keeping and it’s not proven she’s with child within three weeks, but in the meantime JK has had more time to evaluate options and may have a “second chance” at what to do, especially now that he knows Augur Thekla and the ghosties may actually not be impartial, and may be on his side -JK does nothing and the exiles attack in the meantime so it’s moot because the Thane is killed or JK is killed or M is killed -JK lives in a tree outside the hut to make sure nothing is going on. The Augur who covered for the Thane says JK was trying to get in, or plants evidence, and JK is killed along with his whole family, M becomes the Thane’s.

And the list goes on. JK made a choice based on thinking of all of these things and his intention was certainly not for M to be hurt by the Thane. We can be sure of that; it’s in everything he thinks and does. But the consequences of his decision still led to that. Should he have been able to predict it? Maybe! Because it was definitely an option, along with all those other options above. I suspect we would be having this same question arise if any of those other things had happened to. “Why didn’t JK just have faith and be patient?” 

We know that he and M both think philosophically sometimes. They’ve had pretty profound discussions together. You can be sure they are both thinking all of these things. But I won’t say more about the future because... the story isn’t over yet. :) 

I will say again though, this story does have a happy ending, one that I feel is justified. Some readers may not! Especially if you see this as a very black and white guilt. I will gently suggest though that in pretty much every story of mine, there comes a point where I get a handful of readers saying “I CAN NEVER FORGIVE THESE CHARACTERS” and then within two chapters they do. That doesn’t mean you will! I just say that to remind that the story isn’t over. We have not heard from M yet about her own assault, which is what I think is the most important voice in all of this. At the end of the day, I’m the writer so I can cheat here, but I ultimately think that M’s judgment is the one that matters most in this situation, and as the writer my only promise to the reader was that M will have a happy ending --which to me means SHE feels like her story ends happily.

[violent-optimism]

Some scrambled thoughts on Midnight Mass

Sorry (not sorry) for the insane amount of Midnight Mass spam. But you guys have to understand that I honestly can’t remember the last time I finished a show, and then was compelled to immediately re-watch it from the beginning because of how much I loved it.

I enjoyed Hill House and Bly Manor a LOT, I’ll say that first. But Midnight Mass had a much greater impact on me for whatever reason. It’s been living in my head for the last couple days and so I thought I would just say a few words (or a lot).

And yes, I know I’m a little bit late to the Midnight Mass train. Netflix decided to be a butt and release this and Squid Game at almost the exact same time and I wanted to finish one before starting the other.

Anywho, I digress. I’ll try and make this shorter than my usual reviews and just cut to the chase plain and simple about what I loved so much about this show.

I am convinced by this point that Mike Flanagan is extremely picky about which actors he chooses for his productions. I mean, he has to be. Why else would all his shows consist of some of the finest actors of our time? The ability to memorize an insane amount of dialogue for SUPER long takes is not something that just any actor can do (at least, I don’t think so).

Obviously every single actor in this show does an absolutely phenomenal job, but I cannot write this thing without talking about Hamish Linklater as Father Paul/Monsignor Pruitt. I know the internet is losing their minds about him right now, both for acting reasons and...let’s say more “fangirl” ones. All I know for sure is that he fucking stole the show for me. From his very first scene, all the way until his final moment in the last episode I was captivated and mesmorized by his performance and character. Even when he was doing horrific things I couldn’t help but root for him because he was just so charismatic and likeable.

I am just so glad that the casting directors took a chance on him. Nothing Hamish (or any of the other actors for that matter) says sounds like he’s acting. Every word sounds so organic and real. He knows exactly where to put every stutter and stammer in such a delicate and methodical way. It’s just incredible.

And I also cannot talk about acting without mentioning Samantha Sloyan as Beverly Keane. I know nothing I say is original and it’s been said a hundred times before. She fucking DISAPPEARED into that role. She was just so insufferable and horrible and she played it so well. I really hope both her and Hamish get nominated for something because they both deserve it so much.

I mean you could honestly pick any scene with either of those actors and you would be instantly blown away; the same can be said for the other actors too. So yeah, long story short I just really loved the acting in Midnight Mass.

This show just had everything for me. The soundtrack was beautiful and haunting (I’m listening to it right now in fact). The cinematography was absolutely stunning and I lost track of how many amazing shots there were. The themes of the show: Life, Death, Religion, Redemption, it was all handled so beautifully and with such care. I know this show has offended some people for religious reasons but I think that just kind of proves how powerful the messages are and how much it hits home.

This was Mike Flanagan’s passion project and it shows. It really does. There is just so much attention to detail and passion for authenticity which makes the show even greater. This show had (and still does) such a profound effect on me that I have not felt about a piece of media in a long time. I don’t mean to big it up or anything (actually I do) but if you haven’t seen this show yet you really should because it is just amazing.

Okay that wasn’t really that short but I tried my best lol So there you have it, that’s why I’ve been reblogging about it non-stop, and more will probably be on the way lol

Thanks for reading!

