#its close to Marilyn Monroe life here

[merry-andrews]

But what if in another universe, Kenshi stays in Yakuza with Johnny being his not-so-secret-celebrity-lover?!❤

[machineheraldandy]

RETROFANG: talking about the ship

Xina Kwan x Miguel o’hara

For the 1992-1995 spiderman 2099 comics, and the world of tomorrow 2099 comics that followed.

Welcome back to me rambling in a way that probably doesn’t make sense

Miguel x Xina is one of my comfort ships, something I love, it’s flawed, but beautiful, it tells a story that the writers no longer want to show which is upsetting, it’s flawed loved of two people who care for each other deeply but cannot bring themself to be together, one is self destructive, while one seeks for ways to help. A relationship to its core doomed to fail.

The first time we ever see Xina is when she is that of what we can assume to be around 12-13, both her and Miguel were young students attending school together, two people that would later stick together and not befriend anyone else that we can see, and from the very starts it’s love at first sight for Miguel, you can see with the way it’s drawn to the plot that falls that Miguel falls instantly In love, and it can be argued that Xina also fell in love, or at least let Miguel flirt without being uncomfortable. He gives her a glance, and turns his head to follow her as she does the same before they officially talk.

Later on it’s straight away to flirting, asking to go to the pool, a possible sign of trying to get what a child may consider a date in a way. They spend the rest of their school years friends, and helping each other, it appears that even if both In love, they decided to take it slow, become friends, then best friends, then lovers, a way to build up a healthy and trusting relationship, a relationship that shows Miguel waited years to be with Xina, waited years for her.

This is what I consider deep love, a love that movie, craved but also feared, a love he had to destroy in order to destroy himself

The next time we see Miguel with Xina is when he is moving into his alchemax apartment (it appears), which due to the way we assume Xina is, and how she is in general, even if she went to an Alchemax school, she doesn’t really like Alchemax, yet would do things in support of Miguel working there, she saw flaws in his design and yet hang on, because she loved him, it’s then hinted that they of course did it, but it also shows one of Miguel’s biggest flaws when it comes to Xina, he loves her, but waits too long to learn about her. In later times he learns what she likes, what she does, but here it’s shown that he didn’t even known his best friend had gotten a tattoo of her favourite real life person, something he would have known because they are seen to be best friends that stick together.

Which brings up the issue and possibly why their relationship ended so soon, yes Miguel definitely found Dana attractive, and was emotionally cheating in front of Xina, but at his core he wasn’t ready to be a good partner, he wasn’t ready for a healthy commitment, he couldn’t even properly care for what Xina loved, even after knowing her since they were basically pre-teens. Miguel was not a good man at this time, he’s he waited for Xina for years, but he was too much of a bad person to hold onto her after finally getting her,

You also take into consideration that he is self destructive, he loves Xina more than anything and therefore he had to destroy it fast, he had to find another fast to destroy what he had, he had waited years for a woman, he has her, now he has to get rid of her in a way she will never want him back, how does he do that? Cheating. Emotionally first, and then physically.

When we end up seeing them again it’s because LYLA is broken, LYLA who resembled Xina in the way of it being based off of her tattoo, Miguel doesn’t care for Marilyn Monroe herself, he cares for the fact she is xinas tattoo, hence him only now caring for xina’s interests, caring too late. He becomes desperate to fix her because she is in his way a way to be close to Xina without havent to be near her, he loves Xina, but he can’t return, he messed it up too much on purpose. Though that ends fast as he soon learns that the best person to go to, to fix LYLA is Xina, which could possibly also be seen as an excuse to see Xina again. Once let in the first thing he does is go to her bedroom, to remember the old times, to live in the past, the past he craves but can’t get anymore.

You also see that Xina who is still single and assumed to have stayed single after Miguel, still loves and misses him, her bedside photo is them together. She loves him, she wants him, but she hates him as of now.

Within this time we also see Jack, Xinas Android, Miguel mistakes him for a partner, and seems to be almost jealous, upset. More signs he still loves her even if engaged to Dana, you also see Xina making it clear she doesn’t want him there and hates him, but she doesn’t kick him out, and it’s clear as much as she was uncomfortable, she cared enough to listen, cared enough to help, and of course we know this was going to happen, as even if she claims she just wanted to see him “crawling back” as a joke, it’s clear from the photo in her room, that she wanted him back deeply.

When she talks to Miguel many things are clear, one she is lying about things and two she is desperate to be the one he needs the most, even if she doesn’t want to make that clear.

She lies when talking about why they dated she claims it’s because she felt sorry for Miguel, but once again her photo in her room proves that wrong, along side the fact that she caught Miguel cheating as she came home early to be with him and to make him happy, she deeply cared for him, it was never about his dad, it was always about their love.

You also see how she is almost trying to push him away and is mocking his fiancé, Miguel doesn’t stop her, almost as if he wants her to insult Dana, because truthfully he doesn’t care for Dana the way he should, he cares for her as he loves her as she is what he considered dumb, someone that can’t question him, someone that blindly follows. Yet he sees Xina as smart, independent, and important to him, he loves that about her, yet is also scared about that. Because it means she can help him see his errors, and he doesn’t want to be shown, he wants to remain blind

Next one I want to talk about is this comic panel, you see that Miguel is finally caring for her interests, he is taking the time to get her real old things such as a gumball machine, because he knows she loves it, he is caring enough finally, he knows what she likes, what she want, why she wants it, he cared for her deeply and after years is finally showing it. Only now

next bit in this panel Miguel mentions the fact he was going to end it, he directly tells Xina he is planning to end it in a way, and Xina instead of making a joke, instead of being her nasty self she has been a few times, instead asks him to join her on a trip. Alone. She cares for him enough that she is literally wanting to spend time alone with him as a way to possibly keep him alive but to also reconnect, something that shows her deep love for him, and deep need for him, and also just the fact she is a great friend. These are two people stuck in a bad world they suffer in that still care for each other deeply.

(NO image as I don’t feel comfortable with that)

SA mention

I am bringing up a scene we end up seeing soon into their trip together, a flashback to Kron attempting to harm Xina, this is poorly written and used as a way to show Miguel and Leon’s hate for each other, they directly use Xina getting SA’ED as a way to push two boys fighting. This is no doubt disgusting writing.

But in the sight of this being about Miguel and Xina it has to be bought up in the way that Xina would put himself in danger, and put his family at risk, risk being abused by George, risk loosing everything, risk possibly even being killed by George, to keep Xina safe, he before now refused to fight back, refused to lay a finger on Kron as he was scared for himself and his family. He was frightened, yet he risked it all for Xina. He did at a point nearly bail on Xina, he was scared the worse would happen to him, but in the end he Kepler her. He kept her safe, even if it was poorly written and should have been shown in a different way that didn’t make a man the savour of a woman facing SA

Nor that’s over we get into the venom arc, the arc where Kron as venom attacks Xina and Dana to get to Miguel, something that reveals Miguel’s even deeper connection to Xina, he out of impulse screams for Xina, he is more worried for her, though he is still very worried for Dana, in this he has to save both, he only successfully saves Xina, and Dana passes away, this isn’t used for shipping Xina and Miguel, in fact Xina ends up leaving. This is shown as a way to show their friendship only, they don’t get together, as they both mentally can’t, Miguel lost his fiancé even if he wasn’t the best partner, and Xina had survivors guilt, she hates herself for hating the woman that slept with her boyfriend, a woman who hates her interests (shown by how she hates Gabriel’s retro interests) she so ends up leaving, I can argue that this was the best ending for the comic, until Miguel and Xina returned later. They both weren’t mentally stable, they both yes loved each other, but they would have ruined each other if they tried again.

The next time we see Xina is when she is happy to see Miguel, even slightly seeming to mess around, she cares for Miguel still, and Miguel still cares for her, but she has seemed to move on, she doesn’t care for a relationship, she has a job to do, people to help, and tech to work on, but yet she is still close to Miguel, she still holds onto Miguel, she still in a way loves him, even if as of now that love is platonic, and the same can be said for Miguel, he is trying to find Gabriel, he doesn’t have time for trying to get with Xina,on top of that but they only see each other for what can be assumed to be less than 24/7’S, they aren’t ready to try again, it’s too quick, and the story handles that well, it doesn’t make them a couple, it makes them friends, who still may have feelings for each other.

In the end they end up leaving, Xina just had her best friend did, and Miguel still needs to find Gabriel, they never end up together, from there on Xina stops showing up, she doesn’t appear in canon at all, she is gone from Miguel’s life, if we don’t count time storm a non canon story; it has been nearly I believe 27 years since she was last since.

It is a bitter sweet ending to her story, and she doesn’t get seen again, but it’s also a bittersweet ending to Miguel’s orginal love life for 2099, after that they force him into Peter Parker’s love interests within stories, or he gets tempest from the past, not his time, which I still love, she just isn’t from comics I read. For the year 2099, for the future Miguel has no life without Xina, he is stuck literally and metaphorically in the past.

I would love to Xina come back, she is considered Miguel’s MJ, the endgame, the person he loves more than anything, and really when you see the writing, when you see what was done, that is completely true, it was written that they were doomed lovers, but they could easily become good partners with time and effort, and if Miguel stops being self destructive

In the end they didn’t work due to Miguel’s self harm, and due to the fact Xina wouldn’t deal with what which is good for her. But if Miguel gets therapy…maybe. They could work.

Over all good doomed lover plot, painful for everyone that wanted them together forever such as myself

But in a non canon comic when Miguel is mentally more stable, him and her are married, and ended up growing old together :)

[erinpilolla]

Local Artist Brings History and Art Together in the Most Unusual Way... 

February 3, 2023

By Erin Pilolla

Beaches with breathtaking views. Ornate shops as far as the eye can see. People everywhere… wooden ones, that is. Welcome to Anacortes, Washington!

Here in our historic town founded in 1879, we like to decorate a little differently. Throughout town on the sides of businesses, you can find colorful, detailed, wooden paintings of people in old-fashioned clothing. Sometimes they’re posed alone, in a group, or with a prop, but they all have a noticeably similar art style.

That’s because they were all painted by one man. Bill Mitchell, a local artist who was beloved by his community, thought up a plan to preserve the history of Anacortes and make the city look better too; by creating a series of murals based on prominent figures from the town who have passed away. The city founder, Amos Bowman, and his wife Annie Curtis are immortalized in these murals, as are Hollywood celebrities such as John Wayne and Marilyn Monroe. There are even a few fictional characters Mitchell created himself.

With the impact and expansiveness of this project, one may assume that it was government funded, but in fact, this project was funded almost exclusively by businesses and donations. In the 1980s when the project began, the future of Anacortes was up in the air. Businesses were struggling and tourists were dwindling.

Bill Mitchell and other passionate locals would hold meetings as part of a group named “The Anacortes Renaissance and Revival Confederation,” who would brainstorm ideas to bring the town to fame. Mitchell brought up his ideas for the murals, and soon the group helped him find a sponsor. Thus, the Anacortes Mural Project was born!

The first mural was put up on May 3, 1984, and there are now over 160. More were in the works before Mitchell passed away in March of 2019, over 30 years after he started working on the murals. Along with his dedication to the project over time, he also was able to do all this work without any ability to move his fingers.

A car crash early in life left him confined to a wheelchair and with other complications, but Bill was said to have been thankful for this event and he never let it stop him, as it eventually led him down a more creative path. His time studying at Western Washington University also helped inspire him to pursue art.

His positive experience in school may have been what influenced him to work closely with our local high school. Brooke Writer, who attended Anacortes High School, said her history class went on a school field trip to the artist Bill Mitchell’s home years ago. “He had a car, you could tell it was his because it was painted like a shark,” she said. He told them about his life living in Anacortes, and let them tour his house which she recalled was stuffed to the brim with old books, art, and maps.

Another Anacortes native, Susan Coburn, said she remembers Mitchell fondly, especially as she was growing up. “Everyone was always talking about him,” she said. Very often he would be talked about as if he was a celebrity living just down the street from her. She recalls talking with her family about the new murals as they were going up and each time there was a new one. She would overhear tidbits about his health and personal story, even though aside from his reputation he was a perfect stranger.

Mitchell immortalized town figures he didn’t personally know and gave them a prominent position in the town, paying respect to their place in all our pasts. The project began with history, and over time created its own history; a portrait of the town we call home today.

_______________________________________________________________

Photos of Mitchell’s work sourced from: 

https://anacortes.org/blog/anacortes-mural-project

[elminx]

These are awesome advice for anybody including Venus in Aries types.

But it made me want to further clarify - here the OP tells of several marks against their natal Venus: a debilitated Venus (what we would say is Venus' "detriment" in Aries as it is opposite to its home sign of Libra), being born while Venus was retrograde, and a Venus-Pluto square.

As an astrologer, I would place the importance here as follows:

Venus retrograde > Venus square Pluto > Venus in Aries

Aries is a harsh placement for Venus because Aries is a very forceful sign and Venus energy is generally considered to be more productive when it is expressed softly. That doesn't automatically resign Venus in Aries types to loneliness by any means and in fact, Venus in Aries is definitely a starlet aspect (Marilyn Monroe had Venus in Aries).

On the other hand, being born with one of our three personal planets in retrograde (here I refer to Mercury, Venus, and Mars) implies that the native's expression of that planet will be extraordinarily different from the average of their age, gender, and culture in a fundamental way. This can and does often make it much harder to connect and find like-minded people or to feel appreciated (which is very important to Venus).

Additionally, a close Venus-Pluto aspect of any kind - and most especially the square - indicates a person whose Venus life may change a lot over time. This is something that they may choose themselves (they could be quite fickle and always be off in search of something new) or happen seemingly externally (their partners always leave for outside reasons beyond their control).

I/12th of the population is born with Venus in Aries - Venus transits Aries every single year. It's important to understand that although a planet can be at its fall in a sign, that just means that it is not at its best. By itself - without additional stressors on a particular planet - it should not be considered something to worry about.

as someone with a debilitated venus in aries as well as it being in retrograde, romance has always surrounded me and ive been in mulitple relationships but all of them have always been so fleeting. add to that a pluto squaring it, the only thing saving me as out of sign trine with the moon(the dominant planet in my chart). any thoughts on this mix?

Dear Sunglasses,

You might not like this answer and I just want to prepare you for that.

Romance isn't for everybody. Western culture has convinced us that it is, but that is a lie.

Without seeing your entire chart (I do chart readings if you're interested), I would say that it's likely that a big romance - the kind that you see in the movies - isn't in the cards for you. It sounds from these aspects like it's not meant for you in this lifetime. (mind you, that doesn't mean it won't happen just that it's not the design of your chart...if that makes sense)

So I would ask yourself this: do you actually want romance?

That's a hard question to answer and it may take a lot of soul searching. It takes strength of will and a lot of character to actively go against the common expectations of your culture (I'm assuming you're an American here) so you might never have even considered this question before.

The answer might still be yes. But I would expect a number of people with aspects similar to that in their charts to be aromantic or romance adverse in some way. There are a lot of reasons behind this - trauma, neurodivergency, or simply being so invested in something else that romance isn't a priority.

But it could also indicate a person who really wants romance but can't seem to make it work.

It's hard to read aspects out of context with the whole chart (even when you gave me a lot of information). I can tell from this that you are either an Aquarius, Pisces, Aries, Taurus, or Gemini. Of that group, Pisces and Taurus are the most likely to really want romance - Aquarius is just too ornery, Aries too self-motivated, and Gemini is curious at best. That isn't to say that they don't end up in romances, but honestly, romance shouldn't be the first priority for those signs - it can and does stunt them from their other goals (when Gemini has goals anyways *kindhearted*).

So here I think that the big question to ask yourself is: why?

Why do you want romance so much? (if you do) Why are your relationships so fleeting?

I hope this helps.

Minx

[finelinevogue]

for tour content, maybe you could do an imagine that’s like a series of small moments like little interactions on stage or picking tour outfits or nights in the tour bus/airplane ! just little domestic things <3

i’m going to do this because i have so many weird ideas and just no way of putting them all together ! ;

Grilled Cheese Conversations

The tour bus smelt like it was on fire.

You had been sitting in the living room with Harry for a couple of hours, both of you just skimming through photos from the Met Gala together - judging obviously, before Harry announced he wanted to make himself some food and so left for the kitchen.

He’d been in there for 45 minutes now and the smells that were diffusing from their smelt bloody awful. Harry could cook really extravagant foods, like caviar and lobster, but when it came to something as simple as making a sandwich he was absolutely terrible for some reason. The point was proven when he walked back into the room with a burnt coal looking sandwich.

“What, is that?” You laughed, still sitting with your phone in your hand and waiting for him to come back so you could continue judging these Met outfits together.

“It’s a grilled cheese sandwich?” He spoke as if you were dumb and you should have known that instantly. He walked over to you, sitting down next to you and resting the plate on the table in front of him.

“No, that’s a piece of char.” You raised your eyebrows disapprovingly and watched as he scowled at you for being mean to his culinary skills.

“Well i’m sure it’ll taste great.” He looked smug, up until he took a bite from the cheesy melted - burnt - bread. As soon as the food touched his tongue he was quick to spit it back out again, you groaning in disgust. He pushed the plate away and looked at it in anger. “45 bloody minutes and it tastes of burnt wood.”

“I’m not even going to ask why you know that.” You raised your hands and laughed, watching as he turned to scowl at you again. He had quite the angry face when he wanted to. “Sorry, alright! Do you want me to go make you one?” You asked, sitting up to go and make him one if he wanted.

Harry pulled you into his lap so you were sat with your back to his front, his arms looping around your waist tightly to keep you with him. His chin rested on your shoulder and he kissed your cheek because he could. “No. Stay w’me.” He got all cuddly and soft and you loved it when Harry was like this. He was like a life-size version of your stuffed teddy bear you used to sleep with at night - all cute and cuddly.

