#letters to bear

[toalloftheboysivelovedbefore]

Dancing Queen

R.A.R.,

I couldn't have you. But I had the words.

Dancing Queen

            “You locked me out of my own car!” I shouted, anger and incredulity getting the best of my emotions and tainting the calm demeanor that I worked with such diligence to maintain.

            The girl who had locked the door sat in the backseat of my truck with a smug, self-satisfied smile plastered across her face. She had done her job and done it well. She knew it, and between the gap-toothed smile and her arms crossed across her chest in defiance, I knew that she would not budge. She was stubborn. It was a trait she had inherited from her father.

            “Open the door!” I ordered through clenched teeth, trying my best to put on a show of false authority. I have never been much good at acting. “If you don’t open the door right now…” I trailed off, noticing that several people had now stopped to watch the spectacle that I was putting on. I sighed. I sounded like my mother. Shit.

            “Is everything okay, miss?” a man asked. He wore a bright orange vest that bore the logo of the grocery store we had come from less than five minutes prior.

            “Yes, thank you,” I lied, desperate to redirect the focus away from my truck. My face burned in embarrassment. I hate being the center of attention.

            “Ariel,” I tried again, this time dropping my voice as low as I could. “Ariel, please open the door,” I pleaded, my head falling against the window in defeat.

            I peeked up through the hair that fell across my face and filtered my vision. I could see her, fighting with herself on whether to listen to me. She was a well-behaved child and she knew that she needed would have to unlock the door sooner or later, but her pride and her defiance fought against her reason. “Ariel, please don’t make me call your dad.” This was a cheap shot. I was answered by the sound of a clicking lock. Success.

            I sent one last glare in the direction of the people still left watching us like we were the traveling circus and hopped in the cab of my truck, sighing in relief as I did so. The girl sitting in the backseat leaned against the window, refusing to look up and meet my eyes. I adjusted the rearview mirror that she had entertained herself with while I returned the shopping cart and put the truck into drive.

            The drive home was silent aside from the broken sound of James Taylor’s voice crackling over the speakers and a straw sliding in and out of the plastic cup from which she sipped the strawberry smoothie I had bought her earlier. I racked my brain trying to think of something—anything I could say to her, desperate to break the silence that threatened to suffocate me. Instead, I cranked the window down a bit, letting the cool breeze fill the cab and pick up my hair, tossing it behind the headrest like a flag flapping behind my head. I focused my eyes on the road ahead and replayed the scene from the parking lot in my head.

            We had stopped at the grocery store to buy what I needed to make dinner. I hoped that I could show her how to make spaghetti sauce and that squishing ground beef to make meatballs would satisfy the seven-year-old and take her mind off the fact that it was I and not her father who had picked her up from school today.

            I asked her to help me unload the shopping cart, which she did, silent but compliant to my request. Then, I tossed my keys onto the front seat and asked her if she would be okay waiting by herself in the truck while I returned the shopping cart. That was my mistake.

            While I pushed the cart back to one of the return stations, the girl clambered over and into the driver seat, holding my keys in one hand and sliding the door’s lock into place with the other, locking me out of my own damn truck and leaving herself inside. She was right where she wanted to be—with the keys and the power. I was at her mercy.

            Maybe she wouldn’t have been so angry if it had been a different day, but it was Wednesday and Wednesday meant bagel day. It was a tradition she and her father had started a few years back. Her school released the students early on Wednesdays and so after he picked her up, they went on a date for bagels. But today, his mother called at the last minute and asked him to take her to the doctor, saying that she had no one else to do it. Ariel’s mother worked at the school and was not granted the luxury of early release on Wednesday like her daughter. This left me with the responsibility to pick her up. I agreed, but I knew it wouldn’t end well. It was Wednesday. It was bagel day. Most importantly though, I had never been alone with Ariel.

            Her parents got divorced six months ago. I had been in love with her father for over two years. I knew the only way to make it work with him, was to work it out with her. I wanted to make some connection with her. I wanted it more than anything. I saw so much of my younger self in her actions and in her personality. I saw so much of the humor that I loved about her father. I saw his mop of curly black hair on her head and the rich brown color of his eyes reflected in hers. Ariel amazed me, and I loved her for it. I just wanted her to want my love, and to want me back.

            However, I was not her mother. I was another woman, another change in her world that had been turned upside down. Moreover, I was younger than her parents. If we stretched it, I was young enough to be her older sister. There was no way she would ever see me as a mother, but I prayed each and every night that maybe one day, she could see me as her friend.

            Today, though, was not that day. Today she was angry that it was I who had picked her up and not her father. She was angry that it was I and not her mother who was sleeping in the same bed as her father. She was angry at the world and as a child of divorced parents, I understood her anger.

            I pulled into the driveway of the small rental house her father and I shared and I glanced in the rearview mirror, hoping to see that her mood had lightened on the way home. She was in the same position, her forehead pressed against the tinted glass and her curls framing her face. Sometimes she reminded me so much of her father that it amazed me. She helped me to gather the few grocery bags and followed me to the door, picking up my keys for me when I dropped them on the steps.        