[bloodybells1]

PROCESS, ONE: A READER’S JOURNEY

“The essays in this book were memoir until they couldn’t stand to be memoir anymore.” —Leslie Jamison

Had I read that quote even only six months ago (the book to which she refers is her much-lauded personal essay collection The Empathy Exams), I wouldn’t have known exactly what it meant. 

How can a piece of writing evolve from memoir? In terms of simple, unvarnished truth-telling, I thought the memoir, as a genre of literature, was pretty much the vessel. Yet here a case is being made for something that sounds like the opposite: it seems one can go beyond even the once terminally-regarded memoir. 

Let me think about this further, about my confusion. Maybe my framing is off. Maybe it’s not an issue of evolution or reduction. It’s not that the personal essay is somehow purer than the memoir, as far as autobiographical writing is concerned. The issue is not one of authenticity. It’s about application, or even misapplication, that the quest for truth for which one naturally uses the data of one’s own life could, depending on the circumstances, be more appropriately undertaken in a different genre. The two genres are merely looking at different subject matter. They’re examining completely different lifeforms on the slides, but they’re using the same authentic microscope, as it were. 

I relate to the sense of frustration in the Jamison quote, that there’s a feeling that the mission she started out on—writing a memoir—became so inadequate for the real task at hand that it became unbearable, that the pressure of working under a false guise gave way to a different form of transmission. 

The memoir became a personal essay collection. It had to. The questions she was exploring could not be undertaken by simply telling the story of one’s own life. Personal data was necessary for the full picture. But she needed other sources, the experiences of others, the realities of phenomena outside of her normal experience, even as they were phenomena that ultimately she ended up relating to in a deeply intimate manner. In her collection, she let us into those experiences, and then we were able to relate, by dint of her fearless storytelling and personal excavations. 

Now I’m getting it: a personal essay is fixed on some question and that is what drives the exploration. Personal, say, autobiographical, details are needed for the exploration, and this can vary depending on the subject. But the focus is the external question. That is the different lifeform on the slide. It’s about the question being pursued.

I.

But first, a look at where I started on this journey, with the memoir itself. 

The memoir as a work of literature was my singular focus while I was crafting my book proposal a couple of years ago. Simply put, it was what was on the table. Owing to my provenance as a musician and an actor, and my express interest in writing about my life, the genre of the memoir naturally became a thing for me. 

So I dove into acquainting myself, not with examples of celebrity memoirs or memoirs by politicians—perhaps the two most popular varieties—but with examples of the finer possibilities in those genres which—big surprise—happen to be written for the most part by writers. I found myself falling in love with the exercise of memoir writing, as opposed to, say, the gratuitous voyeurism that is often offered by the popular variants of the genre. 

For me, what became valuable was the quality of the writing; most of the time I was reading the life stories of people with whose work I had, outside of the memoir being read, little to no familiarity. These windows into life were captivating in their own right, these portals into raw experience, the possibilities of narration within the genre of nonfiction, the enlightened self-awareness made evident in sculpting large-scale timelines of one’s own life. 

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It’s difficult for me to overstate the degree to which these two books have influenced me thus far. 

Nabokov’s memoir is well-known. It’s a work of literature in its own right. It is a great example of the possibilities of the memoir to accomplish something other than realism: the whole thing is a kind of Proustian meta-narrative of his childhood and abrupt departure from Russia after the revolution, like a dream of family life written down. Mary Karr, in The Art of Memoir, heads her chapter on this book, “Don’t Try This at Home: The Seductive, Narcissistic Count.” Indeed, the book reads somewhat Transylvanianly, a bold, exotic yarn full of strange characters unfurled for an audience unfamiliar with that way of life. It reads as alluring and dark, and, yes, quite vampiric. But it is also profound and gorgeous. 

While it’s not really a memoir, more of an autobiography, and also not often regarded as exemplary of the form, My Lives, written by Edmund White is an incredible tour de force of portraiture of the most important people in his life, his therapists, his parents, his lovers, his friends, his subjects, they all get a chapter dedicated specifically to them. Imagine knowing a world-renowned painter who decides he wants to do a string of portraits of the most important people in his life and you are one of them. That’s what this is, in literary form. It’s less a story of him than of these people, but, by the end of the book, you, of course, end up knowing a lot about him. His ability to make you see the things that he is looking at, in a very concrete, physical way—the curves of a body, the angles of a face, the ambience of a train station—is unparalleled in my view. 

Is there a difference between an (a) autobiography and a (b) memoir? 

I think the difference is about scope. The autobiography is explicitly a functional genre that attempts to document a person’s entire life. It is a biography that is written by the person whose life is being written about. It does not usually try to invoke any literary devices and is intended to serve as an ancillary to consumption of the subject’s work outside of the autobiography. It is a kind of “reader” of the subject’s life. It’s main purpose is not to be written well (although if it isn’t it is a grave mistake), it is to convey the near entirety of the subject’s experience on earth. 