“Okay, okay.” You calmed him when he thought you were just going to get up and go. “Let’s judge some people again.” You pulled out your phone and opened it to a twitter account which had posted all of them.

“Where did we get up to?” Harry asked, fiddling with the skin on your stomach as his hands snaked beneath your hoodie.

“Um, Kim K.” You clicked on the image of her and tried to hold back the laugh. It was a dreadful outfit and highly meme worthy, so you’ve heard.

“Well…” Harry sighed, reaching his own hand to swipe seeing as he didn’t have anything more to say on this particular one.

“Billie looked beautiful.” You smiled as Billie’s huge dress came on display, looking a fluffy pink marshmallow dream. She looked very Monroe with her makeup and you were always so shocked when people told you her age, because she looked so mature.

“She must’ve taken inspiration from Marilyn Monroe.” Harry added, nodding in approval of Billie’s outfit.

“More so than bloody Addison Rae.” You laughed, thinking about how far that had been from the truth.

“Addison who?” Harry asked and it made you smile and turn your head around to look at him. He looked down at you, noticing the cheeky glint in your eyes and couldn’t help but steal a glance at your beautiful lips.

“This is why I love you.” You sighed happily and gave him a kiss on the lips, cupping his cheek to direct him better. You were only going for a peck, but Harry made it that you got the full taste of him and kissed you for a minute longer. He felt perfect against you and you really did just simply love him.

“Yeah,” Harry broke from the kiss for a brief moment to tell you something important, “and I love you.”

••••

All Things Sparkles

It was an hour before the Dallas show and Harry was getting ready for another big show.

Dallas were known for being crazy and you were so excited for the energy they’d bring for Harry tonight. Harry always enjoyed the shows more when the crowd was actually ecstatic to be there and he knew Dallas wouldn’t let him down.

He was putting on his silk trousers, Lambert just to the side as he was ironing the shirt to get rid of all its crinkles. Your Harry currently looked so funny in his Gucci silk trousers, his bright yellow socks with bananas all over them, his suspenders hanging down by his sides and no shirt on as of yet. It was the socks that really pieced everything together. He had just had his hair and makeup done, just needing to get dressed before he was completely ready.

He was really glowing tonight. It made you happy to see him like this.

You were watching him through the vanity mirror as you touched up your own makeup, adding highlighter to the areas you wanted to shine a little brighter. You also started adding some gems around your eyes, wanting to be a bit different tonight along with your glittery eye shadow that you didn’t normally do. You were glueing your gems when you felt your boyfriends presence behind you, the heat of his bare chest radiating against the skin of your back.

“You look stunning, m’love.” You looked up through the vanity to catch his gaze, he smiled and you smiled back.

“Thank you. Not too bad looking y’self.” You cheekily replied, motioning towards his bare chest. “Are y’going to be keeping that out all night?” You asked, being hopeful that he would, because fuck it was hot, but also wouldn’t, because you wanted this part of him all to yourself.

“You’d like that wouldn’t y’yeah.” He squinted his eyes at you and nodded, a clear sign that no his tits were not going to be out for Dallas. “Up.” He spoke, lifting you up from under your armpits and walking around the chair so that he could sit down himself. He plonked you right back on top of his lap and watched as you leant forwards to add another gem to the corner of your eye.

“Y’putting me off.” You whined, your ass leaning right back onto the hard of his cock. He couldn’t keep soft around you, that was his kryptonite.

“Oh i’m sorry. It’s not like m’girlfriend is just sitting there looking ridiculously beautiful and yet so innocent.” He leaned forwards to whisper the rest of his words, because they were only for you. “Just look so fuckable right now.”

You had to bite your tongue from turning around and shoving it down his throat, because god did his words make you want to jump his bones. “Shut up, before y’get us both in trouble.” You wiggled your ass back over his cock as you sat back to admire the work of the gems brightening up around your eyes.

“Then stop being a fuckin’ tease.” He grabbed your hips and stopped your from moving anymore. You just smiled and put the lid back on the glue before it went everywhere, especially over Harry’s expensive clothing - even the banana socks were £17.

You looked at him through the mirror to find him already looking at you. You blushed quietly as you watched him take in your beauty. It was quite hard to get over just how ethereal he looked tonight and it made you so feral knowing he was all yours and only yours. Looking down at the gems you got an idea.

“Do y’want me to put some gems on y’too?” You asked, pointing to the ones around your eyes and thinking that he’d looked even prettier with some around his.

“Only if i’m matching w’you yeah.” Harry nodded excitedly. You got up from the chair and swizzled yourself around until you were sat back on his lap, only this time straddling him. You were so close to him now that it was getting ridiculously harder to stop yourself from taking him here and now. You leant down, instead, and gave him a lasting kiss on the skin covering his heart. Your lips lingered there for a moment, before you moved back up to see him already staring down. He smiled when he saw the stain of your lipstick printed over where his heart beat. “I proper love you, Y/N.” He smiled and cupped your chin in his fingers to bring your lips to him.

“No!” Lambert shouted, making you two pause. “You two’ll never stop if you start, so don’t start until after the bloody show.” He rolled his eyes and continued with his ironing, making you and Harry chuckle feeling like high-school kids.

“Okay, now stay still.” You spoke as you glued the first gem and held it steady against the corner of his eye. He wanted to keep his eyes open to keep looking at you, because that’s all he ever wanted to do, but you instructed him to close them just to be on the safer side. It went on easy, sticking to the outer corner of his eye, in a soft white colour that matched his trousers. Yours were the same creamy white colour to match the colour of your dress.

“Do I look pretty yet?” Harry asked rhetorically, but you replied anyways.

“Y’look pretty always.” You kissed the top of his nose whilst you glued the other gem. He closed his eyes as you told him to, but he still smiled at your words. You concentrated as you stuck the gem to the corner of the other eye and sat back to make sure they were even. Harry opened his eyes to see you making sure they looked good. “S’perfect.”

“Like you then.” He hummed in appreciation of you.

“Let’s see then.” Lambert asked, making you both turn in the chair to face him and you readjusting yourself so you were sat back against his chest. “Oh yes! Okay this is photo worthy.” Lambert took out his phone and held it up to face you both, making sure you could see the gems.

“I don’t even have a shirt on!” Harry exclaimed, but held you close anyways as you smiled for the photos and his words making you belly laugh. You posed more seriously for a few and then took a few silly ones to. Your favourite one, though, was one where you were laughing so happily and Harry was looking at you and smiling in awe over you.

He set it as his lock screen. You set it as yours. It would stay that way until your new favourite photos became your wedding day photos.

••••

Sign Of The Times

Tonight was the first Love on Tour show you were attending, only having missed opening night in Las Vegas.

Harry knew that you were coming, but you’d told him to source you out within the crowds because you wanted a full fan experience. You’d gotten the all-clear from Harry’s security, allowing your from backstage and straight through into the cherry pit. You had your lanyard and your sign ready, as fans started to pile in. You were originally going to go straight to the barricade, but you thought the fans deserved that more than you so you hung back and stayed the ends of the crowds.

A few fans spotted you and came up to asking for photos, so you did. Posing with your mask on was weird because you still smiled underneath the mask even though it wouldn’t be seen in the photo. Some fans asked whether they could stay and dance with you ask night to which you were so happy for, because dancing alone would’ve been embarrassing even for you.

The intro for golden started and the crowds were deafening, but all you could think about was your boyfriend and his challenge to spot you within the crowds. Golden and Carolina came and went, you dancing like a crazed fan along with all your new friends. Everyone was so happy and some were even crying tears of joy.

There was just love, love, love, everywhere.

Harry came to his first pause and took a quick drink since he was already quite hot and the altitude in Denver was crazy.

“Good evening Denver!” He shouted into the mic, waiting for the screams of his fans to uproar and then settle before speaking on, “The altitude is crazy here. I’ve barely done anything and I can’t breathe!” He spoke, making you slightly anxious for him but you knew he would be okay because he had an oxygen tank on stage. “Now, m’girlfriend is somewhere here tonight and i’ve gotta find Y/N before I lose the challenge.”

The fans around you started screaming that you were here and the message kept on getting passed down the crowds until they reached the front. Harry was walking around your side of the stage until he met the fans at the front saying that you were behind them. Harry held his hand over his eyes to help him find you better and you held up your sign to help him. Your sign had taken you all of 5 minutes to doodle, but the message was clear;

“I want a kiss from the one in suspenders.”

“There y’are.” He laughed when he saw your sign, dropping his mic and leaning over himself to catch his breathe from the belly laugh that he just let out. You smiled when you saw him laugh, the fans around you screaming and thanking you for making him be this way. Harry stood up and looked at you, messing with his earpiece so he could hear the arena better.

“Kiss me!” You shouted and the people around you were also shouting for him to kiss you. Even with masks on Harry could clearly understand the message.

“I wanna kiss you but I can’t!” He spoke through his mic and his voice echoed throughout the arena, making everyone scream and you simply blush. You knew he couldn’t come and just give you a kiss, it would be too dangerous, but he sent you loads of blown kisses instead and you kept them all. You sent your own back and he stuffed them all in his back pocket, before moving on to his next song before he got told off.

“Damn, he really loved you.” One of your new fans friends says next to you and all you could think was; yeah, yeah he does.

••••

My Only Angel*

For four hours he had been gone.

Four hours since he was in this hotel room with you. Four hours since you had first started acting like a brat. Four hours since he’d gotten fed up of our attitude and tied you up and left a vibrator pulsing against your clit. Four hours since your first orgasm, four minutes since your last.

The whole time Harry had been on stage, all he could think about was you being bound tight in his hotel room and dripping wet from the number of orgasms you would’ve had. He knew you’d never be able to hold yourself for four hours, so he didn’t say you couldn’t cum only he forgot to mention that the number of times that you did cum would be the number of times he denied you later on in the evening. Harry had gotten especially hard performing Only Angel, because that was your song that he’d written for you and then fucked you countless times to. Fans noticed, but put it down to the adrenaline of being onstage rather than the thought of his girlfriend being tied up and overstimulated back in his hotel room.

You just came down from the high of another orgasm when Harry walked through the door. You sighed when you saw him, thinking this would finally be it and he’d let you go free now you’ve suffered your punishment. That was wishful thinking, however.

“Oh, I didn’t see you there.” Harry pretended, wanting to tease you as much as possible, as he walked past you and hung his jacket on the back of a chair.

“H-harry.” You sighed, squeezing your eyes when you moved and felt the vibrator hit and new and exciting angle. You moaned quietly and had to suppress the embarrassing cries you wanted to let out.

“Yes?” Harry moved so he was standing at the edge of the bed, undoing the buttons on his shirt one-by-one. He looked so hot with his sleeves rolled and the suspenders already dropped down to his sides.

“I-I please s-st- enough.” You whimpered, pulling on the restraints to try and stop it yourself but you’d already tried that one too many times and nothing has come of it.

Your wrists were slightly red and bruised from all the tugging you’d been doing and Harry noticed that as he peeled away his shirt from his body. He threw the silk shirt somewhere else in the room and walked over to the right side of the bed, sitting down to get a closer look at your wrists. He leant down to give it a gentle rub and a kiss. You sighed in delight at the feeling of his cool lips burn against your flaming skin. Harry sat up and tilted your face to the side so you could face him, slight tears in your eyes. He looked at you for a few moments, taking in the shear beauty of you and your glorious body, before making sure you were alright.

“What’s your colour, baby?” He asked you gently, stroking your cheek and then running his thumb along your bottom lip with a soft pull.

“G-green.” You nodded and he smiled, leaning in to kiss you on your desperate lips. You basked in the taste of him, closing your eyes like you needed to save this moment to memory forever. You loved him like this, when he was dominant with you. He let you be submissive like you wanted to be.

“That’s my good girl.” He leaned back from you and moved onto the bed more, straddling your bare body. The silk of his pants felt erotic against your hot skin and you moaned at the dreamy sensation. He ran his large, ringed, hands up and down your body, feeling every curve and crevice. He massaged your boobs lightly in his hands, up and down your stomach and to your inner thighs behind him. You hummed at the feeling, gasping when Harry finally turned off the vibrator and moved it away from you. You felt lighter from freedom all of a sudden.

“T-hank you.” You breathed out, opening your eyes to meet his electric green ones. Wow, he looked beautiful - still slightly sweaty and hot from his concert.

“Don’t thank me yet, angel.” He grinned as he took down his trousers and pants, pushing them to the floor with his foot.

He didn’t even wait for you to register what was going on before he slipped himself inside of you. You loved the feeling so greatly, but your clit was still so sensitive. You shuddered as he picked up his pace and thrusted into you harder and harder, faster and faster. The sound of his skin slapping against yours, made you arch your back and your toes curl and then feeling if him so deep inside of you was enough to make you cum already, again.

“Feel s-so good.” You looked at him and saw the desire within his eyes. He was so full of lust right now, because the sight of you tied up with him pounding into you is better than simply imagining it. Nothing could feel more euphoric than this, both of you were sure of that.

“Yeah? Feel me all around you? So perfect f’me. M’beautiful angel.” Harry moaned out, cupping one of his hands around your throat and pushing you deeper into the mattress, whilst his other hand went to cup your breasts and give them the devotion they deserved.

Everything felt everywhere.

His rocks became sloppier as he reached his high, yours approaching much sooner than you thought it would. You were surprised you actually had anything left in you. His cock hit a spot inside of you that made you scream out and he felt you collapse around him all at once, causing his own release to quickly follow. He continued to fuck you through your release and bent himself over to press his lips to yours. He felt and tasted amazing, you couldn’t get enough. It would never be enough.

“Love you so much.” You spoke the best you could and Harry released his hand from your throat, leaning down to kiss it softly. He reached over to your hands to untie them afterwards, giving them both a few kisses over your wrists when he saw the harsh marks. Your arms were so tired that they just fell to your sides, but Harry kept on touching you softly; stroking your messy hair away from your face and caressing your cheek softly as if he hadn’t just fucked you raw. He kept his face close to you as he whispered the words that would stay imprinted on your heart forever.

“I love you, Y/N.”

[1111jenx]

Give us insider information on those Leo risings! 🔥

Ofcourse!

Time to add some more fire to my blog🤍 I'm a Leo Rising/Venus and I have 4 planets in Leo degrees so bear with me guys, this will be an expose post🤭

Leo Rising/ Sun in the first house

read my full rising series here ✨

First and foremost, let's talk the hair. (yes i'm aware of the stereotype) Leo rising people usually have something about their hair that makes them stand out. It doesn't necessarily have to be thick or luscious. Their hair is truly unique, or/and they take great care of it. A lot of leo risings are prone to play with their hair often without even noticing it💞

Their eyes are usually so intimidating? I truly hope people notice this🤣 Leo Risings may have very leonine eyes or feline eyes and their eyes look very playful and expressive!(also if they have some scorpio/pluto energy they can give off a very intimidating energy haha) take a look at JLo and Marilyn Monroe<3

Leo rising individuals have the Sun as their chart ruler. Whatever sign and house that their chart ruler resides in will have the traits/characteristics amplified. -> eg: i have Cancer sun 7° degree(libra degree) in 11H= adds a layer of extroversion&detachment to my sensitive self, cardinal sun in fixed house with fixed chart ruler(sun) also adds stubborness and go getter energy to my identity!

The Sun illuminates, Leo rising natives are usually HELLA career-oriented and can be extreme hard workers(taurus 10H— taurus is a fixed sign), they may also follow their family's path. More than anything, they aim to be filthy rich LOL, this is becsuse they have the sign of taurus(possesion, materials, standards) in their 10th house of career, public life.

they have big dreams and a soft spot for the arts. their childhood home may have been not necessarily the healthiest. as their 4H (moon) ruler is in the sign of scorpio, where the moon is at its fall. they could have been easily dismissed by their parents and grown resentful of this dynamic. leo risings later life may have been held back due to their fear with abandonment and lack of attention when they were younger. their aura is domineering, their family might have feared the darker side of them and strongly rejected their profound emotions. (4H scoprio)

so so prone to being obsessive with their home or strongly goes against the idea of "making a stable home with someone" when they're younger or constantly having issues w settling down.

because of these issues, these natives thrive to search for stability from the outside world (10H), having Taurus here means that publicly, they work with jobs that brings pleasure, are practical, and they truly value material stability. They possessed of a powerful will when it comes to their job, and can come off as quite hot-headed, but very loyal, kind and steadfast. they like to be seen as "productive" and influential! (taurus ruler is venus) omg and they also have amazing eyes when it comes to aesthetics too😌

they get along super well with people, but its pretty hard to get close to them as they're so picky😉 lowkey kinda judgy sometimes(i'm dissing myself at this point)

pretty good with money in my opinion haha(taurus=finance; virgo 2H), HOWEVER, if their 2H ruler have some strong aspects to jupiter or to mars, this will suggest that they tend to spend money on things that make them feel good🥰

alsooooo are great at gifting!!!! their keen eyes for details and the smallest bits of ppl habits daily will help them pick amazing gifts(virgo 2H)

lowkey get stressed about having money somtimes, tbh i'm not gonna lie they may get physically sick if their finance is not going well.

spend money on things that improve productivity. like anything thats new or interesting and benefit their health or their loved ones' health, they'll buy it.

lowkey more obsessed with their health than virgo rising LOLLLLL like the older they get the more they feel the need to have a healthy lifestyle ( my mom is a leo rising and the way she takes care of her self put me to shame)

they need a partner who's also their bestfriend, who will literally be their sidekick, who they can share EVERYTHING to. i mean it. leo risings may seem hard to get but they're such softies in relationships hahahah

convincing. i'll put it at that. the type to talk people into doing things for them and people probably would do it without realizing they just got played💀(3H in libra)

yikes tbh with that 3H in libra, leo risings LOVE talking abt relationships and love LOLLL they're lowkey so nosey they wanna know everything about u hehe

alsoooo they tend to be very soft with their siblings? like they always look out for their siblings in a way haha. harmony in communication is so important to them. like you wouldn't expect it by looking at their fiery asses but they are surprisingly chill, they hate confronting people sometimes but other times, they can't help it🤣

as a child they could have been pretty cold. i'd even go as far as saying they became this way because they didn't receive enough love. super super private when it comes to their family, the type to have SPICY family secrets. but deep down, they always have a soft spot for their loved ones.

they would want to teach their children about philosophy and deeper meanings of life, these people truly believe that they must "give their children everything they couldn't have when they were younger" even though they may not be that fortunate with settling down at first, but when they do, they give it all to their family.

their children would be very adventurous, just like them, they value creativity and their children's innocence. lowkey will be that person who ball her eyes out at their children graduation all of the sudden🙄

their love for travel is insane. i'm not gonna lie, i went psycho during the pandemic as we're not able to leave our houses and we do not want to break any restrictions for safety reasons, my mother also went banana and we just started to lose it on my cancer rising brother and my taurus rising dad🤣

people with leo rising have a fairly interesting love life. they attract wayyyyyy too much randos and wayyyyy too much casual flings. but they can be pretty ok with this, as long as the fun doesn't hurt anyone

so serious about their health?? i repeat they're so so serious about their health?! capricorn 6th house guys. they take on wayyy too much responsibilities too, and then they get overwhelmed💀

*falls in love with an alien*

i'm just kidding, having 7H in aquarius means that they like smart and social people, they just do. they don't open up easily though and it will take them some time to truly show their partners their more vulnerable self.

they hate being tied down and will call ppl out for trying to tame them, BUT they are hella controlling. lets not forget that aquarius is a fixed sign luv😌 they will require utmost loyalty from their s/o too!

oh also i think i should mention this, their marriage/long term relationships may have A LOT of ups and downs, just something i noticed.

commitment issues.

they always think they can do better and that there will be a lot more options, especially when it comes to casual dating(sag=jupiter=expansion in 5H)

they love loveeeee friends who are fun and exciting like them. they love people who can talk with them for hours too!! value constant and entertaining conversations!

lowkey will treat their bestest of friends like their siblings🥺

i also notice a lot of leo rising still hang out with their childhood friends? for them they value these friends very dearly and are genuinely grateful for them!

MISCHIEVOUS. when they're with their friends they take down the business-like facade and become quirky as hell.

their friends may understand that they have a deeper side to then that craves nurture and love. they are actually not as heartless as they show others, deep down leo risings are SO EMOTIONAL and they kept so much memories about their roots and origin. they're simply always very grateful for the experiences life gave them, good or bad.

too calculating sometimes. people think they're an ice queen but they're the softest bundle of joy ever. they have cancer 12H so it might take a while for them to become vulnerable and open towards their inner emotions❤️

amazing style. smhow can be super photogenic???? all leo risings i know are naturally domineering (tbh way worse than earth rising, but more fiery) and can honestly dominate a room as soon as they step their foot in.

people literally feel the passion just by standing near them. they radiate a contagious and uplifting energy, they're also the glue that binds people together:)

lowkey, they can be so chill sometimes. they can be even a bit innocent and might think that people don't have bad intentions💀

they love attentions. or more like they grow to become so used to it? its like they just attract so much attentions from people, with the sun in their first house, it just comes so naturally?🤣

So here are some significant details i wanna talk about with you guys:) If you have anything you wanna add lmk<3

love,

saint jenx🖤

[mccoys-killer-queen]

seeing Elton John in concert

just wanna go off and say first of all- this is the polar opposite of the REO show xD I had nosebleed seats in an arena used for hockey games so Elton looked like a sparkly microscopic raisin- even with binoculars and my glasses I could hardly see him!

this also meant that since I wasn't at the foot of the stage standing up or interacting with the band the whole time, I couldn't get any variety of pictures at all, but I was sitting down what felt like a half mile away and able to record a lot of it. After experiencing both sides of the concert experience, you can bet your ass I extremely prefer being at the foot of the stage.

Still, there were a lot of incredible visual effects that were mesmerizing to see from afar! And the sound definitely had its perks being so far back. Observing the crowd from on high was neat also.

here's some highlights I recall from last night:

he opened with Bennie and the Jets and played the first chord over and over and over again and it was exactly like this post

like 14 seconds into this song I looked over at my sister (whose first concert it was) and she was staring in awe, tears already streaming down her face

the band: *Philadelphia Freedom* us, a pennsylvanian crowd: AGSRBAOFRWEAIOGN50TN25Y82509YN0Q35GAEORIGN0RV5198GNQO3IGNRQEOIG5NQHR5

throughout the whole concert on the jumbotron behind him there were these clips of just... indie... dancers...? like dancers in solid bold colors doing whatever and it was weird

me trying not to sob during I Guess That's Why They Call It the Blues bc i was recording the whole thing

Elton dedicating Border Song to Aretha Franklin

them playing Have Mercy On the Criminal and me going feral bc I thought I was the only person who'd ever heard of that song

the fucking guitarist Davey Johnstone who now has my soul and my ass in his hands what a fucking god I'd follow him into hell fuck

Elton coming out in a long bath robe for the encore

Rocket Man making me want to float out of my seat bc the visuals were that hypnotizing

the clips of the Marilyn Monroe lookalike behind him during Candle In the Wind, in which during one her tits came out

the one picture of Diana that came on behind him (I forget which song- Border Song?)

his little!! improvised!!! piano fillers!!!!

the camera on his piano so we could see him play :oo

the drummer Ray Cooper having the time of his life and easily the happiest and most energetic person in the stadium at the age of 74 I would die for him

there being a little 3 minute intermission during which the lights darkened and there were only dark purple lights on the stage, no one on it, lots of smoke being pumped out onto it, and thunder and lightning effects filling the smoke

these effects were the segue into Funeral For a Friend/Love Lies Bleeding, which was, in my opinion, possibly the height of the night. It was like an opera.

Elton's piano moving across the stage

me playing Sad Songs (Say So Much) in the car on our way there and me saying to my sister "they're definitely not gonna play this but I still like it" and them proceeding to play it

when the chorus of Don't Let the Sun Go Down On Me hit, the clip of Taron Egerton in the devil costume bursting through the doors in Rocketman came on the screen and the place went nuts

the little drag queen mini movie that played on the screen during The Bitch is Back

the Crocodile Rock singalong

the Saturday Night's Alright (For Fighting) singalong

at the end of this song, gold confetti exploded over the floor crowd

Elton beginning the encore with Cold Heart and having us sing Dua Lipa's parts

in Elton's last speech he told us to be kind and spread peace and love each other

he closed with Goodbye Yellow Brick Road

he exited the stage by standing on a platform that lifted him up and backwards and he disappeared behind a door in the screen

this:

bonus:

a lot of the workers at Hershey's Chocolate World seeing my shirt and expressing excitement and jealousy that I was going to the concert

one of these people being a middle aged man who saw him in 1972

we got VIP packages, and since we sold the 3rd ticket we got, that meant our 3rd set of VIP merch belonged to whoever bought the ticket

the person was a very nice old lady from Baltimore, and she refused our offer for the merch (even the VIP lanyard I brought for her) but did take the physical ticket

(setlist)

[electronicgrowth]

Can’t Get Enough- Prologue

I’ve had probably about half of this fic just sitting on my computer for over a month now. Maybe if I start posting it, I’ll find the inspiration to finish this. So, here’s a Lee Bodecker x OFC fic. I say OFC because I feel weird not having it in there plus I think it’s weird to make characters of parents and still make it a reader insert (I don’t know your parents!), but feel free to pretend that it’s you, or imagine yourself as Billie. It will have smut, mentions of violence, time period typical sexism. 

Summary: The two most stubborn people in Knockemstiff, Ohio have eyes for only each other. Lee Bodecker is determined to become the town’s next sheriff. He knows that image is everything. Billie Dechswaan doesn’t care about her image at all. All she wants is to leave Knockemstiff and never come back. But Lee has other plans for her. Both are far too stubborn to give up their own plans. What happens when they can’t get enough of each other?

Lee Bodecker’s life fell apart the day his sister died. His thoughts were plagued by everything he should have done different. He should never have let Sandy marry Carl. He should have forced Sandy to divorce the miserable man. He should have killed Carl himself. But he didn’t do any of those things. And now Lee was left with no family and a severely bruised ego. 

The kid— Arvin Russell— shot Lee, he got him in the shoulder. It wasn’t enough to really hurt Lee, but the fall knocked him out and the kid got away. The optics were good for Lee. He was shot and injured trying to protect the town. It would probably help him with the election. And without Sandy, he was free to arrest the men involved in pimping out local girls. It would look good to shut down such a widespread underground business. But never had Lee been so alone. It turned him more vicious. He was constantly angry. Shouting at deputies and his secretary. Drinking himself half blind almost every night. 

But tonight was not one of those nights. Just as Lee was about to leave the station, he got a call about a man dead from a car wreck just on the border of Knockemstiff and Meade. Lee went with two of his deputies to the scene. The man had already been taken away by the coroner. The car had rolled multiple times, it didn’t look like another car was involved in the wreck. The deputies who were first called to the scene said that they instantly knew the man. You can’t live in such a small town and not know most folks. It was Mr. John Dechswaan. And he left behind a large farm and a large family. 

The Dechswaan family was one plagued by tragedy. Joseph and Wilma—John’s parents— moved down from Columbus. Both were born in the Netherlands and immigrated as young children. After they married they desired to settle down and raise a family in a more rural area. Joseph worked for the state building highways. Wilma stayed home. Wilma was pregnant no less than 8 times. She only gave birth to five babies. And only two of those made it past the age of two. Everyone in town pitied her plight. How awful that must be for her. 

Two boys, Ray and John. Ray moved away after high school. Met a nice girl in California and stayed there. John fought in World War II. When he came home he met Joy. For a while it seemed the family’s luck had changed. Joy gave birth to six children with no issue.

The eldest son was young Joseph, for his grandfather. He’d married a local girl named Marianne. They had two boys of their own and she was pregnant again.

The next eldest child, Thomas, married a nice girl from a few towns over named Paulette. Thomas would have preferred to stay closer to Paulette’s family, but he worked for John at the family’s farm. And now Joseph would need all the help he could get from his younger brother. 

The oldest daughter was named for her great-grandmother, Wilhelmina, but she went by Billie. Billie made no secret of her disdain for Knockemstiff. And she had always planned to move away as soon as she could. She worked as a librarian in New York. But the Dechswaan family curse reared its ugly head. She met a guy who she thought was a good man, but he wasn’t. It took Larry next to no time to start hurting Billie. Rumors touched Billie like no other member of the family. Many said that Billie had left Knockemstiff because she got herself knocked up. Her family didn’t speak of her much after she left, which only added to the intrigue. 

Sylvia came next. She was too beautiful and too gullible for her own good. She fell for the quarterback and he was quick to promise her everything she wanted. They married quickly when Sylvia was nineteen, much to her parents pleasure. Tim, the husband, joined the county police department. Just a five months after marriage Sylvia had her first baby. A girl named, Rose. She was as beautiful as her mama. But everyone knew that Rose wasn’t a baby conceived in holy matrimony. Everyone whispered about Sylvia as she walked by. But she bore it. She finally grew up enough to realize that you can’t always get what you want. 

Wesley was the youngest boy at just seventeen. He was the high school’s star quarterback. He was rambunctious and headstrong. He never thought things through. But he didn’t have to. He was a young man after all, with his whole future ahead of him. Who cared if he stepped on a few girls on his way to the top?

Then there was Clara, fifteen, nearly a young woman, but she could barely speak. Doctor said it was because she was just shy. But when she worked up the courage to speak she stuttered and stumbled over her words. Her father bitterly thought about how he would be stuck with her forever.

Yes, Sheriff Bodecker knew all about the Dechswaan family. He had always paid close attention to Billie. She was beautiful. Long dark blonde hair that she bleached bright blonde—trying to look just like Marilyn Monroe but she could never get it quite light enough—as soon as she could and bright blue eyes. She’d been a cheerleader for the football team her senior year. Lee had never thought about those cheerleading uniforms until Billie put one on. It was a good thing she was 18 at the time or else Lee would have been obliged to feel guilty. But he never looked at her until she was legal, and he’ll maintain that until the day he dies. And once he started thinking about her, he couldn’t stop even after she took the uniform off for good. She was a spitfire. She stayed out late, drank with boys in cars, and just generally did whatever she wanted. But she kept good grades, never did anything beyond kissing a boy, and never missed a church service, so no one could say much. Lee was bewitched by her. And the problem was that she knew it.

[365days365movies]

April 9, 2021: Some Like It Hot (1959) (Recap: Part Two)

I’m considering a historical post for Marilyn Monroe...

After all, the life and tragic death of Norma Jean Baker is interesting, and I enjoy educating myself about film history and its greatest figures and stars...but I dunno. This isn’t really a starring vehicle for her, and I’d be better off doing a Tony Curtis or Jack Lemmon retrospective. But...I’ll make that decision by the time I get to the Review. We’ll see, is what I’m saying. If anybody actually specifically wants me to make that as a post, let me know! Maybe I’ll do it regardless.

But OK, let’s get into the movie once more! I’m enjoying the shenanigans in this picture, so let’s see more of them! First part is right here!

Recap (2/2)

On the beach, the girls are all having a good time, “Daphne” included, when Sugar suddenly runs into a mysterious man wearing a stereotypical rich person sailing outfit. This is, of course, Joe, but he introduces himself as “Junior”, the heir to the Shell Oil company, and owner of a yacht. And yeah...Sugar’s fooled and Sugar’s hooked. She invites him to come to his show that night, and he says that he’ll try to come.

This is to Jerry’s frustration, as he immediately recognizes Joe (obviously), and tries to expose his trickery to Sugar by going back to their room to tell “Josephine” about the whole thing. But SOMEHOW, Joe’s able to sneak back in and jump into the bath, suit and tie on. Dude’s slick. Sugar leaves, and an irritated Joe gets ready to fight Jerry. But just then, the phone rings, and it’s that naughty boy Osgood (HIS WORDS NOT MINE), who invites “Daphne” onto his yacht after the show that night. Opportunity.

Joe hatches a plan, with the reluctant help of Jerry, who’ll keep Osgood occupied as Daphne. Meanwhile, he’ll sneak onto the yacht as Junior, and pass it off as his own yacht for Sugar’s benefit (and his own, obviously). With the plan in place, the performance goes on that night. And that GIF of Marilyn doing a shrug that I keep using? It comes from this song right here, which serves as Sugar’s leitmotif throughout the film. And...it’s Marilyn Monroe, and it’s also that DRESS, and it’s my teenage crush on Monroe coming back WITH A FUCKING VENGEANCE, and...it’s also a catchy song, not gonna lie. 

Using flowers given to “Daphne” by King Simp Osgood, and a pre-written note, he tells Sugar to meet him that night on the yacht. After the performance, both Sugar and Joe make their way to the docks, and Joe commanders Osgood’s motorboat to get to the yacht, posing with his fake-ass accent all the while. Seriously, either she’s rolling rocks on her Sense Motive checks, or he’s just throwing away natural 20s on Bluff checks. It’s ridiculous.

On the yacht, Joe bluffs some more (equally terribly), and notes that they’re alone on the boat. However, he claims that he’s both impotent and unable to fall in love, emotionally and physically. This is a result of psychological trauma from his Princeton girlfriend falling off of a cliff in the Grand Canyon, just as they were about to kiss for the first time. Jesus Christ, the fact that this is working so well is astonishing. Sugar tries to cure him through multiple kisses, and he responds with very little reaction, the clever devil. Which is particularly difficult as she basically attempts to seduce him. And it’s Marilyn Monroe, so...I mean come on.

Meanwhile, poor, POOR Jerry is forced to dance at a local Cuba dance hall with Osgood, who’s frustrated by “Daphne’s” constant attempts to lead. Nice touch there! The humorous interludes of their dancing interject Sugar and Junior’s make out sessions, which are VERY against the goddamn Hays Code. And eventually, Jerry actually seems to start enjoying his dance with Osgood, and they actually close the place down until morning! Huh. That leaves Osgood none the wiser, as they leave the yacht just as he’s arriving.

Joe goes back to their room, where Jerry’s still dancing the tango, and he has an announcement: he’s engaged! To Osgood! What? I mean, that’s a set-up for some SERIOUS trust issues down the line, but...huh! For 1959, that’s surprisingly progressive...sort of. Jerry’s SPECIFICALLY in this to marry a millionaire and get a quick divorce and alimony payments every month. Huh. I mean, it’s slimy, but at least he’s open-minded. Osgood even gave him a bracelet absolutely covered in diamonds.

Sugar comes in to tell “Josephine” and “Daphne” about her night with “Junior”, and everybody’s happy (I mean, not Jerry, but he’s OK). Shame if something happened, like the arrival of the mobsters trying to kill Joe and Jerry.

So, the mobsters trying to kill Joe and Jerry arrive, under the pretenses of being “Friends of Italian Opera”, and are in search of the two witnesses of the garage massacre. Detective Mulligan is also in search of them, and is in Florida alongside Spats and his men. The two narrowly escape them in an elevator, then immediately go to pack their shit and GO!

But Jerry doesn’t want to leave Osgood so unceremoniously, and Joe feels the same way about Sugar. Over the phone, he manages to get ahold of Sugar as “Junior”, and tells her that he must leave unexpectedly, and that he’s to marry an oil heiress in Venezuela. This crushes Sugar, understandably, but he also gives her Osgood’s diamond bracelet! Aw, poor Jerry.