By contrast, good writing is a bit more called-for in the memoir; otherwise the whole premise falls apart. The memoir, in carving out a specific “slice” of a person, either a period of time or some type of encounter or some activity that they always do, is explicitly intended to amplify and interrogate aspects of being. In this way, the memoir has more potential for inspiration and edification irrespective of the reader’s interest in the subject’s life outside of the memoir. This, to me, is the crucial difference. 

For the most part, I am not explicitly a huge fan of the work of the writers below. But their memoirs have touched and inspired me. I don’t think I would have all that much interest in reading the autobiography of, say, Joan Didion. (I might, I can’t be sure, of course). But my point is that I’m not looking for her autobiography, whereas there’re a lot of Didion fans out there that would be waiting for said autobiography. 

In this way, autobiography is a kind of fan service, whereas the memoir is a thing unto itself. It is a work of literature written for the purpose of refracting aspects of being alive. To appreciate that type of writing you need not be familiar with anything else that person has done on this planet, anymore than that it is necessary to be familiar with Herman Melville’s entire oeuvre in order to love and appreciate Moby Dick. 

It was with the consciousness of the memoir’s self-sufficiency, the irony of its ability to communicate, in its more specific mode, even more broadly than the supposedly more capacious autobiography, that I continued my exploration of the genre and began taking notes for the writing of my own memoir (which is now a personal essay collection, but more on that later). 

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Two classics of the genre, here. 

Many of us have read Maya Angelou’s book in high school. Both focus on the same thing: a period of time starting from birth and leading just up to late adolescence. Both are written like traditional first-person stories with beginnings, middles, and ends, and, were it not for our knowledge of their source material, might easily pass as romans a clef. I also think that both are examples of “misery lit,” although I think that that genre is overly hip and reductive for Angelou’s work, which is about so much more than just her misery. But they both focus on their childhood traumas in such a plain, unadorned, simple way, it is shocking and, for those of us struggling with these same issues, healing. 

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The Apology and The Year of Magical  Thinking are examples of how the memoir can focus to a degree of incredible specificity. Both focus on pain but are concerned with different parts of experience. Didion writes only about one year of her life, while Ensler writes about almost the entirety of it, but with a focus on a single, prevailing experience. Both are harrowing in completely different ways and both are exquisite in the way they lift up their struggles to find meaning and truth, things that pertain to the reader’s own experiences and which he or she may also come into touch with in reading these books. They truly are gifts in that regard. 

In a manner of speaking, these two books are like two, very long, book-length personal essays. They rigorously explore and interrogate their premises and do their best to extract whatever possible that is meaningful out of that exploration.

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More “misery lit”! I actually don’t mean to be reductive in saying that. Both of these are fabulous stories concerning completely different encounters with mental illness and they are far beyond some hipster term of art. But there is a lot of memoir writing out there that explores the darker ways some of us were brought up and I don’t think there’s anything wrong with simply naming a certain type of writing that courageously explores how our childhoods might have been compromised. 

In The Glass Castle it’s about her father’s mental illness and in An Unquiet Mind, it’s about the author’s own journey discovering and treating her bipolar disorder. Walls writes her story very much like it’s a novel, like Angelou’s memoir, and, also like Angelou, she writes it from the perspective of her child self and it is a compelling account as a result, full of tragic innocence and complicated encounters far beyond the reach of a child to properly grapple with. 

Jamison’s book is very clinical, although she recounts her episodes frankly and shockingly and really brings you in to her subjective experience of insanity. These two books—not to mention Eve Ensler’s—have given me the courage to begin exploring my own encounters with mental illness and childhood trauma and to commit those experiences to writing. 

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As I continued to research I started coming upon a very interesting type of memoir, the experimental memoir. That’s really interesting I thought. How does one write a memoir as a form of experimental art? 

Not that this one is expressly experimental, but Robert Graves’ book is slightly off-putting in that fecund, experimental way: the bulk of it is dedicated to his experience in the trenches and it’s told with grit and harsh realism. But it starts with his schooldays and ends briefly, and curiously inconclusively, with scenes of fatherhood and tutelage. It’s a rather unique rendering of a life. Towards the end he admits that his original idea was to use the notes that he took on the frontlines for writing a novel but changed his mind after realizing that he would be desecrating his experiences and his memories and his sacrifices by layering a plot and storyline onto them. He then decided to write it simply as a factual account. 

Dark Back of Time, however, is a full-on experiment in autobiography and it is always slipping in and out of reality, imagination and historicization. He spends a large amount of time writing about an old soldier who died accidentally on a hotel balcony in South America but he gets to this through talking about the reactions that his peers in Oxford had to one of his novels which they suspected made use of their lives. Truly an eye-opening experience to read autobiographical material refracted in this way. 

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I haven’t read these three yet. They are “on deck,” as it were. Eat, Pray, Love needs little introduction, obviously. The Speckled People was highly recommended by a fellow writer and Lying came up in an online search as a prominent example of the experimental memoir. 