Poor Sugar, too. As said previously, she’s crushed, and she goes to Josephine and Daphne’s room to get some bourbon. “Josephine” tells her that she’ll move on in time, but she replies that that’s impossible, given that there’s a Shell gas station on every corner. Fuckin’ OUCH. 

Things get even worse when the two leave their rooms via the window, only to be spotted by Spats and his men, and are this time recognized, due to Jerry leaving his gunshot bass on the porch where they can see it. They attempt once again to escape, changing costume to resemble a bellhop and an old man in a wheelchair, but get recognized and chased, until they wind up under a table in a banquet hall where the “Friends of Italian Opera” are meeting.

Led by Little Bonaparte (Nehemiah Persoff), the members are, of course, all members of the mafia. Bonaparte is greatly angered by the massacre, as Toothpick Charlie was a friend of his. Through a comically over-the-top mobster speech, he basically telegraphs that we wants Spats dead. And when they bring a big cake out to celebrate Spats’ birthday (which isn’t for another four months), a mobster springs out of the cake, and kills the entire Chicago mob assembled, all with Joe and Jerry still under the table in front of them.

After the deaths of the mobsters, Joe and Jerry take their chance to escape, while Mulligan comes in to investigate these deaths. Our musician duo manages once again to escape, performing a quick change act and turning back into Josephine and Daphne. They make a plan to escape via Osgood’s yacht (as the mobsters are watching the roads and airports), and Jerry makes the call. Joe then hears the siren call of Sugar, singing a lamenting song in the lounge with the band.

Watching over this sad song, Joe laments his actions, and makes his way down to the stage, still disguised as Josephine. And he just kisses her, right on stage. Which...fuck me, this movie takes place in 1929? THE SCANDAL!!! But that’s quickly diffused when Sugar AND the mobsters recognize Josephine (and Junior) as Joe, and Joe takes off in hot pursuit.

Both Josephine and Daphne manage to escape yet one more time, and make their way to the docks with Osgood. And chasing after them is Sugar, in love with Joe after all that, and the two come together in a loving embrace. Meanwhile, in the front of the boat, Osgood and Jerry have...well, the only thing I already knew from this movie, and arguably the most famous ending to a comedy film ever made. Go ahead and watch it, because I’d rather not spoil it.

That was...a very funny film! Is it the absolute funniest film ever made? I don’t think it is personally, but it’s definitely in my top 10! I’ll analyze Some Like It Hot more soon enough, in the Review! See you then!

[justhewayfaringstranger]

So, I've wanted to address this topic for a while and this post I read this morning while having breakfast is a sort of response from the universe.

I would say to start by explaining a simple concept.

Demons and spirits are not the same thing, but rather, they vary from each other. Likewise, spirits and ghosts are not the same.

• Creatures understood as "demons" exist in all religions; they are supernatural beings, typically associated with the evil, historically prevalent in religions, occultism, literature, fiction, mythology and folklore;

• "spirits" are instead organized energy with at least a certain level of sensitivity that has an energy body and in most cases also an astral body. The Latin word is a translation of the Greek prneuma ("breath", "air", "vital breath") and to some extent it can be seen in the apeiron of the Presocratic Anaximander, who had to some extent dematerialized the archè (Greek: ἀρχή ) of the other Ionian naturalists, the original principle of the universe and of every part of it, impalpable and invisible but still material, as shown by another void that, blowing inside it, fills with air matter. With the Stoics, the term begins to be compared to today's one of spirit. The pneuma belongs to the god who gives life to things and guides them according to his wishes. The pneuma is a force that manifests itself not only in the individual man but is present in all things as the "soul of the world". They are ancient entities like the world itself, part of the primordial chaos and consequently neutral in themselves;

• the term “ghost” refers instead to any incorporeal entity. The term ghost comes from the Greek φάντασμα phàntasma, which in turn derives from φαντάζω (phantàzo, "to show"; from the root φαν-, which expresses the idea of ​​"appearing" and "showing"), and had the meaning of apparition (understood as a supernatural manifestation) and only with time has its meaning been restricted to indicating the apparition of a deceased.

In 1800, with the birth of the practice of spiritism in France, it ended up rendering in the common imagination "spirits" and "ghosts" similar entities, if not true synonyms.

The French pedagogue Allan Kardec after observing a series of phenomena, formulated the hypothesis that such phenomena could only be attributed to incorporeal intelligences (spirits). Spiritual communications took place "thanks to the intervention of a medium", that is a person with particular skills who acted as mediator between spirits and living beings, during the so-called séance. This became a busines for many and most of the spiritualists were actually charlatans who swore to the victims that they could talk to the dead. In most cases, those who could afford to turn to a medium, were economically wealthy and of high rank lost and therefore for the scammer it was certainly not difficult to obtain information (even intimate) about the deceased and those around him, if at this was added some well-orchestrated play of smoke and lights, here is the "grandmother's ghost".

Having understood this, one wonders what it is then what we understand as a "ghost of a person". It is a trace left by the living. On a scientific level, death doesn't exist. From the chemical-physical point of view we are isolated systems that receive energy and produce it. But the universe itself is a closed system. So our energy is the energy of the universe. We are universe. What happens when we die? Our energy returns to the universe system. But as we know, energy is neither created nor destroyed, but it changes. So our energy is energy that has been changed in the past by others, and will be changed by others when we are gone. Death doesn't exist because energy is immortal. The energy that I am using now to tap on my laptop keyboard is the same energy that Gaius Julius Caesar used to pull the reins of his horse and to cross the Rhine. And it will be the energy that in the future a scientist will use to to be able to travel between the various space-time dimensions. Death doesn't exist, and the life of one is the life of all.

To simplify then, what we mean as the ghost of Marilyn Monroe for example, is nothing more than a sort of energetic gif of Marilyn Monroe.

I'll give you another example. Anne Boleyn died by beheading, therefore by a violent and unjust death. In this situation, she is likely to have felt strong emotions and released a huge and consistent huge amount of energy as a result. Let's say that Henry VIII was present at the execution along with a bunch of other people, let's also say that he went back to that place (or others where Anne felt strong emotions and therefore released large amounts of energy) and thought about her, let's say that Elizabeth I also thought of her mother and so many other people. All these emotions have turned into energy. If we saw energy as a palette of colors, it would be as if: the more consistent the emotions, the more intense the color, therefore, the more energy we send (even unconsciously) to the energetic image of Anne Boleyn (the energetic gif), the clearer this will be where most of the energy is concentrated (eg the Tower of London, a room in the building, etc.).

So when we go to a "haunted" place, what we see is not the "person", but a kind of still image. And according to the speech above, it is therefore normal to find this type of freeze frame in places such as castles, hospitals, etc. then if these are found on natural energy centers or lines… bingo!

Speaking instead of spirits, as mentioned before, there are no good or bad spirits. Good and bad as well as light and dark, like day and night, are a contrast present in many traditions, including native ones. This duality can also be referred to the human being and represent a moment of acting or thinking of a person. You can think and act towards the light or towards the darkness and this can also happen to shamans.

Just think of the ego and when it takes over, or when you try to manipulate, at that moment you are not in the light. But it can happen and that doesn't mean being good or bad. Acting, in fact, can also be connected with a person's karma and precisely follow what is required by this spiritual law.

Light and darkness, as in the human world, are also reflected in the world of spirits and even in this case they do not absolutely determine the condition of goodness or badness. Spirits, who in the light can be protectors, guides or allies, can also move in the dark dimension.

And if we think like the natives that everything has a spirit and that it can move between light and darkness, we can understand how there can be spirits that are particularly powerful and able to move very strong energies such as to create an effect in ordinary reality.

It is important to know the distinction between light and shadow because, from an early age, we were educated to separate the good from the bad, the right from the wrong, but for this we have become very sensitive when it comes to going to work on our shadows. As I told you, light and shadow are states of being that we all have within us. Working with shadows doesn't mean black magic, witchcraft or whatever. Simply observe the aspects of light and be able to deal with those of shadow as well. Light and darkness are two sides of the same coin that it is important to integrate.

Being half Latin, therefore leaning towards a culture extremely linked to its roots and above all to the relationship with mental spirits, it isn't difficult for me to understand this concept, and therefore despite being a Christian, I have no problem in defining myself as a witch. Of course, coming to this awareness wasn't easy, as I am partly European and therefore I grew up in a society in a Western society that is scared of what it cannot control. After years of researching my origins, my culture and theological studies, I have come to find my balance.

Returning, however, to the main reason for this post, having made the necessary explanations (and given the tools for a critical analysis of the matter), here are the points on which I personally disagree and why:

Reading books about witchcraft: Knowledge for educational purposes is by no means negative, quite the opposite. The question is whether the aforementioned "about witchcraft" book is a "spell book" or some sort of "sacred book". For example, if I find the Necronomicon tomorrow and start reading it without knowing what it is, it is likely that I will find myself living the remake of The Conjuring in the real life.

Casting most types of spells, including hexes: Same speech made in the previous point. One of the first rules of witchcraft is "know your practice". You must be aware that what you are doing is not a game and every action has consequences, even if you don't believe in the rule of 3 (everything you do comes back to you 3 times). In the specific case of curse and hexes spells, they are the most treacherous and dangerous, because you are working with dark and malevolent energies. This type of practice in particular is a double-edged weapon, which is why many witches advise against them and propose alternative methods if possible.

Practicing divination: It isn't always negative, but in some types of divination the help and guidance of spirits and divinities is sought. For example, I often do bibliomancy with the bible and even if I first ask for God's guidance, in front of each answer I ask for confirmation, because the devil was the most beautiful angel in heaven and just as darkness does not allow us to see. where we go, even a dazzling light can deceive us.

Playing with Ouija or other talking boards: Ouija is not a game and it is an extremely dangerous tool, precisely because what you do is contact spirits and entities and you cannot know who will answer the other side. Nothing good anyway.

Putting up fantasy or non-Christian artwork: Have you ever seen Annabel? Here, the principle is the same. Be careful what you bring into your home, as home is a sacred space, and nothing can enter without you giving it permission. So if you not only invite it, but rather you bring it inside and give it a space, don't come and complain to me if it is difficult to send it away.

Celebrating pagan holidays: If it's a holiday of a closed religion, avoid ruining your life. Holidays basically consist of performing rituals that often involve spirits. Learn about the history of that holiday you want to celebrate, the symbols, the rituals, and why it is celebrated in that particular way.

Celebrating Halloween: The same as the previous point, except that we all (or almost all) know that samahin is the day when the space where the veil falls and the two worlds come into contact.

Watching scary movies and TV shows: I'm not saying that if you watch The Exorcist you will be possessed, but I can't assure you otherwise either. I took The Exorcist as an example because it is known that a real ritual is performed in the movie and a lot of "disturbing" things have happened on the set of the film and to the actors. When you watch a movie, even if it is fictional, if for example it performs an evocation or a ritual you are not only witnessing, you are participating in all respects. Be careful, every person is different.

Reading (horror novels, fantasy books, comics and graphic novels). Playing (tabletop RPGs, LARP games, video games): Same as the previous point.

Listening to heavy metal music, dancing: It goes for any kind of music actually. Do you know how many pop songs I use as a spell?

Dyeing your hair: I'm not saying you'll invoke a demon, but for many cultures cutting your hair makes you more vulnerable to spiritual attack and color is an essential aspect of witchcraft.

Swearing: Wishing someone who has crossed your path death is considered a curse in all respects. Even if done unconsciously.

Drinking: Drinking, smoking… shamans have used alcohol and drugs for centuries to connect with in the spiritual world.

Having tattoos and piercings: As long as you don't tattoo Aramaic words that you don't know the meaning of, everything is fine. Before getting a tattoo in a symbol you saw in a temple in Mexico, find out the meaning of it. I'll give you an example: my cousin once bought a T-shirt with the words "puta madre" (mother whore). He had bought it only because he liked it, without knowing the meaning of the word.

Now, most of these points are mainly related to intention. As I said before, I often use music in my spells, but if for example, I use "can't be touch by Roy jones" for a protection and encouragement spell (eg a manifestation) and a few months later I listen to the same song on the radio doesn't mean it will work like a spell again. In many cases it is a question of intention. Yhat's why it is important to educate yourself.

[21secondsofchristoph]

Here is a full translation of the interview featured in Max Magazine.

Original text by Andreas Wrede

This was a lot of work so PLEASE don’t post this elsewhere without credit. 

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This story with and about Christoph Waltz is a story coming full circle. A little more than 3 decades ago, a small group of editors and photojournalists, graphic artists and authors started developing the pilot for the first German issue of MAX, made possible by Dirk Manthey, the publisher from Hamburg’s Milchstraße, who knew the magazine from Italy, France and Greece. And who made me the founding-editor in chief. Three decades later, the derivative is released, thanks to publisher Max Iannucci. In 1990, Christoph Waltz was in an episode of “Der Alte”, among other things before he played the torn schlager music star Roy Black in “Du bist nicht allein – Die Roy Black Story” – but we will get to that later.

Now Christoph Waltz is an award-winning, internationally known actor, who won two Oscars for best supporting actor. That is unique for a German-speaking actor. Born in Vienna in 1956, he now lives in Los Angeles – if you want to play a role in Hollywood, literally, you must be present in Los Angeles. And during our conversation in a red, furry saloon of the legendary hotel Sacher in Vienna, he emphasizes, “Hollywood is always the goal”.  

The place is very fitting, considering Christoph Waltz grew up in Vienna, in a family that cultivated a great affinity for the work on stage for two generations. He says laconically, “You grow into a thing, you grow up with it, and thus, you acquire a familiarity early on, which you’d otherwise have to conquer with a lot more effort.” He often went to the movies from an early age on, but he spent even more time at the opera. “When I had time and had finished my homework, I enjoyed going to the opera.” Back then, a standing room ticket cost about ten Schilling, just a few cents in today’s currency. Little Christoph loved smuggling into the fascinating, secretive opera house.

Later he attended famous acting schools like the Max Reinhardt Seminar or Lee Strasberg’s Actors Studio with significantly less pleasure. “I didn’t like attending acting schools. They didn’t exactly broaden my horizon.” Christoph Waltz hardly found them inspiring. And when he received offers for movies and theater, he accepted them “instead of dealing and struggling with teachers”. He says this with few gestures and in an almost reporting tone, he has always trusted the energies inherent in him. He had his TV debut in “Der Einstand”, where he played a teenage delinquent. That was fitting, considering he continued playing roles which were different, unexpected, and specific, or roles he filled differently, unexpectedly, and specifically.

Christoph Waltz remembers his beginnings as an actor in the 70s a little wistfully. “There were still movies on TV, which were made as movies for television, as one dramatic entity.” Or when there used to be directors like the great Federico Fellini, who was “very, very specifically Italian in everything he did.” Christoph Waltz continues: “And because of this specificity he was able to reach so many people.” A phenomenon like Fellini is marked by obstinacy, nonconformity, and distinct individuality. However, some significant conditions also irritated Christoph Waltz, for instance, when he was hired for the Krzysztof-Zanussi-film “Leben für Leben” in 1991. “I wasn’t adequately informed about the conditions and backgrounds. And so, I found myself – surpsised – in front of a camera in Auschwitz.” How does one react to something like that? “Today, I would know how to react”, he stresses thoughtfully, “but today, that would be due to the self-confidence I acquired over the past years. Back then I felt: Now I’ve been hired for this film.” Alright, he adds, one grows through experience, some conflicts are worth going through. “It helps building character.”

Was the decision to play Roy Black a crystal clear one? Not at all, he responds smiling and closes his eyes for a second. “When my agent called me about it, my spontaneous reaction was: Complete humbug, and I can’t even listen to this music for three seconds.” It only became interesting for him when he learned that Roy Black originally wanted to play Rock ‘n’ Roll. Then he became interested in the tragedy of this character. And the thought that Roy Black’s wish was the desire for freedom and wildness, a wish many Germans shared, “which was inherent in the promising American machinery.” Although this freedom and wildness had always existed in Germany, lived out by people like Nietzsche, Schopenhauer, or Kandinsky.

“The film itself was great, but the marketing-weisenheimers managed to break this film. It would be a great cine film, but they advertised it as a sob story for television. Consequently, the real Roy-Black fans were disappointed, while the people who might have been interested in the movie judged: Leave me alone with this sob story twerp. Well, the weisenheimers are the weisenheimers, what can you do”, deems Christoph Waltz with a beautiful touch of Viennese sarcasm and barely noticeable risen eyebrows. One does not always have to instrumentalize the entire acting equipment with him. A few little cues are enough.

Many more films follow before someone calls from Hollywood and say he is supposed to participate in Tarantino’s Inglourious Basterds. In our interview he calls this his “Quentin-jump”, where he is at eye level with Diane Kruger, Brad Pitt and Michael Fassbender in front of the camera. “Tarantino, we mentioned this before, stands for specificity and authenticity, he has an eye for both.” Did Christoph Waltz go into this production with a lot of respect? “With great respect.” He remembers an encounter with Sylvester Groth in front of a theatre in Babelsberg. “Every Thursday, Quentin showed movies during preparation. Once, Sylvester and I stood in front of the theatre and we both said: Imagine this, now we’ve been doing this for so long and suddenly we find ourselves here.” Then we paused for a few moments and kept going: Yes, and despite everything, we’re doing what we’ve always done – what we do, because that is what we do.”

Before Tarantino’s office could call again, other international projects followed, like The Green Hornet (with Cameron Diaz, Tom Wilkinson, James Franco) or Carnage (with Jodie Foster, Kate Winslet, John C. Reilly). Then Django Unchained (with Jamie Foxx, Leonardo DiCaprio, Samuel L. Jackson). For his role in Django Unchained, Christoph Waltz wins his second Oscar for best supporting actor in 2013 and Quentin wins another one for best original screenplay. But Christoph Waltz remains humble: “The opportunities presented to someone for personal growth always come to you through other people.” Although the actor always makes a binary decision. “Yes or no. Am I going to do it or not.”

Can one also make the wrong decision? “You decide for one or the other and from that other possibilities develop, but neither is better or worse.” That was not any different for Quentin Tarantino or for his first film and its director Reinhard Schwabenitzky, who saw him in acting school. Christoph Waltz leans forward and says confidentially: “The essential chances and opportunities were those which were presented to me by another mind, by a great talent, through a vision, which came from another person.” Nothing more, nothing less.

Yes, humility is a virtue. But we do not want to conceal the fact that Christoph Waltz was the first German-speaking host on Saturday Night Live and that he received a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame (No. 2536, 6667 Hollywood Boulevard). The quote: “And Hollywood is always the goal.” Is correct, “like others say their goal is to get into heaven.” Hollywood, heaven: “I don’t mean to compare the two goals, but the setting of these goals. Especially Hollywood has been mythologized into more than it deserves credit for.” In this respect, as a myth, it is always the goal. Please don't tell anyone Christoph Waltz is over-the-top - the opposite is the case.

During our exchange in the Sacher, I mention one of my favorite books on film. It is Peter Biskind’s Easy Riders, Raging Bulls – How the Sex-Drugs-And-Rock’n’roll Generation saved Hollywood. It says: „There is no worse career move in Hollywood than dying. Hal Ashby is now largely forgotten, because he had the misfortune to die at the end of the 80’s, but he had the most remarkable run of any ’70 director. After ‚The Landlord‘, in 1970, he made ‚Harold and Maude‘, ‚The Last Detail‘, ‚Shampoo‘, ‚Bound for Glory‘, ‚Coming Home‘ and ‚Being there‘ in 1979, before his career disappeared into the dark tunnel of post-‘70’s, Me Decade Drugs and paranoia.“

It can be assumed that this won’t happen to Christoph Waltz? “That is a good example for the mythologizing I was referring to”, he responds. “I would claim that a legend like James Dean probably wouldn’t have developed at all, had he not driven himself to death in his Porsche at such a young age. Who knows what would have become of Marilyn Monroe, had she not put an early end to her complicated life.” And parallel to Hal Ashby, there probably were thousands of directors, who would have been happy to pay their next rent – by working in their profession. It is therefor about comparativeness.

Onto another career step, the James Bond movie Spectre, in which Christoph Waltz portrays the dark Blofeld, a character, who appeared in previous Bond movies. How do we have to imagine that? One sunny day the agent comes along and says: “You’re on the list for the next Bond movie”? Christoph Waltz knows there are no rules to this, especially when it is something like James Bond. A series that has been at the peak of possibilities for more than 50 years.” The producers have a lot to lose, they have to look very closely. Not only to keep up the standard, they also want to be ahead of their time.

Was it intriguing to play this bad boy a second time? Is it about an additional nuance of expertly irony; is it about the myth that is Bond? “This was another unique opportunity for me”, says Christoph Waltz, “a unique opportunity to include myself into such an incredibly successful series.”  Now after Spectre, for the second time in No Time To Die – a title that can offer a bit of comfort in times of the world wide covid pandemic. And Christoph Waltz is in the Bond movie that will be Daniel Craig’s final Bond. “It’s his fourth Bond movie”, he counts, “the actors change but the role remains the same. Of course, the role acquires a different profile and thus, different facets.” But it remains James Bond. “And when a new actor gets the role, he has to fit into the role, not the other way around.” Once again, we will have to wait for this Bond movie. It will probably hit theatres in spring 2021.

It reminds one of Shakespeare’s Troilus and Cressida – we’ve seen it a dozen times but keep going to see it again. Nowadays you go to see the production, in the past you went to see whosit faithless. Speaking of productions: Are the demands towards a Bond director more extensive compared to other film projects? “Surely there are more things to keep an eye on compared to a low budget movie or an independent film. In productions like that, you often have to use the tools you have. In Denmark they had demands referring to this “, Christoph Waltz comments in a slightly mocking undertone. He means the group around Lars von Trier? “Precisely, they called it Dogma for fun, and the world took them seriously.” But that is part of it, right, part of the business.

Anyway, every little detail is carefully manufactured for a Bond movie.  And that takes, apart from a lot of money, a great level of expertise and many employees, which combine into a story on film. “Legions of people work on every pixel, not to mention the light and the meaning of the music.” With all this in mind, it’s understandable how appealing it is to be in a movie like No Time To Die. Christoph Waltz has a lot of praise for the director, Cary Fukanaga: “He always knew exactly what he was doing and we knew exactly, why he did this or that”. Audiences were able to see this in previous projects, like the brilliant first season of True Detective, where he directed all eight episodes.

Christoph Waltz wouldn’t be Christoph Waltz if he didn’t show his extraordinary talents in unconventional projects as well, like the show Most Dangerous Game (with Liam Hemsworth, produced for Quibi). “What interested me there? The new dramatic form, it’s a story in 16 sections, each section only eight minutes long. We’re dealing with a new form of storytelling.” Does it remind him of the continuous comics that used to be in US-newspapers a few decades ago?

“Yes, it’s connected to that – but it also reminds me of Charles Dickens, who published many of his novels as newspaper installments. In Most Dangerous Game the great story arch is not lost, the suspense is carried from one episode into the next. “That is a sleight of hand.” And for that he received an Emmy nomination, and it wouldn’t be surprising if he was to win the prestigious award one day. But he pulled off other sleight of hands in the past. Or how the New York Times says in a headline: “Christoph Waltz directing Opera, moves from Tarantino to Verdi.” Adding his old comment to this: “The full-blooded, juicy movie experience has a lot of operatic qualities. I’m not talking about the film music, but about the rhythm and color and phrasing.” After ��Der Rosenkavalier” (Music: Richard Strauss, Libretto: Hugo von Hofmannsthal), which he staged at the Antwerp Opera, came Giuseppe Verdi’s “Falstaff”, his second opera there.

“I’m not a fan of the never-seen-before concept”, says Christoph Waltz. He agrees with Susan Sontag’s essay Against Interpretation – in opera, there is a fix story, and the music is the central transmitter of this story. Over-interpretations can quickly become “dangerous sliding tackles.” Waltz wants to avoid those. “I want to show what the composers and authors meant.” He stayed true to Sontag’s principle in all three of his opera productions, the third on being Beethoven’s only opera “Fidelio”.

He is self-critical enough, “to personally take the risk of failing.” What would be the alternative?

“I’m just an actor, now what do the music critics, who take themselves so seriously say? Some foam at the mouth and brawl ‘the movie-bod is interfering in the opera’.” He prefers the critics that are capable of formulating things between the lines. “When I read elsewhere, that the very thing I was trying to convey can be seen in detail, then I’m quietly happy about it.” Sadly, the live performances of Fidelio fell victim to the covid-crisis, but there was a TV-screening on ORF, which can certainly be called presentable with 11% of the market-share.  “During ‘Fidelio’ I first realized physically that music is a spatial experience.” Here fits another Waltz-quote: “Strip away anything that us unnecessary.” Ergo: Reduce the action to the interaction between the characters. That is an art he mastered to perfection in acting.”

For once, I could surprise the cleaned up, chatty, well-tempered Christoph Waltz with a little research.

In his birthyear, 1956, his fellow countryman Walter Felsenstein, founder and artistic director of the “Komische Oper” in Berlin filmed a version of “Fidelio”. To this day, it remains the only film adaptation of the opera. Probably because – so the actor quotes Felsenstein – “this opera technically is impossible to stage”, he says with aplomb, an attitude that suits him. In ballet an aplomb describes the ability to absorb a movement, the balance.

Christoph Waltz not only shoots a lot of movies, but he also enjoys reading one particular movie critic: Anthony Lane of the New Yorker. Surely one of the most sharpened critics, who outtalks someone or rubs the reader’s nose into his alleged ignorance. We start talking about Lane via a new movie by the fabulous Agnieszka Holland, “Mr. Jones” – referring to Gareth Jones, advisor to the former British Prime Minister Lloyd George. Jones uncovers that the devastating hunger crisis in the Ukraine in 1932/33 was exclusively due to Stalin’s exploiting politics. Anthony Lane writes in inimitable fashion: „Is it conceivable that Holland’s bleak, murky, and instructive film could prompt a change of heart in the current Russian establishment, or even a confession of crimes past? Not a chance.“ Greetings from Belarus.

And of course, we also talk about COVID, what does an actor do who can’t act during these times? Is he reading Robert Musil’s novel The Man Without Qualities, which has more than 1000 pages? “Oh, I’ve already attempted to read this three times. The first time, I got to page 200, the second time I got to page 400, the third time I put it away after 100 pages.” But he doesn’t fully abandon the idea of finishing it one day. “But that would really be a true accomplishment of discipline”, he underlines, allusively smiling. Less amusing is the current stagnancy in Hollywood, where Christoph Waltz lives with his wife and daughter for the most part. “It will be illuminating once things pick up again”, he ponders “will a reforming spirit take over, or will everything fall back into the old, ignorant patterns, or even cause worse?” The temporary dysfunctionality of Hollywood is comparable to a dysfunctional family, which mechanisms become especially clear during crisis. Now he visited his mother here in Vienna. I allow myself the question, “Is Vienna your home?” “Vienna is my home, home is something you can’t choose, like your parents. Everything else can become your center of living, all that is willingly moveable – but home, home cannot be changed at will.”

[baby-grayson]

Sweet Enigma: Part 1

The year is 2023.

The date is January 1, 2023.

Kathleen Walker is sitting at her desk, in her lab. She is biting the nail of her right thumb while scrolling through a massive spreadsheet of data with her left hand. Above her, fifty-year-old fluorescent lights beam down with a gentle hum. She is alone, working through the New Year’s holiday to wrap up a project that will eventually change her career.

Behind her, mounted in the corner of the room, is a small box TV—maybe 13 inches wide at maximum. That TV was usually reserved for either mundane things, like the weather report, or extremely special occasions, like presidential inaugurations. On that night, Kate had flipped it to a random channel, E!News, providing her some comforting background noise in the dark and eerie laboratory. She grunts softly to herself, feeling as though she is thinking in circles.

The black of night had just fallen on the skyline of LA. Outside her small window, Kate could hear the consistent drumming of rain beating against the pavement. Kate despised the amount of rain LA got in the winter; it was a meek imitation of the wonderful snowfall in her beloved Philadelphia. The pouring rain only adds to her negative feelings about working through the night.

Her bad mood only worsened when the next E!News segment came on. Usually, when something crossed her path about Grayson Dolan, Kate was quick to change the channel or shut off her phone. Not because she harbored negative feelings towards Grayson, but because it wasn’t fair to hear about the life of her ex-boyfriend from third-party news sources, without an avenue to ask him herself or tell him about her new life. When the Dolan Twins would get themselves involved in the rare scandal or controversy, Kate would silently support them, remembering in her heart that they were good people.

And that’s all Grayson Dolan was, a memory. The kind of memory that Kate sometimes wondered if she was glamorizing in her mind, or if Grayson was truly as dreamy as she remembered him.

But Kate’s frustrations only grew when the peppy host on E!News started her latest segment from the small box TV.  

“It has been two weeks since Grayson Dolan announced his engagement to fitness designer and model Sherry Maddox—”  this is usually when Kate would roughly grab the remote and change the channel before any of the report’s words traveled to her brain. However, this time Kate slowly spun in her desk chair to see what Grayson’s new fiancé looked like.

Kate is greeted with the image of curvy, busty, blonde who looks something like a cross between Marilyn Monroe and a Disney Princess. She had bouncy blonde curls and a beauty mark on her upper lip. The TV showed a clip of her hanging onto Grayson’s arm at some event. Kate is struck by Grayson’s image: he really is as every bit of gorgeous as she remembered him. 

Kate brusquely turned around—disinterested, a bit bitter, and ready to get back to her work. She quickly grabbed the remote and muted the TV after hearing the words, “Grayson Dolan is scheduled to celebrate his new engagement to fitness designer and model Sherry Maddox tonight. The pair are reported to be planning their wedding in Califor—” Kate stopped the sound before the reporter could continue.

Kate took a deep breath before returning to her computer. She tried to get back to work. She sincerely tried to grab her calculator and punch in some numbers. Her own brain betrayed her. She dropped the calculator on the surface of her desk and sighed. She huffed and puffed, unsatisfied with her own performance that night.

Her head lifted when she heard a drumming noise coming from the hallway. She thought she was the only person working late on New Years’ day.

Before she can stand from her chair to investigate, a man barrels through the door. She freezes in fear, suddenly acutely aware of the dangers that working alone harbors. In an instant, her pulse quickens to a dangerous rhythm. If she were calm, she would grab her work phone and quickly dial campus police. She is too frozen in fear to move. But her fear fades into awe as she recognizes the sharp jawline of his face and the gold flecks in his eyes—he looked as if he was pulled straight out of her memories from Summer 2020.

Grayson’s eyes hold a veil of panic as he stares back at Kate. He lost his breath for a moment.

This gives Kate the opportunity to peer down and see Grayson dressed in button down shirt and printed, velvet suit pants. A much more formal outfit than anything she had ever seen him in.

Grayson’s mind finds an air bubble of clarity as he drowns in Kate’s big brown eyes, plush round mouth, and the wisps of hair escaping from her ponytail to frame her face. “I’m sorry,” his voice sounded as frantic as that moment felt, “I didn’t know what to do, “He ran his fingers through his hair, clearly disturbing his hair sprayed droop. He took in a hard breath and licked his lips, “I don’t know what I’m doing. But I know what I’m doing,” he nodded softly with wide eyes, “I needed to see you. Now. With everything that’s happening. I needed to see you. To see you like here to like in person. Sherry’s been going crazy since…well she flew her sister Coral out for tonight and was mad when I gave my mom the guest room and not Coral, even though she’s pregnant,  and my mom kept complaining that our colors were dark for an engagement party and we needed more flowers but Sherry doesn’t like any of the florists in LA and Ethan kept telling me to hold it together this is just the energy of the moment but it’s not the energy of the moment it’s the energy of everyday and this is going to be the everyday for the rest of my life and I—well I—” Grayson was breathing as if he had just run a marathon.

“Gray—son” Kate finished, not being comfortable using his nickname when he was basically a stranger. “What are you doing here?” Grayson inhaled deeply and looked down at her. He met her eyes. His gaze lost its wild veil for a moment as he said surely, “Two and a half years ago, I said goodbye to you because I knew I wasn’t ready for the kind of love you brought into my life. Well today, I’m ready for that kind of love but I’m engaged to someone who reminds that I will never get back everything I lost when I gave you up.”

“What are you talking about?” Kate gaped, looking from Grayson’s shoes and back to his face, as if she could find the answer on his body. Grayson took in a few ragged breaths while she folded her face in confusion. A million questions ran through Kate’s mind in that moment, but the one that made its way to her lips was “How did you even find me?”

Grayson licked his lips, which were dry from hoarding hot breaths “The school was closer than your apartment,” he strategically avoiding noting that his memories placed Kate’s apartment on the more hostile side of LA, “Google gave me your office number,” he exhaled and held his palms out, “I just hoped you were here.”

“What would you have done if I wasn’t?” Kate’s brown eyes looked up wide, her voice was low and grounded.

Grayson closed his mouth into a tight line, “I—I don’t know.”

Kate had a valid question. If Grayson hadn’t found her working late on New Year’s Day, would he have returned to his engagement part, and his life with Sherry? Truthfully, he really didn’t know the answer. In choosing to escape from his ensnared life, he let his heart make decisions over his mind. His heart didn’t think things through, it only sought out the last person to make him truly happy: Kate.

Kate broke their silence first. “What do you want to do now?”

“I don’t know.” Grayson’s voice was more breath than sound.

Kate’s eyes locked on Grayson’s, for the first time in two and a half years they shared each other’s gaze. Kate’s heart dove into her body, suddenly remembering the feeling of Grayson’s fingertips tracing her naked skin on Sunday mornings, his lips finding comfort on hers for the first time in his van, and the vision of the sunlight dancing off of his bone structure in the early morning on the beach. The emotional unrest of the moment took hold in her mind. No matter where he had been, Grayson was once the other half of her heart: he was clearly hurting, and she wanted to fix it.

Kate stood up and abruptly started shoving her computer and things into her backpack, “Where are you parked?” She held a sense of urgency in her voice.

Grayson shook his head quickly, “I ran.” Kate stopped packing to look up at him, bewildered, “You ran?”

Grayson nodded, “Yeah I ran,” he passed a hand from his forehead to his hair. It was then that Kate noticed the his damp hair, and the drops of water falling from the collar of his button down shirt. Kate wanted to ask how far he had come but decided that his disshelved look was enough of an answer. She opened her desk drawer to grab her keys and told him, “We’ll take my car” Grayson’s eyes held a sort of innocent uncertainty, “Where are we going?”

Kate looked at the ground, her backpack slung around one shoulder and her keys in her palm. She sucked her lips in quickly, and exhaled. That was a great question, where were they going?  Where would they go? Where do an exhausted PhD student and her wayward, engaged, famous ex-boyfriend belong?

They stood there for a moment, in silence and contemplating what the best next move was. Across town, Grayson’s family and fiancé would tell him that the best place for him would be at his extravagant engagement party; Grayson’s heart knew that any place was better than that party. Kate’s senses told her to drop him off at home; but something about being with Grayson lit a fire deep in her. They stood there: shells of two people who were once in love but had been worn and changed by the courses of the individual lives.

Kate looked up at Grayson. He looked so much like what she remembered but decorated in the strokes of a forlorn man: messy hair frizzing at the edges, a heaving chest, wide eyes, swollen lips. Kate gulped hard, recognizing that the last time she had seen Grayson like this, was the last time she had seen Grayson at all.