At this point, it was already clear to me that I was writing a different kind of memoir than any of these examples. I realized that I was in effect writing personal essays without knowing it. I knew very early on that I wanted to eschew responsibility for an overarching narrative of any sort. I wanted to commit myself to specific topics that could be covered discretely in one chapter each. When I read the Graves’ passage regarding the desecration of his time on the battlefield, I thought of my own “war stories” and thought similarly that trying to give them a plot, while not exactly a “desecration,” would feel unnatural and inauthentic. What was feeling natural was to pick separate experiences in my life and devote a chapter to those I felt were strong enough for further elucidation. The time I got stuck on a mountain overnight with a friend. The shock of coming to NYU. The decision to leave the music industry. There were so many other parts of my life that seemed to deserve specific treatment in this way. I naturally started coming upon essay collections as a result. 

II.

I took an online course by Alexander Chee called, “How to Write an Essay Collection” and afterwards it became much clearer what kind of book I wanted to write. I read about half of his reading list for the class and, along with the volumes I’d already dug into, I learned what a personal essay really was and what it wasn’t, and knowing this difference demonstrated to me quite clearly that the book I was writing wanted to be an essay collection in the truest sense of what an essay really is. The Leslie Jamison quote at the top of this blog post became true for me as well. My memoir could no longer stand being a memoir and had become a personal essay collection.

During the class, Alexander Chee recounted an irony regarding his own personal essay collection. He said that he found it curious when readers of his book would tell him that they found so much of him in it. “There’s actually not very much of me at all,” he said; and he mentioned this in order to illustrate what a personal essay collection is and what it isn’t. The reason why there’s not that much “of him” in his essay collection, nor, for that matter, why there isn’t much of any author’s life in any of their personal essay collections, is that a personal essay, despite being “personal,” is primarily geared towards externals not internals. “Pity the personal essayist,” the author Sloane Crosley writes in her New York Times review of Jamison’s latest essay collection, Make it Scream, Make it Burn, “fated to play with a reader’s tolerance for that most cursed of vowels. Too many “I”s and you’re self-absorbed; too few and: Where are you in this piece?” 

Self-absorption as a liability in writing is understood enough, though, when it comes to autobiographies and memoirs, the liability becomes unavoidable and, if anything, necessary. We read those books exactly for the purpose of the big drop into an author’s psyche, willingly diving down the subjective abyss, basically swimming in “I”s (the best ones allow us to do this gleefully). 

Not so in a personal essay, where the restriction on egoistic license holds. And yet: how do we include and implicate ourselves into the topic? without stepping on traps of self-absorption? This is what Chee was talking about when he said that there wasn’t much of him in his essays: not that he didn’t implicate himself in his narrations—he very much did—but that he skillfully observed this precarious balance. 

That balance is undertaken quite differently depending on the author (and in my synopses of the collections I’ve read recently I’ll try to speak about how they’ve assigned “percentages of self” into their essays, what the “lean-to-fat" ratio is, for example, when “fat” could be understood as the strictly autobiographical portion of the essay). It can also vary according to the essay. In some cases it’ll be necessary to fully implicate oneself. In others, perhaps only a passing mention of the author’s impression of the events is needed. But there’s an essential aspect to what makes for a great personal essay, irrespective of ratios of personal to objective, that Charle’s D’Ambrosio captures beautifully in the introduction to his own essay collection:

My instinctive and entirely private ambition was to capture the conflicted mind in motion, or, to borrow a phrase from Cioran, to represent failure on the move, so leaving a certain wrongness on the page was OK by me. The inevitable errors and imperfections made the trouble I encountered tactile, bringing the texture of experience into the story in a way that being cautiously right never could. 

This is kind of a Copernican revolution to me. I mean, it had never really occurred to me that you could be wrong and that would be a good thing. In writing I had always striven to make sure that I didn’t insult researchers, journalists, experts and scholars by misrepresenting the truth. Yet, here was basically a license to get it all wrong and admit it on the page and have that be a virtue of the writing. 

What this tells me is that what remains key in the personal essay is not some authoritative stance, but the very uncertainty of the perspective, and how that might invite opportunities for a much more intimate relational structure with the topic matter on the part of the reader. This isn’t about ingestion (of data, of info, of ideas, etc.) but about contact. I see that as being very similar to the relationship between reader and author in a memoir, this premium on relation. The only difference—and for me, a very consequential one—is that the primary target of a personal essay’s sight is not the self qua self, but some implication with the content of reality on the part of the self. That intersection is what fascinates me more at this time than simple self-narration. 

In this way, a personal essay can kind of be like a stop sign, a signal to halt the gyrating (mostly online) world, with its hyperlinks and ads and other pseudo-references. In fact, in his brilliant collection Proxies, Brian Blanchfield takes on this very task and turns the internet off when writing each of his essays in the collections. In order to take solace within the much more subjective account housed within the pages, an account at once open and tentative, based as it is in doubt, and hermetically sealed, shunning the greater world’s insistence on certification and realism, the essay becomes a prismatic utility for investigation, where perspective and subjectivity are king and certainty and objectivity are actually limiting.

The memoir offers something very direct to the reader: the author’s own struggle with, or journey through, some issue or period in life. The author is the chief protagonist in the drama, the star of, say, the cinematic adaptation of the book. The issues swirl around the protagonist but the camera stays trained on him or her. What I started to notice was that my mental gaze was always scudding away from the protagonist (me) and over to what else was in the frame. And so the personal essay as I began to learn about it became a much more appropriate vessel for these concerns, even as I knew that I would need to implicate myself in the action, keep myself in the frame. Striking that balance in a way that is both specific to me and my experiences and yet observant of the proper limits of the genre, so as not to veer away and “regress” back into memoir, has become my chief objective with each of the essays that I’ve been writing. 

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These three collections might be my bible for this project. Each are very different in style and application, but each is similar in that joyous experience of reading a paragraph and being so stunned by the insight that one has to turn the face away from the page for a moment (or two) to let it sink in. Baldwin is, of course, the king of this sort of thing. There were times while reading his essays when I actually had to straight up close the book and put it down in order to absorb what was going on. The title essay which is about Harlem, his father, and his early awakening to the depth of his country’s racism, is perfection on both the level of content and form. It does what an essay does best: leave you with the unequivocal residue of human feeling twisting around the grander issues with which that essay is concerned. 

Each essay, in all of these volumes, is like a discrete nugget, a piece of writing, contiguous, open and alive, that can be read and reread, like an oracle you visit throughout your life, which, using the same words, speaks to you anew each time. 

Ambrosio’s essays are absolutely nimble and virtuosic; his language is muscular and sinewy; his sentences are lean and long and you can ride them effortlessly and when you finish them and their paragraphs, you are left with an image of a truth that was planted in your sight without you knowing. It’s an exhilarating experience. 

Blanchfield’s essays are a revelation of subjectivity. This volume was part of Chee’s reading list and I can’t express enough gratitude for having been directed to it. Perhaps Blanchfield is the master of nesting the autobiography within the confines of an essay. When he toggles between the external and the internal, you don’t notice it. It’s effortless.  His ability to tell a giant story in one paragraph is inspiring. The tone and delivery is somewhat sacral, he’s a poet, after all. But it is also delicate, graceful, poised and elegant. And deeply personal. How someone can title an essay “On Frottage” and turn the reader’s attention to the true significance of the topic—AIDS and the gay scene in the 80s and 90s—and all of the social significance intertwined in it, along with implicating himself in a nakedly autobiographical way, is beyond me, but I am happy to be in the audience for it.

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What I love about these two collections are their stealth and form. Their stealth comes from how they read, not so much as casually but as without artifice or adornment, and how this aspect lets the reader’s guard down, only to have some extremely penetrating conclusion arrive at the end of each essay, in a manner that the more plainspoken style did not necessarily anticipate. Chee’s prose particularly comes across as either supremely and dryly witty or as modest plainness, but when you finish one of his essays the takeaway is anything but those things; it is profound. Jamison as well. As for their form, they tend to do some adventurous things. One of Jamison’s essays uses a kind of diagram of storytelling which she learned in a writing class to “tell the story” of a traumatic episode involving a horrific episode of violence she experienced in South America. The essay is called “The Morphology of a Hit.” It’s a perfect example of something else that I really love about personal essays which is their ability to take leaps in form when that form enables a type of storytelling that otherwise isn’t possible. Chee does this very thing in a somewhat humorous essay, the titular one of this volume, which is just a long list of life hacks and writing tips. I’m really grateful for the insight that this man has given me into the writing process. My copy of his book is signed, as I first became aware of him at a reading of his with Edmund White at NYU which my good friend invited me to. So I’m very grateful to that friend as well! He also introduced me to Edmund White so it’s a double whammy!

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I would’ve never encountered these collections of my own volition without their inclusion on the reading list in Chee’s course, but I’m very happy that I read these. McCarthy’s essays are quite old, dating to the 50s and 60s, I believe, when they were originally published in The New Yorker. They’re all centered around her childhood years, either living with her grandparents or in an orphanage and they are remarkable portraits of intimacy and observation. The same with Ginzburg’s collection, although she writes in a much more enigmatic style. What inspired me most about her essays was how simultaneously aloof and vulnerable they are: she has a way of, say, writing about England, without ever even mentioning the name of the country, yet contriving a recognizable and incisive portrait of it, all from the vantage point of her own experience of the country during a certain time. Finally, there’s really nothing quite like Wojnarowicz’ book. It’s slightly Beat in tone, sometimes surreal and ecstatic, and then progressively more plainspoken and political. But it is all so very raw and pulsing with the heat of experience and desperation and anger. Wojnarowicz was an incredible artist, a sculptor and photographer and he lived in the East Village of the 80s and reports from the frontlines on the AIDS crisis. His work bears the stamp of a deeply tuned in artist confronting the hypocrisies and injustices of his time.