Grayson sucked in a breath, wondering if he had brought Kate back to reality. He rocked on his heels subtly, wondering if he was testing her kindness by asking her to give comfort to his aching heart. At that moment, his brain realized that Kate might not have even known about his engagement. He closed his eyes quickly, becoming acutely aware of how much he was expecting out of her when, in the current moment, she was only a kind stranger.

Kate exhaled when Grayson closed his eyes. The tension of her heart strings wanted to tether him to her, until he looked like a capable man again. “My place” she announced, “We’ll go to my place.”

The car ride to Kate’s apartment was eerily silent. Kate’s mind was as full of questions for Grayson as Grayson’s was with questions for Kate. What had happened after they broke up? Had they both been okay? What did okay mean anymore? Did you think about me after we ended things? Do you still think about me now? The answer to that last one was obvious to Kate, Grayson had to still be grasping onto some piece of them to come to her on the night of his engagement party, professing his love for the woman he hadn’t seen in years.

The rain pounded on Kate’s windshield, filling the car with a consistent drumming noise. The sound of the rain highlighted the lack of sound coming from the pair.

Kate still lived in the same apartment she had when she first moved to LA. Grayson noticed how much homier it seemed then, two and a half years later. Kate’s space was still filled with IKEA furniture, but it had been decorated in throw blankets, house plants, and polaroids with her new friends. It was having been a cozy apartment, had it not been filled with the memories of the tainted spaces from that faithful summer.

When they approached her front door, Grayson was caught by the memory of standing on the other side of the door while Kate was stranded in her own bathroom. When Kate inserted her key and turned the deadbolt, Grayson was washed by the sensation of kissing Kate the first night he apologized to her, feeling her towel slip off and hit the ground as they moved toward her bed. When he stepped in the doorway, he was hit by the feelings crawling out of Kate’s apartment after ruining their morning by placing terms and conditions on their relationship.

Kate moved forward, unaware of the conglomeration of thoughts and emotions bombarding Grayson’s brain. She dropped her backpack under the table, laid a hand on its surface and leaned on it. Her mouth went dry when she tried to speak, “Do you want a change of clothes? Or something?” Grayson looked down at himself, now suddenly aware of the wet mess he looked like. His black velvet pants were soaked and ruined, and his shirt was so wet that it clung to his body like a wet shirt at the beach. Any other day, Grayson would have been slightly proud of the bulge of his muscles under the thin fabric. Today, it made him look like the kind of mess he felt. He opened his mouth to answer but was interrupted by the sound of a key turning in the front door. Grayson looked confused. He turned to Kate, wondering if she had gotten a roommate in the time since he had last visited.

Kate’s head whipped around to face the front door; her eyes went wide. The person on the other side of the door fumbled with their key in the lock.

“Shit,” she muttered.

“What is—” Grayson didn’t finish his question because Kate grabbed his arm and quickly ushered him into the bathroom. She shoved him threw the bathroom door and sent him hurdling toward the back wall.

“Just—just wait here,” she took in harsh breaths and closed the door on him, trapping him in the bathroom.

Frantically, she tried to position herself in a way that looked as close to normal—as if that night was anything normal. She leaned against her dining room table, laying a gentle hand on the corner. She picked up a banana, in hopes trying to appear as if she belonged in the scene—of her own apartment.

As the lock on Kate’s front door opened, a tall young man with a bright smiled walked through the door. He kept his hair trimmed tight, even though it held a close curl to his head. He had a wide nose and kind eyes. Wesley was objectively good looking: not the Greek God that Grayson Dolan was, but still an attractive man.

Wesley slipped in the doorway with a smile, none the wiser to the soaking Dolan being hidden in Kate’s bathroom. “Hey Katie,” he smiled and walked over to kiss her cheek, “didn’t think you’d be here tonight.”

Wesley Brooks was a medical student, hoping to become a neurosurgeon. He met Kate at a party last summer, about six months ago. He had instantly fallen for her big brown eyes and joyful laughter.

Wesley had quickly become a staple in Kate’s life: he would run coffee to her when she was working late, cover for her when she slept in too late, and give her his containers of duck sauce when they ordered Chinese food because he knew how much she loved it.

As a couple, Wesley and Kate made sense. They were both beautiful, brilliant, driven, and young. Kate sometimes felt out of place at school, where most of her peers came from wealthy families and privileged backgrounds: Wesley was one of the few people who could relate to her. He had grown up in rural Georgia and went to college on a generous, philanthropic scholarship.

Kate gave Wesley the key to her apartment about four months ago, when classes had started up again. Wesley regularly stopped by to start making dinner while Kate cleaned up her lab, or to water her plants when he knew she was having a busy week. That night, Wesley stopped by to pick up his gym bag, that he left in her coat closet, before he headed off for a late-night cardio session.

He walked into the room with a graceful step. He kissed her cheek quickly. Kate threw her shoulders back and stiffened her jaw. “You doing alright Katie?” Wesley’s voice was warm and sweet, triggering Kate’s stomach to start lurching.

She nodded quickly as Wesley walked over to the coat closet to grab his bag, “Yeah, just stress. I’m still finishing that project,” her voice wavered no less than three times over the course of that sentence.

Wesley threw the duffel bag around his shoulder and looked back at her, “I’m surprised you’re home honestly, I thought you’d be pulling another all-nighter. Make sure you eat dinner and get some sleep tonight, okay?” He smiled at her from the corner of the room. Kate nodded erratically, “I will,” she threw him a half-hearted smile. “Love you Katie,” Wesley said with his hand on the doorknob. He walked out of the room as she muttered a meek, “Love you too”.

Grayson slowly crept out of his clandestine hiding place in the bathroom. He had heard every word while dripping water onto Kate’s bathmats.

“You have a boyfriend?” Grayson’s question was more of a statement.

Kate exhaled and closed her eyes, hoping that the tension of the moment would disappear if she pretended it wasn’t there.

“I’m sorry,” Grayson started, “I’m so so sorry.” His lips curled. “I should have never left the party, I should have---I could have---I—” “It’s alright Grayson,” Kate’s voice was sure and confident in her answer.

She took in a deep breath, “Let’s go, let’s not—be here anymore.” She hated herself for fearing another intrusion from Wesley.

That Malibu beach remained the same since the last time they visited: embracing on a towel after declaring their love for each other for the first time. Neither one of them was sure who suggested they take refuge on its shores, but it was the perfect place for Grayson and Kate to be alone on that January night.

The rain soaked into the sand, muffling out the drumming noise. The dark sky was not suitable for a midnight walk, so the pair found shelter under a large boulder. They sat down, each not wearing anything that was acceptable for a beach. Sand sneaked its way into Grayson’s dress shoes. Kate’s leggings were being soaked by the wet terrain.

She moved first, looking at him as the wind whipped her dark locks around her head. Her voice was earnest and sincere, “What happened Grayson?”  

“After we broke up, I—I didn’t exactly know what to do. I thought about you all the time, nearly every day. But I knew that wouldn’t do my any good.” Grayson thumb at a where the sand met his wet pants. He exhaled roughly.

He spoke the next part with a vigorous sureness in his voice for the first time that night “I didn’t know—At first, I threw myself into my work: I took up some directing projects, poured energy into Wake heart projects-- I worked with Ethan to design a clothing label. We wanted to remind people to stay positive and keep smiles on their faces.”  

He took a deep breath and nearly mumbled his next few words, “It’s ironic, smiles were so much emptier without you.”

“Eventually, I-I shook myself out of it and started seeing some ….people, started trying to work on all those things that I stupidly did to you back in the day.” He wiped sand from his hands and turned his eyes to the ground, not wanting to have Kate, even in his peripheral vision as he continued.

“I met Sherry about a year and a half ago; she went to an event as someone’s plus one. We started dating like right away. She understood. Not-Not understood me in the way that you do-- did of course, only Ethan comes close to that. But she really understood what kind of pressure was on me with all the businesses and the attention. She always wanted a family, she said that on our first date. I proposed at Thanksgiving, I figured there was no reason not to be with a woman who not only understood my lifestyle but wanted to start a family like me.”

He shook his upper body, as if trying to shake off the raindrops from his messy figure. He looked up from the ground to meet Kate’s gaze as the wind whipped her hair around her face. It was an enchanting image: the sight of her on a beach at midnight; the kind of image that would come to him in his most feverish, rare dreams. She was everything feminine and sweet, with eyes that could offer him comfort after any plight: so different from everything else in his world: his sweet enigma. He swallowed hard and licked his lips, his voice took on a breathy, desperate tone.

“But there is a reason. And that reason is you, Kate.”

[elminx]

Elminx (very emotionally) muses about her spirituality

Oh, the winding path of spirituality is long and always surprising.

and it shouldn't be because it always brings me back to myself.

I once met an old man on a crossroads in New Orleans who smiled at me, tipped his hat, and begged me (metaphorically) to take his photograph

my partner and I called him Anansi, almost unbidden, as we talked about him afterward (thanks to Neil Gaimon) but we joked that he was somebody's uncle

later that day, I stood in frustration at the locked gates of Cemetery No. 1

had they not been locked, I would never have wandered the Garden District

never found

my dark Madonna, covered in Mardi Gras Beads

I always have said that she opened so many doors for me, but was it really her

or did He lead me to her?

did my ancestors lead me to him - how did he KNOW that day?

these are the two first defining moments of my modern practice

the mother and father of who I am - the adult witch me -

I've found many others along the way, strange and unexpected guides:

a crow in Mont-Royal Cemetery

a trickster who came into my house on the winds of Gray and never left

his daughter, in another cemetery in the land of fire and ice;

Anansi was somebody's uncle - five years later somebody contacted me on Etsy to tell me that my Anansi was Uncle Lionel Baptiste.

On the day that I returned from New Orleans, I became a grave walker - I did not make it into Cemetery No. 1 but some part of seems to run through my veins

he brought me to her - my dark Madonna - but his grim brought me to something else

he was so close to death that we never really believed that he was alive

I didn't know the stories about meeting the devil at the crossroads, I had been fed on white bread Wicca, never fitting in but never knowing where else to turn

but I know a spirit when I see one and I would not believe that he was ever real if I did not have photographic evidence

(it was not the first or the last time that I would see the grim, but I digress)

something about that day, something about him, and the dark Madonna, and the locked gates of Cemetery No. 1, and the blood in my veins which knew New Orleans, something new came home with me.

The apartment we live in now wasn't on the market when we were looking. a friend rented from the landlord and gave us his email. he told us he didn't have any places available and, two hours later, the tenants living here before us broke their lease

this apartment is a five-minute walk from the old mill building that my partner works in

there is a cemetery five minutes in the other direction - that is where I work

there are three large statues in my cemetery - the main one of St. Brigid - all severity and dourness - I have no interest in her though we tolerate one another. there is the angel in the back - they are otherworldly, they are larger than life. they hold out their hands to the sky and in the winter, their hands collect the snow. we are friends, after a fashion.

and then there is her. the Magdalene. we are not friends. we are something else. she is so beautiful that she makes me cry. she has a long dark triangular mark running down the left side of her face where moss has grown and it only makes her more beautiful. she is the saddest thing that I have ever seen but her sadness takes away my own. she takes my breath away.

sometimes I bring her flowers, sometimes incense. I sing to the cemetery as a whole - we have a song. sometimes I have to clean up the cemetery but there is never any trash near her pedestal. hydrangeas grow at its base - one bush that produces green, blue, pink, and purple blossoms all at once.

I have photographed a hundred Magdalene's in a hundred cemeteries but none of them compare to her. The one with the Marilyn Monroe mole from Magnolia Cemetery in Charleston came the closest but my Magdalene is more perfect. I know that she gets me.

she gets me the way that old man on the street did. he knew that I wanted to take his photograph. he made a point of posing as he walked down the street in front of me.

I don't photograph people, especially people that I don't know. but that day, on that crossroads, I photographed him. if I hadn't, I would never have known that he was somebody's uncle. he would always just have been a myth. he would always just have been my Anansi.

Hail Mary, full of grief

that's the thing about spirituality - at least for me - everything spirals back around in the end

like the fool card from the tarot deck that I've had for 24 years who looks like that man that I didn't meet until four years ago

I've been reading The Holy Wild by Danielle Dulsky. it's not what I want it to be. I love the concept but it's got a lot of Wiccan notions and it seems, to me, that every goddess is just up for appropriation. I won't work with a god that I haven't met.

I know enough to honor a god that you meet at the crossroads and to thank them for your gifts. my Anansi gets good black coffee with ground chicory. I don't ask him for anything else.

Hail Mary, full of grief

She is, my sad beautiful Magdalene. I don't know why I kept reading this book but I felt compelled to. Now, in the last chapters, I think that I understand why.

I was in Lisbon visiting family during the Lenten season. my period started out of cycle and I bled all over myself on a subway on the way to Jerónimos Monastery. I was sick with the first-day ick and couldn't eat the sweetened pastries my partner and I had come all this way to experience. The shadows were long in the monastery and I spent so long photographing them that we almost didn't make it into the church proper before it closed.

on the balcony was the most beautiful crucifixion I have ever seen. Jesus was painted in deep shades of green that might sicken the more weak-stomached but to me, the little vulture-culture folk witch, they held such a beautiful hue. I cried and cried as I stood before him, completely transfixed in some way that I had never experienced before in my life. my partner says that multiple people stopped to take my picture - the strange red-headed American who was crying before Jesus.

they marveled at my devotion

Hail Mary, full of grief

I don't know why she calls to me. I have never stopped to ask why. I think in a way I have always been proud of the only female disciple - maybe she is the cracks in the glass ceiling. maybe she is a sign that nobody can ever truly keep us down. no matter whether you can us whore or harlot. nobody is all sinner or saint.

I try to bite back tears. I'm in a doctor's office and I feel like my physical therapist might take it amiss if I come into my appointment crying over a woman dead 2,000 years. I feel like my body is failing me and the strength of it has really only been the only thing that I have ever had going for me.

I did not even know that I was full of grief. Just like I would have said that I didn't know why I cried in front of Jesus in a monastery in Portugal.

if you ask me if I'm Catholic while I'm trying to sell you my art, I'll answer that I'm from a large Catholic family which is just barely skirting the issue. I let people think that the Mardi Gras beads on my dark Madonna are rosaries if they can't tell the difference and smirk along with my Cajun ancestors. That is the rouse, after all. Jesus and Mary live on my ancestor altar.

I can weave a yarn 10,000 stitches long about how my artwork is about my exploration of the divine feminine. the witches know. one day a woman came by while I wasn't there - asked my partner about my work and then waited for me to come back, named me a grave walker, and asked me if I knew who Cerridwen was. (She was disappointed - I know but I work with other dark ladies)

I work with the two-face Jotun of the North

I work with the black Madonna of New Orleans

Hail Mary, full of grief

Somehow I always knew it would have something to do with you.

[stronghours]

THREE QUEENS OF DOMESTICITY

Ava’s husband Reuben, as Ava informed Domme Lux in the unfinished basement beforehand, had only contributed to the collaring ceremony through draping the gaping drywall with swags of lavender gauze and twinkle lights from Christmas, which blistered the fabric in a damp whimsy Lux hadn’t thought the man capable. But then, Ava said, she had never brought a boy into the household before, and she thought it was only fair to respect Reuben’s distance in the matter. Where he was, she didn’t say. Evey, one of the four usual girls, was already naked but for papery hospitality slippers and trying to tame the blank concrete with a shredded mop. She squeezed the handle to a thin, practical breast each time she lost hope. Her clavicle was tense with little red marks.

Ava sat on her own padded stool applying lotion to her arms as she held court with Lux, Celeste and other colleagues regarding the guest list and particulars. She possessed downy Marilyn Monroe skin and her expression was luminous, while Lux, simultaneously underdressed, clammy, and overheated (it was summer, high noon outside, but Halloweentown below) started to feel the depression sink in. She’d chosen to wear a sleeveless mock turtleneck cinched in via a skintight pencil skirt and knee-high chunk pumps, and it all looked charming enough to her when she texted a picture to Jules. Sexual language arts teacher or Lorelai Gilmore season 1-2? She’d typed. But Jules had been AWOL since Thursday and now Lux had no chaperone and no wisdom. Ava didn’t let it go unremarked.

“It’s June,” she informed, like Lux didn’t know. “So, he’s sucking up to his leather daddies and his drag queens, while the rest of us behave like grown-ups. Correct?”

Guests arrived. Lux decided on strategic retreat and glued her spine to a far swampy corner and gradually became happier to have interpreted the dress code on the conservative side. Ava sent out the invite via her personal newsletter, with the esoteric instruction to dress within the modes of business or pleasure and it became clear of the basement filling nobody had made a collective interpretation. Celeste, shivering underneath her partner’s bomber jacket had prevailed on a frail sundress and the man in front of Lux wore a boxy Uniqlo blazer on top and a polyester jockstrap that read PIG BOY in an eternal ring around the waist. His white ass loomed beneath her line of vision, a sobering reality check to Evey and the other girls kneeling like wraiths up front, their smudged outlines harkening more toward Salo than Ava would ever intend.

Candles were lit. Lux could not get rid of the haunted house excess bringing her mood down, even as Ava, up front on her dais and methodically strapping her bagged up new boy onto his striker frame, vamped in a costumy corset of sectional purple brocade (Jules) opera-length latex mittens (Jules) and slick black shoulder plate and hood of indeterminate material (no doubt made by an enemy of Jules), and if Jules himself would ever show up, as promised, Lux could decide what was worse: Ava mixing materials or mixing designers.