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I put these three together mostly because these collections are explicitly comedic, although each has its own manner of using humor to communicate a deeper message. Jonathan Ames is well-known as a very funny novelist and the creator of the TV show Bored to Death. His essays are very short and very direct. There’s almost no commentary and he just narrates the events. The approach of leaving room for not knowing is very noticeable in his work, as he often qualifies his observations with humility and openness. The work comes across as very tender as a result. Irby is laugh-out-loud funny. I don’t know how she does it but she has a way of sending herself up and making fun of herself and her limitations that is both funny and painful at the same time. Commercialism, body positivity, and personal achievement are only some of the themes that are explored through that lens of self-effacement. Her ability to put herself under the most lacerating gaze of the authorial microscope and coming out the other end of that examination as a strong individual is unparalleled. I consider this volume must-reading material. In terms of exquisite construction and intelligence I would have to put Sedaris up high on the list, though his work is popular enough and his collections prodigious enough that his reputation for that kind of writing needs no further illustration here. 

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Virginia Woolf is popular as an essayist for collections published much earlier than Moments of Being, such as The London Scene. The essays here are actually very raw and unedited and so very sprawling, though obviously of high literary quality. She wrote them down like diary entries and then they were found after her death. They feel similarly to McCarthy’s essays in their naked observations of early childhood and family life. Juxtaposing this collection with DFW’s Consider the Lobster is a bold choice on my part, but it’s for the purpose of elucidating my previous point about that delicate “lean-to-fat” ratio I spoke about earlier in this blog post. Woolf’s posthumous collection is “all fat,” one could say, in that her focus is almost exhaustively on her own life and personal upbringing and subsequent marriage. These essays are basically memoir writing in the guise of the personal essay. DFW’s essays, by way of intense contrast, are almost “all lean,” in the sense that he spends almost no time talking about his personal life. The closest he gets to that is his essay on 9/11 where he goes over the details of where he was when it happened. The rest are what you’d expect from the author: penetrating accounts of the subtleties and hidden motivations of the cultures and people he investigates. He is basically like the most intelligent wartime journalist where his “wars” are the John McCain presidential campaign of 2000, the AVN Awards Ceremony, or the Maine Lobster festival. 

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I have yet to read these collections but I’m very much looking forward to them. Hemon’s essays are about his upbringing in the war-plagued Balkans of the Nineties and subsequent emigration to the US. Didion’s basically needs no introduction as its de rigeur for essay writing. I’ve included Benjamin’s because of his critical insight. He’s not writing about his personal life, but his gifts for analysis will be really helpful to be exposed to for anyone undertaking the task of writing a personal essay. I have not included a picture of Susan Sontag’s collection Against Interpretation because it’s on order, but that one is also on deck. As are two other collections not pictured: Mary Oliver’s Upstream and Rebecca Solnit’s Hope in the Dark. 

[thecrownnet]

The Crown Season Four Will Focus On the Drama of the Princess Diana and Prince Charles Years

Netflix's acclaimed drama about the British monarchy will star Emma Corrin as Diana and Gillian Anderson as Margaret Thatcher (Photo: Elaine Chung)

Esquire Aug 13, 2020

In the season three finale of The Crown, Netflix’s beloved and acclaimed series about the British monarchy, we left Queen Elizabeth riding alone through the streets of London in a gilded carriage, stone-faced even as the roar of a jubilant crowd poured through the carriage’s four walls. With season four on the horizon, the show promises to do more of what it does best—illuminate the private struggles of the royals from within their public facade. But with casting news always trickling out about the show’s ever-evolving carousel of characters, what can we expect from the hotly-anticipated fourth season? Here’s everything we know about the upcoming season thus far.

*Spoilers Alert*

What Will The Crown Season 4 Be About?

Season Three’s action wrapped up in June 1977—just months before Lady Diana Spencer met Prince Charles in November 1977. The people’s princess will be a major focal point of the fourth season, with she and Charles entering into a high-profile relationship soon after the manipulations of his relatives soured his relationship with Camilla Shand. Lady Di will be played by Emma Corrin, an English actress casted fresh out of drama school, whose sole credit prior to The Crown was the PBS murder mystery series Grantchester. Early photos from the set showed Corrin and Josh O’Connor, who plays Prince Charles, recreating a visit from the couple’s 1983 royal tour of Australia.

In a statement on her Instagram, Corrin wrote, “Beyond excited and honoured to be joining The Crown for its fourth season. I have been glued to the show since the first episode and to think I’m now joining this incredibly talented acting family is just surreal. Princess Diana was an icon, and her effect on the world remains profound and inspiring. To be given the chance to explore her through Peter Morgan’s writing is the most exceptional opportunity, and I will strive to do her justice!”

Peter Morgan, the show’s creator, said of Corrin, “Emma is a brilliant talent who immediately captivated us when she came in for the part of Diana Spencer. As well as having the innocence and beauty of a young Diana, she also has, in abundance, the range and complexity to portray an extraordinary woman who went from anonymous teenager to becoming the most iconic woman of her generation.”

O’Connor, who turned in a standout performance in season three, hinted at a larger role for Prince Charles, saying that season four is "very much the Diana and Charles years, and particularly focusing on what happened there and the ramifications of that going forward."