But what was worst above all, she already knew, was that three poems had already been read and Ava was reading one still. She read one stanza per one buckle. Her new boy, before being lowered into his body bag, had read one himself to clarify his submission. His face had been beaky and palling. He had flat blue eyes. She liked him much better totally hidden from view and wondered how a hardline heterosexual like Ava could entertain delicate styles in women but such insipid taste in dudes.

A ray of light split the room like a knife and vanished. A couple people moaned, blinded in one eye. The crowd to Lux’s left grunted and spat, ruffled, then parted. She didn’t notice Jules until he had a cold hand behind her neck. Even with walls on both her sides, he found a blind spot.

He stuck his tongue in her ear, knowing full well she couldn’t shout him down in this scenario. “What’s up sugar,” he said, barely acceptably hushed. “How many poems has it been?”

“And the moonrise over the hill,” Ava recited, yanking a new strap, “Rises in tune – to your mind upon my person – to your body upon my person – to your devotion to my person –”

“It’s been this one for a while,” Lux said. She grabbed him and squashed him to her side. You had to meet Jules nuisance per nuisance when he felt energetic, or he’d trample you to death. When he was overbearing, she preferred him coldhearted, and when he was frosty, she preferred him needy. It was wedding season, and he hadn’t had enough brides to wear him out. “What took you so long?”

“Stopped for food. I’ve been up for uh…thirty-six hours.”

PIG BOY’s head turned back fractionally, then he thought better of looking and faced front.

“Wedding?”

“Shereen Allure made the Miss Continental Elite lineup. She got her hooks in me. She needs an evening gown, an interview moment, talent outfit that’ll stay together through the twenty fucking backflips I know she’ll want to do – baby, sweetie, honey, let me just stone you a fucking leotard, but no, she wants everything to sweep the toes. Insanity.” Jules craned his head around PIG BOY’s shoulder, and, seeing the wild look on his face, she wormed her hand underneath his shirt and pinched his ribs before he could think of speaking above sotto voice.

“Work function,” she warned. “Work function!”

“I wouldn’t go to my boss’s wedding,” Jules said, but he shriveled back into her shoulder obediently. “Gross. What’s she wearing?”

“A couple things of yours.”

“Against medical advice.”

Ava’s boy was buckled in midway up his ribs. They had to last to the neck. Somebody close to the front of the house darted forward to re-light the tea candles extinguished in their little glasses, scattered among Ava’s stilts. Lux thought: Suck-up.

“Cocksucker,” Jules hissed into her neck.

Profound is your sacred neck –

Ava claimed.

And affectionate, my lips, on its nape –

The boy in the bag didn’t judder or wince or squirm or move an inch. If Lux hadn’t been around to watch him step inside it, she would have considered him a mannequin. More guests arrived, fashionably late, and she and Jules alternately jostled the roach hotel between her ankles as they bandied to stay upright. PIG BOY had enough of them and forced his way further into crowd.

“What’s his name, anyway?” Jules asked, of bag-boy.

“Shawn. Mark. Uh…Jake.”

“Fucking John Donne up there has a boner for a goddamn Cody.” Jules wiped his nose on her shoulder. “I can’t breathe down here. Come on, ta-ta.”

The basement door opened into a little cairn staircase and led them blinking into the lawn (a lawn!) a black walnut tree dripping with green baubles (a tree!). Jules assisted her over the porch railing (a porch!) and spanked the dust from the seat of her skirt. They entered the gleaming kitchen, already occupied by Ava and Rueben’s straightest friends who, thin-lipped, met their sangrias with unenthusiasm.

“One thing I will say for Ava,” said a woman wearing a mock turtleneck similar to Lux’s own, “She certainly has…flair.”

A man turned to Jules and asked, helplessly, how long these things lasted. The preliminaries, Jules asked, or the mingling, or the primary ceremony, or the potluck or the afterparty? And while he laid out the etiquette Lux stared at the dustless countertops and the seafoam green cabinets, smooth to the touch, and their silver handles and the tile floor and the padded breakfast nook with its stained glass overhead light and the jazzy track lights situated over the looming kitchen island. Lysol lingered underneath the tawny fumes of a candle labeled CARMEL TRUFFLE SUNDAE and the photo pasted to the candle, she was ashamed to say, made her hungry. A kitchen-aide, which Lux had seen featured in some of Ava’s private photoshoots, gleamed, an untouchable ruby atop a mounted wall cabinet.

Jules’s conversation partner said he had tried to muscle through the ceremony but one of Ava’s slaves (the man himself hedged, politely, and referred to her as Ava’s housemaid) had accidentally brushed him with her nude bosom and he thought, well, better safe than sorry and beat it to safer pastures. “I don’t want to get her in trouble,” he claimed. The sangria was doing nothing to free him from this downward spiral of nakedness.

The mock turtleneck woman held the pitcher out to Lux for a sniff. “It’s virgin,” she pronounced, disgusted.

Jules shifted his backpack into the nook. He removed a pair of purple Easy Spirit pumps, a wad of pantyhose cut off at the thigh, two rolls of duct tape, a greasy paper bag from a Vienna Sausage, a Ziplock of loose bronze eyelets, a lacy bridal bralette and ouvert panty set Lux thought she had permanently lost and finally a half-empty bottle of white rum, which he handed around.

“She and Reuben,” the mock turtleneck woman confided, tit for tat, “Had two cash bars at their wedding.”

“I get it’s a private residence,” the man continued, wide eyed, as he tilted the bottle drop by tiny drop into his cup. “But is the nudity like – mandatory?”

“Don’t be shy,” Jules suggested, happy in his eternal revolving door from Bitch to Hostess. “Really tip that bad boy in there.”

The man turned on Lux, aghast. “Mandatory nudity?”

“Jules,” she said. “Bathroom escort, please.”

The floors were fake grey wood and if they’d been in socks, they would have slipped and slid like newborn colts through a framed gauntlet of Ava and Reuben’s documented civilian life. On the right, a picture of Reuben T-posing against the horizon of the Grand Canyon. On the left, Ava’s Reiki Master III certificate from Sat Nam. A family reunion and matching T-shirts (Ava’s side of the family). A newlywed embrace at the foot of an anonymous waterfall in the Upper Peninsula. She’d seen all this before, well acquainted with the ground floor of Ava’s house, but now she wondered if Zach-Cody-Jake-Shawn, petrified below her feet, was feeling the weight of the roof on his chest like she felt.

Jules, on his own agenda, bypassed the bathroom door which was modestly shut and tugged her toward the staircase.

“Oh shush,” she warned preemptively. “We’re not allowed!” They’d never been upstairs before.

“What? They don’t have a bathroom up there?”

“She’ll know,” Lux said as they tiptoed upward. She imagined their footfalls pounding through the ceiling of the basement and Ava, coolly, directing her eyes toward the ceiling and right up Lux’s skirt.

“If you quit being so aware of her, she wouldn’t be aware of you,” Jules counseled.

Every door upstairs was closed, sanded and paper-smooth and plumbed correctly in their jambs. Her apartment had more in common with Ava’s basement. Melancholy prevented her from noticing Jules bypassing the obvious bathroom door where the shadow of a jailed cat paced and opening another. It was Ava’s and Rueben's bedroom.

“Uh-oh,” Jules said. “What an honest mistake.”

 “Stop, stop, stop,” she begged, dancing backward, but the arrested step of somebody entering the downstairs hallway had her shoving him inside. Jules grabbed her wrist before she could slam the door shut in panic and guided it closed himself, soundlessly.

“Somebody’s coming!” She hissed.

           “Nobody’s coming,” he said. “Not upstairs, at least.”

           Next door, the cat mewed piteously.

           The bedroom, to her surprise, held no accoutrements of Ava’s work at the club, not a stocking on the ground or a corset thrown over the back of a chair. The only suggestion of her taste for grandeur Lux recognized was the four-poster bed and the plum carpet. Even the makeup mirror standing up on the desk was just an electric plastic-framed Conair. The same kind Lux, at 14, had hidden underneath her bed.

Jules touched one of the bedposts. “You think she ever spread-eagles ol’ Rueben on these babies?”

Reuben worked in software. He had a crew cut, no distinguishing features, and upper veneers. When grouped together, he referred to all of Ava’s dommes as you kids. Alone, he called Lux Little Lady and Jules Hey, It’s My Man! Before thumping him with lethal force between the shoulder blades. Lux didn’t want to imagine Ava and Reuben fucking in the four-poster bed. But, on contemplation, she realized it was an impossible task.

She peeked into the master bathroom long enough to confirm Ava installed a whirlpool tub. Jules had already thrown open her closet and was sifting through hangers. He stood rumpled in his flip-flops and she was worried his hands would leave marks.      

“She’ll know someone was snooping.”

“Did she ever notice when you and Celeste moved everything in the dungeon three inches to the left on April Fools?”

Lux sat gingerly on the desk chair. The Conair makeup mirror was still lit, and she checked her hairline, her face, her cleavage (she’d been paranoid for two months that she was shrinking) in the mock turtleneck. In a silver stand-frame was a black-and-white of Ava alone, on her wedding day. She posed in black-and-white before a crumbling brick wall, body positioned forward but facing right, absurdly fresh, and nearly sweet-sixteen in a sweetheart neckline and ruffled cap sleeves.

 Jules loomed like a vulture over her shoulder and judged for himself. “Not what I would have picked for her,” He decided.

But Lux couldn’t look away from the picture. Ava, pre-Entrance, pre-homeowner, pre-stable-of-subs, pre-whirlpool tub. In the sterile silence of the bedroom, she had nothing to cloud her thoughts. “Ava always knew,” she announced. “Look at her expression. She knew all along.”

“Knew what?”

“That it was always going to work out. That she was always going to lock this down.”

“Lock what down?”

Lux tried to set the picture frame exactly where she’d left it but couldn’t quite recall. She pushed Jules away from her, annoyed, and tried a different a different route. “Do you think he really loves her?”            

“Reuben?”      

 “No, Zach – Jake – Shawn – whatshisname. In the basement.”

She felt Jules descend into sulky silence, that his magpie-plan of breaking and entering was not rendering hilarious fruit. She heard the bedsprings creak and two little claps as his sandals hit the floor.

“We make fun of her,” Lux insisted. “But she’s got the husband who loves her, and four full-timers cycling in and out of this beautiful house with a beautiful tree and green grass underneath and now this new kid. He wrote her a poem. She can inspire people to do things like that.”

Jules huffed.

Lux prodded: “Remember her interview in the Reader a few Prides ago? She said she owes it all to her Unapologetic Femininity. A successful woman constantly births this psychic potential in observing bodies.”

 “He wrote a shitty villanelle and climbed into a gimp bag in front of twenty-three perverts, so Ava’ll suffocate him with her titties for three years. That’s psychic potential?”

 “And what about Carmen, and Robin, and Deanna, and Evangeline?”

“What about Analise Petro? She split from the coven pretty fucking publicly.”

“Years ago. And she was immature. You and her were the same age.” At that time, Lux hadn’t made the decision if Jules, then a furious little boy-twink, would be nemesis or pal. She’d half-believed Jules poisoned Analise against Ava on purpose.

Jules, blissfully not thirty, ignored her. “Evey is my age,” he claimed.

“Carmen is thirty-six.” Lux, thirty-two, fretted, twisted her fingers. “Think of the responsibility. It’s all in her hands and she just…molds it.”

“Because of her essential femininity? You’re out of your mind.”

Downstairs, the sliding glass door to the backyard rattled. A few hoots of laughter drifted ghostly through the walls. Then the doors rattled twice, and silence seethed.

           “They change until they stay the same,” Jules said, too self-assured for someone sylphing on a strange bedspread with dirty feet. “And they’ll stay until they go away. Right about when Ava stops making them feel safe.”

“With –?”

“With her social nets and her two-story house and her dual income,” Jules said, sitting upright.  He was all the sudden blank-faced, voice poisonous, and she wondered automatically if his mother had been calling him late in the night. “With her sex gear she commissions from me. With the soothing atmosphere that Carmen interior designs, that Robin cleans, and the fucking homemade meals with the kitchen aide that only Deanna knows how to use. And you want me to think she’s this red-hot all-natural Madonna? You know better.”

Jules was rumpled beyond repair. He wore a tank top she’d gifted for his 27th birthday. It had ITALIAN FILLY printed on the front, and already the letters were starting to peel. He glared. Lux questioned the sincerity of his anger, if he only played it up because he noticed she was too sad to dig up anger herself, anger she felt all the time when she was perfectly alone, but she decided she was too pleased being noticed at all. Maybe in half an hour, she’d be happy enough to preen.

She got up and went to him on the bed and he sat up like a human being so she could clap his face in her hands. But he wasn’t done yet.

“She’s only a woman because she’s surrounded by one hundred sycophants who let her be one,” he sneered, and she felt the little muscles in his jaw. “Sisterhood is powerful!”

She slapped him on the mouth, but only a little bit. “What does that make me?” She asked, houseless, sycophant-less, suspicious her only sisters were biological.

“A woman who doesn’t need her yeast infections to remind her that she’s a woman.” He squirmed in her grip, for her enjoyment only, and his face reddened where it usually got red, close to the ears before it began to band his big nose. It was almost enough to make her forget she was only attracted to him when he was worn down to a nub of exhaustion. Usually, he was belly-up on the floor, with one arm thrown over his eyes, and one of his wrists in his carpal tunnel brace. Something about that brace lit her ass on fire. It made her want to pull down the blinds and eat him alive through his armpit. “Are we going to do something horrible to this bedspread or what?”

“Close your eyes.��� He had an insane habit of kissing with his eyes open, and even she, the honorable first girl who’d ever fucked him, hadn’t trained him out of it. “Close your eyes,” he countered, and pulled the zipper on the back of her skirt so he could pull out her turtleneck out of her waist. It jammed. They struggled.

“Suck it in,” he ordered thoughtlessly, and the second she pulled in a deep breath she every inch of him sprang, alert, into a frenzy she couldn’t understand. He caught her around the waist and rolled them both off the bed and into the space between the wall and the gap where the bedclothes hung. She was just about to shriek at him when she heard bare feet pat-pat outside the bedroom door. Jules swept her under the bed (you could stack three bodies on top of each other, under there) and followed her himself just as the door opened.

Lux curled into a little ball. Jules elected to lay flat like a tapeworm.

A woman’s voice cooed. Lux waited. Doom squeezed her heart. But the voice wasn’t Ava’s.

“Sugar-pants, sugar-pants,” the voice caroled sweetly.

Then she saw the bare feet tip-tapping over the carpet, and she clocked the voice as Evangeline’s. She had freed the cat from the bathroom, and presumably held it in her arms, sweet-talking it. Lux dared to roll over to face Jules. He pinched his nose shut against a sneeze.

“I know baby, fluffy-baby,” Evey said. The desk chair scraped when she settled down into it. “You don’t like it in there. I know. I know. No huggle-wuggles for baby in there. You’re claustrophobic. So am I! Ugh!”

Evey gagged. She sobbed wretchedly for five whole minutes (Lux counted). The cat’s purr reached torrential volumes of pleasure. Near the end she reached for Jules’s hand, and they lay, foreheads together, too shy to look each other in the eye as Evey opened a drawer somewhere for tissues and was paralyzed by an attack of hiccups. Lux had to put all her muscle into not echoing her in sympathy.

Evey muttered to herself. “I’m claustrophobic, so I can’t let Her put me in the bag. If I can’t go in the bag, then I don’t get a poem.”

Click. Tap. Click. The drawer shutting. The lights of the makeup mirror turning off.

“I don’t get a poem,” Evey asserted. “I don’t get a poem.” And lower – “I’m not allowed to have a poem. I can’t have a poem. Or a tattoo.”

The cat gurgled.

Evey fled, down the hall, where a door slammed. Then, as if to fix the breach of discipline, the door opened again, and was closed so quietly Lux wasn’t sure it was closed at all.

She and Jules waited, then parted and unearthed themselves on either side of the bed. Jules zipped her skirt and together they patted down the bedspread. He had the faraway look in his eye he usually had when he was thinking about pattern-drafting and Lux replayed in her brain Evey’s Ugh! She wondered if one of her clients had ever gone home, away from her, looked in their bathroom mirror, stuck out their tongue and gone Ugh!

“Come on,” Jules said. The cat, abandoned again, eyed him from the desk chair. “Let’s go down and pay our respects to King Tut.”

And to the cat: “What the fuck are you looking at?”

If he’d acted smug at having his cynicism proven, she might have hit him for real. She’d hit him for real – which in their shared experience, meant purely out of anger – twice. The first time he’d deserved it. The second time he punished her, said she hit like a nelly fag and blocked her phone number for a month. Then he reemerged as swiftly as he’d removed himself, but pointedly, with an uncharacteristically physically proximate boyfriend who lasted exactly three months. She considered that his way of informing her she had been on probation.

“I’m lonely,” she said, because that was the problem.

“I’m literally right here, idiot.”

But when they reached the staircase the noise of the swelling party in the kitchen reached their ears. They decided to go down separately, for the sake of modesty, and Jules went first. He kissed her ear, conciliatory, and she watched the high yoke of his shoulders descend until she was alone again.

Who needed it, she thought, the fifteen-dollar candles and the floors constructed so they do not have to be waxed, the fleet of morose women and the sexless men? Years ago, she’d walked into Jules’s squalid, long-gone basement apartment with a frayed leather harness and been shocked at the sight of the missing Analise Petro sleeping on his futon. Split by her own precarious position in Ava’s club at the time, she’d whipped out her phone, as if to rat them both out then and there. Jules never even looked up from the dress form he was taping.

He asked: What do you give a cunt to convince her a community matter is a private matter?

He clipped off the tape with scissors longer than his hand.

A house!