Meanwhile, Gillian Anderson will join the cast as Margaret Thatcher, the United Kingdom’s first female prime minister. Early photos from the set show Anderson in trademark Thatcher attire, with impeccably coiffed hair and a skirt suit featuring shoulder pads. In a statement via The Crown’s Twitter account, Anderson said, "I am so excited to be joining the cast and crew of The Crown and to have the opportunity to portray such a complicated and controversial woman. Thatcher was undoubtedly formidable but I am relishing exploring beneath the surface and, dare I say, falling in love with the icon who, whether loved or despised, defined an era."

Who’s In the Cast?

Corrin and Anderson are newcomers to the cast, along with Fleabag’s Angus Imrie, who will join as a young Prince Edward. Meanwhile, season three’s core cast will return, with Olivia Colman as Queen Elizabeth, Tobias Menzies as Prince Philip, O’Connor as Prince Charles, Helena Bonham Carter as Princess Margaret, Ben Daniels as Antony Armstrong-Jones, Erin Doherty as Princess Anne, Emerald Fennell as Camilla Shand, Marion Bailey as The Queen Mother, and Charles Dance as Louis Mountbatten.

When is The Crown Season 4 Release Date On Netflix?

With the coronavirus pandemic gumming up the filming process, television release dates are in chaos. Back in March, The Crown stopped filming two weeks ahead of schedule, managing to complete principal photography despite cutting the shooting process short. Though ending filming early involved sacrifices, Morgan told IndieWire that it was better to make the best of a difficult situation than to delay Season Four.

"For the final block, one director [Jessica Hobbs] was filming three separate episodes," Morgan said. "A couple of scenes were missing from each one. Having looked at them, we [could] just about get away with it. She will forever rue not being able to shoot them. The price of waiting would have meant to not get the show out on the same schedule. And nobody to whom I've shown the episodes can tell what's missing. I'm really relieved."

Though no official release date has been announced, Morgan’s comments suggest that fans can be cautiously optimistic about The Crown returning to screens before the end of 2020. Watch this space for updates as we continue to learn more.

*Season 4 will be released in November!

[smokeybrandreviews]

Smokey brand Reviews: True North

The Golden Compass sucks. i saw that wet fart when i was younger, on a whim, and was thoroughly disappointed. Sh*t didn’t make a lick of sense to me. That film was my first introduction to the His Dark Materials and it soured me on the entire franchise. Like most of the movie-going crowd because it flopped like a fat man into a public pool. The thing abut that movie is that it felt like another entry into the Narnia Chronicles, and abhor that franchise. I’ve hated them since i was forced to read them when i was in the third grade. They were terrible, and that was before i become aggressively areligious. Afterward? Bro. Suffice it to say, when the BBC adaption was announced, it was hard pass for me. And then my mom got HBOMax.

I was seeing a ton of ads for season two, a strong focus on Lyra and John Parry. Th more i saw of those Youtube ads, i don’t watch television anymore, the more i became intrigued. Eventually, i bit the bullet and did some research on he show, itself. Yo, i was SO glad i opted to give this thing a chance. The cast was amazing. the principal characters, all some of my favorite actors but, more than that, the plot was mad intriguing. It was so clever and unique and so far removed from Narnia wank, it could be considered anti-Narnia almost. How the f*ck did that movie get so much wrong? Suffice it to say, i gorged on that first season like a fat kid gorges chocolate cake. I finished it last night and these are my impressions.

The Outstanding

First and foremost, i absolutely have to praise Dafne Keen in this, man. She is Lyra Silvertongue, heroine and main character of the entire Dark Materials series. This success of this show rests on the shoulders of the then fourteen year old and she carries that sh*t like a champ. There is a wit and wisdom that Lyra carries which belies her age and Keen taps into that effortlessly. She played Laura Kinney in Logan a few years back, keeping pace with Hugh Jackman’s Wolverine, so i knew she was skilled in her craft but i never imagined she’s be able to carry such demanding fair, so early in her career. I’d say she was the best thing about this show but that’s not really true. The level of quality in this thing is just that profound.

Ruth Wilson plays Marisa Coulter, Lyra’s mother, and, holy sh*t, is she incredible in the roll. Look, i love Wilson, even when she is in less than quality productions like The Affair. That show was bogus. What wasn’t bogus was her stint as Alice Morgan on Luther. I absolutely fell in love with her on that show and Ms. Coulter gives me all of the Alice vibes, just far more cruel. If Alice was calculating and aloof, the Coulter is deceitfully cruel and i love every second of it. You can tell there is a sadistic streak, straight up wrath, just below the surface and Wilson captures that skin deep veneer in a gently terrifying manner.

James McAvoy comes through and delivers yet again with his detached and insidious Lord Asriel Belacqua. It’s always a pleasure seeing this man do his job and, admittedly, he’s not in this first season much but the time that he is, McAvoy dominates. This is a desperate, desperate, man who knows he is right and will do anything to accomplish his goal. This single-minded drive reminds me so much of Sosuke Aizen from BLEACH and, like Aizen, Lord Asriel literally threw away everything to achieve that goal. It’s wild seeing Professor X go full Magneto and love it!