Lux wanted a house. She wanted to jam her hooks into a hunk with big delts, and huge tits, and chain him up under the bed, somebody the opposite of Jules in every way, and she wanted to bake a successful quiche and she wanted, most of all, her and her sisters’ beloved childhood mutt Chessie, who had leapt off the family pontoon one 4th of July weekend on Indian Lake to his idiot death, to be revived and come trotting up the staircase and into her arms, panting with joy, not because he had been resurrected, but because he loved her best of all.

[random-thought-depository]

The Star Trek TOS episode Space Seed was on TV Saturday; the episode with Khan (the genetically engineered “superman” Khan, not the guy who built Data Khan).

And a thought occurred to me. So, in the episode they comment on how Khan has “magnetism” and he’s portrayed as charismatic and seductive (both in the sexual/romantic sense and in the more general sense). Personally I didn’t really see the appeal, he seemed like basically just an unpleasant violent narcissist to me, but then I guess some people are into that; I guess he might appeal to the sort of person who really likes Donald Trump.

But I had a thought... OK, Khan is supposed to be a genetically engineered “superman,” created to be superior to ordinary humans; stronger, smarter, etc.. And a lot of physical attractiveness is features that indicate health and genetic fitness. So maybe Khan would look unnaturally handsome. Like, maybe he has super-symmetrical facial features and absolutely perfect skin and teeth and he moves with the speed and grace of a natural Olympic-level athlete and Julliard-level dancer and so on. He doesn’t look that way to me, but we can apply the logic fans have applied to Klingon foreheads and the rubber suit Gorn in TOS and assume what we see on the screen is an imperfect reflection of what Khan “really” looks like. Maybe a lot of Khan’s charisma is just halo effect from him being unnaturally handsome! He has such a big ego and is so proud of his own cleverness and “natural leader” personality traits, I think it’d be funny if a lot of his charisma is really something stupid like that and he’s smart and observant enough to realize it and deep down it bothers him a little!

Mmm, concept:

It does bother him. He uses it, of course. Charisma is a powerful tool and weapon; to refuse to use it out of petty pride would be foolish. And he really is charismatic in the ways he’s proud of being. He really is smart enough to figure out what makes people tick and use that knowledge to manipulate them. He really does have the drive, ambition, vision, and aggression of a natural conqueror, and people sense that and respond to it. He really does impress people with his intelligence and strength. It’s hard to untangle all this from the boost his charisma gets from his unnatural beauty, and to try is at best a matter of blue sky curiosity, at worst indulging one of his few gnawing goblins of self-doubt. Khan is smart enough to know what his charisma is, and pragmatic enough to use it to its full potential.

Still, deep down it bothers him to think that some of his charisma is something that stupid; to think that a difference of a few millimeters of bone and tissue here and there might have made him less successful. Khan relishes bending people to his will with his mind; knowing that something as stupid as “deep down that person wants to please me because I’m beautiful and it feels good to be liked by a beautiful person” is part of the “recipe” taints his triumph, makes him doubt himself. It’s one of the few sources of self-doubt Khan has.

Not everyone responds to Khan’s unnatural handsomeness the same way. A significant minority are actively repulsed by it; they find him too handsome, too perfect; they find it uncanny valley-ish, creepy. And some people just don’t seem to notice physical attractiveness much, or just don’t seem moved by it. And sometimes people are uncomfortable with the feelings Khan’s unnatural handsomeness creates in them and this makes them hostile to him; that happens especially often with men. Khan relishes dealing with people who don’t respond positively to his beauty, manipulating them, bending their minds and hearts to his will. With them he knows it’s a true match of wits and personality; with them his victory is pure.

On a certain level, deep down, Khan envies people like Adolf Hitler, who were charismatic but physically unattractive. They could be secure in the knowledge that their power came from the strength of their minds. When he was younger he once half-seriously considered mutilating his face or getting plastic surgery to make himself uglier, just to make manipulating people more of a challenge, but that was a foolish idea, and he no longer entertains it with any seriousness.

His fellow “superiors” have the same unnatural beauty, and he sometimes wonders if they have the same feelings about it. He’s discussed the matter with a few who he’s closest to, but it’s not something he talks about much.

He tells himself that people responding to his beauty are just responding to his natural fitness to lead in a roundabout way. He asks himself rhetorically why people desire to please and serve beautiful people, and he answers his own question thus: partly because beauty is correlated with health and genetic fitness, and therefore with intelligence and sanity! This leadership-selection strategy is not conscious, but natural selection has carved it into human behavior at the genetic level. This makes him feel a little better, but still... He knows well how sloppy such intuitive heuristics are, and the idea of owing some of his success to something so loosely connected to the strength of his mind bothers him a little. It bothers him, mildly and secretly but persistently, like a cigarette burn under his shirt.

Sometimes Khan wonders if some beautiful women, Marilyn Monroe for example, felt something like the way he feels. To consider this thought gives him a strange feeling; it makes him feel an empathy based on shared suffering of a sort, and he’s not used to empathizing with normal humans that way.

Khan is good at empathizing with people in the sense of cognitive empathy, of knowing how they think, of course. It’s an important part of his charisma; to manipulate people it really helps to understand them. Some conversation with a normal and observation of them and he can often predict their reactions better than they can. But the sort of empathy that comes from shared suffering ... he’s not used to feeling that toward normals. He’s really not used to feeling it toward anybody, because he’s experienced very little suffering. There was the suffering of defeat at the end of the Eugenics Wars, of course, and ... that was about it. He grew up pampered and privileged, surrounded by his creators, who treated him like a prince and told him he was special, better than most people, the next step in human evolution. He had tremendous power and privilege for most of his life. His perfect body has only ever known two kinds of pain, injury-pain (rarely) and exhaustion-pain (mostly only mildly); he has never felt a headache or a back-ache or anything like that, he has never been sick. Even the suffering of defeat was mostly an abstract intellectual and emotional pain; only at the very end was he in any sort of direct physical danger. He has been in battle, he fought hand-to-hand during the coup that first brought him to power and during the chaotic last days before he fled from Earth, he has directly killed people in combat ... but that was more exhilarating and fun to him than anything else; his creators gave him the temperament of a brave warrior.

Once, early in his rise to power, Khan tortured a prisoner by burning them with a lit cigarette. How the weak little thing squirmed and squealed! Afterwards, he tried burning his own arm with a lit cigarette, just to see what it felt like. The pain didn’t seem so bad to him, but then his creators made him resilient enough that he doesn’t need to coddle every little injury, and they adjusted his nervous system suitably, gave him a high pain threshold.

Sometimes Khan does experience a pang of sad visceral empathy toward the unfortunate. He imagines what it would be like to be one of the wretched of the Earth: poor, slow, stupid, weak, sickly, ugly, awkward, wracked by physical and emotional pain, tormented by hunger, thirst, heat, cold, chronic pain, sadness, anxiety, fear, loneliness, impotent anger, shame, sexual frustration, battered about like a leaf in a storm by forces they can’t understand and can’t effect, used and tricked and abused by people smarter or stronger or just higher-status. That ... that must be awful. In his own arrogant, condescending way he really does want to help the normals. He really does want to fill full the mouth of famine, and bid the sickness cease. He intended to make the world orderly and peaceful, and to make sure everyone had the food, shelter, clothing, medicine, etc. they needed and lived in what he considered reasonable comfort and dignity. He created as close an approximation as he could of those conditions within the domains he controlled. They say he was the best of the tyrants.

He’s a convinced elitist, but it would only have been temporary. If he’d won, within a few generations everyone would have been a superior, like him. With time the process that created him could have been made cheaper, made available to everyone who wanted to make a child; if he’d won he’d have made that a great civilizational project, as important as the fusion reactors he saw providing endless cheap energy by burning the deuterium of the oceans and the great vaccination and infrastructure-building campaigns he intended to launch in Africa and Asia and Latin America and the asteroid mining and the... No more need for an elite of superiors when everyone is a superior. And no more arthritis, or depression, or ... so many bad things would have disappeared into the history books when the last generation of normals expired peacefully of old age (joining war and poverty, which he intended to banish into the past much sooner). And in the mean time he’d have seen to it that the last generations of normals lived in as much comfort and dignity as their flawed bodies and limited minds permitted.

And that would have only been the beginning! He looked forward beyond that, to future generations that would be as far beyond him as he was beyond the normals - further! He looked forward to a future of - who knew, immortals seemed like the next obvious step. And after that perhaps god-like immortal minds freed from the limitations of flesh, building for themselves vast magnificent new bodies of silicon and steel in which they would outlive the stars. He probably wouldn’t have seen it, as perfect as his body is it still ages. He wouldn’t even have outlived the last normals. Like Moses, he would have led his people to the border of the promised land but died outside its gates, it would have been to his successor or his successor’s successor to lead them through into the land of milk and honey and dwell there with them. But, perhaps, huddled around one of the last black holes at the end of the time, sipping Hawking radiation to power slow thoughts that took a thousand years to think, there would have been beings that remembered him, that saw his face and touched his hand in the staggeringly distant era when they were still human and had chosen to keep the memory of that as the stars burned out and all through the long bright joyous festival in the cold of the ultimate night. That concept pleased him.

It was not to be. Well, he doesn’t blame the normals too much for rejecting him. The way he figures it, most of them just weren’t smart enough to understand what he was offering, and getting angry at them for that is like getting angry at a non-verbal autistic for being unable to speak.

Once, when he was a child, he was walking alone through the expansive beautiful pleasant garden of his creators’ compound, in the pleasant cool of evening after a hot Indian day, and he found a bird with an injured wing. He supposes Dr. Hibbert’s cat must have mauled it and then gotten distracted by something and wandered off. One of its wings was bloody and wounded and broken and twisted, dragged against the ground as it walked. When he walked toward it, it walked away from him as fast as its little legs could carry it, and then it tried pathetically to fly, flapping its wings furiously and impotently. The sight of it filled him with a queasy mix of revulsion and pity. His first impulse was to run away from it, and his second impulse was to seize a stone and put it out of its misery, but his third impulse, the one he chose to obey, was to capture it and try to fix its wing and tend to it and feed it until it healed. It tried to escape from him as he tried to capture it, and it struggled furiously as he seized and held it, beating its wings furiously and scratching at the air and his hand with its claws. The panicked, vital thing in his hands revolted him, and its claws scratched his fingers and drew blood, but he forced himself to be as gentle with it as he could, to bring it inside and clean and apply antibiotic to its wound and reset and bandage its wing as it tried to escape his grip. He knew it was only natural that it would fight him and try to escape from him; it couldn’t understand that he was trying to help it; its brain couldn’t be much bigger than a peanut, far too small to contain the knowledge of what he was trying to do for it, too small to contain anything but that which was immediately relevant to its wretched and limited life, the search for food and the avoidance of and flight from predators and the building and tending of a nest and mating and laying and tending of eggs and tending of any young that might hatch from them. If it thought at all about what was happening to it, it probably thought he was trying to eat it, or more likely its struggles were simply instinctive, and the process of setting the wing and cleaning and bandaging the wound must have caused it pain. He set its wing and cleaned and bandaged its wound despite its efforts to escape him, and then he put it in a cage Dr. Pretorius gave him and he fed and tended it until its wing was healed, and then he took it into the garden and let it fly away, to continue its wretched and limited and meaningless life in the wild. Perhaps it lived to its kind’s version of old age (perhaps 15 years, he looked it up, and he has an almost eidetic memory) and knew a few moments of something like joy now and then, or perhaps it was eaten by a cat the next day.

When he thinks of the defeat that forced him to flee from Earth, deep into the dark, he thinks of that bird scratching his fingers as he tried to help it.

They say he was the best of the tyrants.

He killed more people than Hitler and Stalin.

------

Note: this is a model for, like, approximately Space Seed period Khan; Wrath of Khan period Khan has known real suffering intimately and would be a lot more bitter. Negative character development lol. Especially as the whole “we couldn’t tell two completely different planets apart” thing in Wrath of Khan is so absurd that I kind of headcanon that would actually happened is that Khan wanted revenge for his wife’s death, decided he’d rather be the ruler of a populous world than the leader of a 72 person village, tried to MacGyver up a small starship to reach a civilized world, ended up crashing on the much less habitable next planet out in that solar system, and in true Hitler/Trump-like fashion blamed somebody else (Kirk) for the consequences of his own overreach and disastrous failure.

[fjesusbbbwc2021]

the bed throughout art history & its symbology

BED = someone’s personal space and their retreat from the world, the gateway for sleep and dreams, privacy, security, a place of connection. It also has voyeuristic undertones.

“Site of slumber, sex, and sickness, the bed occupies a significant corner of our lives.  As a household object it is uniquely loaded — a divided destination of dreaming, devotion, death and despair, so much of existence takes place there. It is no wonder then that this humble piece of furniture has been a popular subject for artists, ranging from traditional depictions of the bed as a place of sleep and restfulness to more experimental and conceptual representations of it as an arena of political intent, or as a charged object of desire.” - Sleek Mag.

“The bed has been the subject of multiple explorations in art, representing an ambiguous realm between something personal, intimate, and yet common to all. Most often associated with passion, throughout history the bed has also been linked to childhood, death, disease and other more unseemly acts.” - HENI Talks

                                          Throughout Art History: 

Master of the Divisio Apostolorum, The Nativity of the Virgin, around 1490/95

A Pompeiian fresco that was used to advertise a brothel; a photograph showing a couple in flagrante while clutching a laptop and a mobile phone: the works in a new exhibition in Vienna span centuries and cultures. Yet they all feature one object. [Sleepless: The bed in history and contemporary art](http://www.21erhaus.at/en/ausstellungen/ausstellungsvorschau/schlaflos---das-bett-in-geschichte-und-gegenwartskunst-e181951) offers a glimpse of what goes on between the sheets in paintings, sculptures and film. (Credit: Belvedere, Vienna)

Johann Baptist Reiter, Slumbering Woman, 1849

The exhibition focuses on a piece of furniture with heavy associations. “The bed is one of the most important objects in everyone’s life and the most reproduced object in art history,” says curator Mario Codognato. “It’s where people are born, are conceived, where they go when they’re ill, where – unless they have a violent death – most will be when they die. Some of most crucial moments in life happen in the bed. For that reason, artists have used it throughout history – in diverse ways.” (Credit: Belvedere, Vienna)

Gustav Klimt, Old Man on Death Bed, 1899

“In the past, important people were often shown surrounded by a lot of people on their deathbed –those who were less grand died alone,” says Codognato. He points to the 19th-Century tradition of painting the deceased just before burial. “This ‘final portrait’ – death mask, painting or drawing – was intended to remain within the close circle of family or friends yet, in the case of celebrities, could be circulated extensively and publicly.” It remained in fashion with the advent of photography – “it was the last possible way to remember what they looked like,” says Codognato, offering [Man Ray´s 1922 photo portrait of Marcel Proust](http://www.getty.edu/art/collection/objects/46827/man-ray-marcel-proust-on-his-deathbed-american-november-20-1922/) as an example. Yet “today, when we document every moment of our lives in photography, it’s unlikely that we would photograph one of our relatives on their deathbed – we prefer to remember them alive and in much happier situations.” (Credit: Belvedere, Vienna)

Pierre Bonnard, Nude Lying on a White and Blue Checked Background, around 1909

“A solitary figure painted or photographed on a bed, independently of the mise en scene in which he or she is depicted, triggers in the onlooker a chain reaction of interpretations… which inevitably end up reflecting our desires and experiences,” says Codognato. “The female nudes by Johann Baptist Reiter, Courbet, Bonnard and Lucian Freud are freed from any flimsy anecdotal constraint, as in the pictorial tradition of the past, and appear in instantaneous and sensual intimacy, without revealing explicitly whether we are dealing with a wakening from sleep or a pause in sexual activity.” (Credit: U Edelmann/Städel Museum/Artothek/Bildrecht, Vienna, 2015

John Lennon & Yoko Ono, Bed-ins For Peace, 1969

In 1969, at the height of the Vietnam War, Lennon and Ono held two week-long peaceful protests from the comfort of their hotel beds in Amsterdam and Montreal. Derived from the “sit-in” as a form of peaceful protest, they invited the world press to witness their quiet demonstration. While not necessarily an art performance, the

Bed-Ins

instigate vital questions associated with the medium — what’s public and what’s private, and what constitutes a protest — hinged on a piece of furniture steeped in multifaceted meaning.

Jürgen Teller, Young Pink Kate, London, 1998

According to Codognato, “A between-the-sheets portrait of Marilyn Monroe or her contemporary equivalent, Kate Moss… spark the imagination and voyeurism of the public yet at the same time makes them more human, closer to the public who ultimately also use the bed for resting and making love.” (Credit: Jürgen Teller and Christine König Galerie)

Maria Lassnig, Hospital, 2005

According to Codognato, “The bed is also the place of illness, the place around which cure and consolation, confinement and abandon take place… In sickness, the bed reveals its ambivalent nature, its potential for being a safe refuge or a place filled with danger.” Here, the Austrian painter Maria Lassnig – who won the Golden Lion for lifetime achievement at the 2013 Venice Biennale – casts her typically unflinching gaze on an uncomfortable subject. “Lassnig conveys the sense of despair and lack of intimacy of the exposure of the hospital bed.” (Credit: Hauser & Wirth)

Mona Hatoum, Dormiente, 2008

“The bed in prison has a political meaning,” says Codognato. “Cells are made up of beds; they are also the place where the lethal injection is performed.” Mona Hatoum has added to the idea of the readymade with her piece. “She has created an enlarged cheesegrater with the same dimensions as a bed, bringing the idea of torture to an object associated with rest and love. [Its] sinister blades and teeth… keep the onlooker alert and aware of ceaseless pain.” (Credit: Galleria Continua/Bildrecht, Vienna; Photo: Ela Bialkowska)

images and text taken from BBC Culture (link), and Sleek Mag (link)

HENI Talks - The Bed in Art: From Titian to Emin

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What all of these artworks have in common is that they all feel personal, and confessional.