Line-Manuel Miranda is in this as the snarky Lee Scoresby, Texan Aeronaut, extraordinaire. Look, Manuel is a brilliant artist, i can’t take that away from him. He’s exceptional in Hamilton and on the stage but that’s a completely different skill set. There is a way you have to perform, to project, on stage that doesn’t translate to film and Manuel is still trying to get a handle on that. He’s not terrible in this role, mind you, but he’s just serviceable. However, the chemistry he has with Keen is something special. You can tell they get along strongly and that genuine interactions shines through in their performances together.

The rest of the cast is just as strong, specifically Kit Connor and Joe Tandberg as Pantalaimon and Lorek Brynison, respectively. Ariyon Bakare, Clarke Peters, Anne-Marie Duff, Lucian Msmati, Amir Wilson, Ruta Gedmintas, Will Keen, and Lewin Lloyd all turn in incredibly strong performances, for what they were given. A lot of these characters deserved a bit more screen time, a bit more fleshing out, but i am okay with what we did receive. This ain’t their story, it’s Lyra’s.

I just need to take some time and praise this show for how properly gorgeous it is. I mean, the level of production on this thing is rather profound, you knew that in the opening scene during the flood, but moreso as the world begins to expand. I know a lot of this stuff is filmed on sets and what not but, my goodness, are they elaborate and detailed. That whole arctic run was brilliant. It’s particularly intriguing when you understand how well the CG effects were used in regards to budget. The whole “show don’t tell’ adage definitely comes into effect for this serial and it’s all the better for it.

I am absolutely in love with the narrative, man. Never mind the actual plot in the books, the adaption presented is one of the best I've seen in a long a while. My goodness, the world being built is so enthralling, so captivating, i hate that i slept on this show, this series, for so long. I understand that this is one interpretation of the novel events but I'm still infatuated with every second of it.

The writing in this show is on point, for sure. It feels organic, it feels real. I know this is a series of books, decades old, but that goes a long way to proving the pedigree of this adaption. This doesn’t feel out of place or trite or try hard. It works beautifully, except for when Manuel is delivering dialogue outside of his scenes with Keen, and that is a real joy to watch.

There is a distinct focus on diversity displayed throughout this show so far and i love it. This is a reflection of the world in real time and more, big budget, shows need to show this reality. The difference between this and, say, Disney Star Wars or current Doctor Who, is the fact none of the representation in Materials feels forced. It feels organic, intrinsic to a story about entire worlds. You need this level of diversity for this story to be taken even remotely seriously in the modern day and i commend the production for handling this so well.

The Okay

I’ve never read the books so i can only judge this thing on what i glean from the wiki and what i see in the show. While i am completely smitten with what has been resented, the show feels like an abridged version of what we get in the books. I know for all adaptions that’s true but this feels like a legit highlight real of the greatest hits. I can’t say for sure but the adapted screenplay feels like it’s trying to load up on plot as much as possible, in as short a time as possible. Makes for an interesting view but, as a cat who understands storytelling, it feels like a patchwork of content.

This thing has some pretty brisk pacing. Again, i don’t know from where this first series is adapted but it definitely feels like they were in kind of a hurry to get. I mean, it really doesn’t but once sh*t gets started, it never looks back at all. It feels like that, at certain times, we should have definitely sent more time on an interaction or with a relationship. Lyra’s time in the Magisterial and Bolivar, particularly, seems rushed to me.

It’s uncomfortable how many times they make Dafne get naked. Obviously, they don’t show anything and it’s all inferred but, like, gross.

The Verdict

I loved this show, man. Absolutely adored every second of it. The BBC, when it really wants to, can produce some brilliant film. Luther, Sherlock, War of the Worlds, are all favorites and now His Dark Materials can be confidently added to that list. This show is gorgeous to watch, the production values on full display. Sweeping cinematic vistas both real and composite, permeate this rather cleverly effect heavy adaption. The performances, alone are enough to keep you coming back for more but this is, genuinely, one of the most gorgeous shows I've ever seen. Speaking of performances, everyone is excellent but the anchor is definitely Dafne Keen. Her Lyra Silvertongue is the linchpin of this entire show and she bares that weight brilliantly. I forget sometimes that she’s only fifteen, especially considering the talent she with whom she shares the screen. Ruth Wilson, James McAvoy, and Lin-Manuel Miranda all have capitol roles in this first season and they relish their time on camera, especially Wilson. I’ve been a fan of hers since that brilliant run on Luther as Alice Morgan so seeing her, here, has been giving me the best type of deja vu. His Dark Materials is f*cking outstanding, man. I can gush about this thing ad nauseam but this essay would definitely turn into a novel and no one wants that. If you have HBOMax, definitely give this a go. It’s one of the best shows out, has a full eight hours to binge in season one, and another four, so far, in season two. Sh*t is dope and i highly recommend a proper watch.