            Once inside, we headed to the kitchen and set the grocery bags on the counter. The rustling of the plastic was followed by the thud of her backpack on top of the dining table. She sat down in a chair and I felt the weight of her eyes following my movements around the kitchen. I knew that the first time I was alone with her would be difficult—awkward even—but this, this was hellish. I pulled tomato sauce and a box of spaghetti from one of the bags, dropping the empty bag at my feet. After three bags had been dropped and settled on the ground, crunching and crinkling when I shifted, Ariel spoke. “Why do you do that?”

            I looked up, equally surprised and thankful to hear her voice. “Do what?”

            “Drop the bags when you’re finished with them. You’re just making a bigger mess.”

            I smiled. “Yeah, I know, but it’s habit. When my sister and I were little and would go grocery shopping with my mom, we kinda sucked at helping her with the unloading part,” I paused, catching my mouth. Her mother preferred that she not used the word ‘sucked.’ “We were not so great at the unloading,” I corrected myself, “but my mom still wanted for us to have a job, so she would drop the bags and it was our job to pick them up and put them away. It’s just something I picked up on and I still do, though I agree, I am just making a mess.”

            Ariel nodded, processing what I said. “I’m going to do homework,” she announced, choosing not to respond to my story and sliding off of the chair she sat on.

            I watched her disappear down the hall to her room, my heart sinking a little bit. I thought I had a chance for a break through with her. I started chopping garlic for the spaghetti sauce, my hand following the repetitive and familiar motion. I lost all awareness of everything else, my mind blocking out the day and focusing on chopping. Up. Down. Chop, chop, chop. When the front door shut with a bang, my hand slipped and instead of slicing through the garlic, it sliced the skin across the knuckle of my index finger.

            “Oh fuck,” I muttered, dropping the knife and rushing to the sink to rinse my bleeding finger under a stream of cool water. The warm breath of someone behind me made my hair stand and a scratchy cheek tickled my neck. The beard was followed by a trail of gentle kisses. I sank into the body behind me and sighed.

            “How did you manage that?” he asked, pausing his kisses for a moment to take my hand in his and study the slowing stream of blood.

            “You startled me when you came in,” I explained, pulling my hand away and holding pressure on my finger. “I’m glad you’re home.”

            “How did it go?”

            I shrugged. “About as well as I expected it to be. She got a smoothie—strawberry.”

            His large hands wrapped around my sides and crossed in front of my waist, pulling my body closer to his. “Where is she?”

            “Her room,” I answered, gesturing with a nod of my head in the general direction of the hallway. He nodded and kissed me one last time before pulling away and leaving me to finish the sauce, my throbbing finger wrapped in a paper towel.

It took another three weeks after the grocery store incident before I made any progress with Ariel.

            It was a Saturday evening and we were watching a movie. Ariel and her father were curled up on the couch with me sitting a ways away, giving them their space but resting my toes against his thigh. It was comfortable so long as I kept my space. In the middle of the movie, her mother called. It all happened so quickly. The movie became mere background noise against him trying to explain to Ariel that she was staying with us for a while while her mother went back to see her dying grandmother. Then the singing Disney characters were drowned out by yelling and crying. I stood, trying to place myself between Ariel and her father and calm them both down. That only angered her more. Then, she let out a frustrated cry and raced to her room, slamming the door shut behind her.

            I tried to place my hand on her father’s arm, unsure of how I should respond. “What the hell am I supposed to do?” he yelled, turning to face me and yanking his arm away. “What the hell?” he repeated, quieter this time, throwing his phone on the couch and stomping away to our room. I sat back down and let my head fall into my hands in defeat. I was the outsider here and there was not much I could do to be helpful. I clicked the remote and the tv screen turned black, leaving me staring at my reflection hoping she could provide some stroke of insight but only my tousled hair and tired eyes stared back.

            What could I do? What was I supposed to do? He wouldn’t want to talk, that much I knew. She was probably the same. I understood. I don’t talk when I’m upset either. I cope in other ways. Then, I had an idea.

            I stood, encouraged by a new wave of determination and marched my way to Ariel’s room. I knocked and when I didn’t hear a response, I cracked the door and put my mouth to the crack. “Is it safe to come in?” No response. I peeked the rest of my head in and surveyed the scene. Ariel was curled up on her bed, reading a book of abridged Sherlock Holmes stories that I had bought her. “Ariel?”

            “Go away.”

            Yep. I expected that. “I’m afraid I can’t do that,” I replied, emerging into the room and focusing my eyes on the mural of the Death Star that I had painted for her. “You see,” I continued, “I’m a nurse. It’s my job to fix people.”

            “I don’t need fixing,” she argued.

            I sat down on the bed next to her feet. “No, you don’t. But I still want to cheer you up. You know what my sister and I do when we are upset?” No response, so I kept talking. “When we are upset, we dance it out until we feel better.”

            Ariel peaked up over her book.

            “You can’t be upset and dance at the same time,” I shrugged. “It’s a proven fact,” I trailed off, measuring her expression. “So, I am going to put on music and we are going to dance it out until we are laughing, deal?” Ariel stared me down, unconvinced. “Please, Ariel. All I am asking is for you to dance with me.” She didn’t answer but she set down the book, so I took that as my cue.

            I pressed play on my phone and turned the volume to the maximum, pulling Ariel to her feet to stand in front of me. The beginning notes of “Stayin’ Alive” filled the room and I began to sway my hips back and forth in large, dramatic movements, holding her hands in mine and pulling her with me. I bobbed my head left and right to the beat of the music and when the lyrics began, I sang along with them—I sang in a loud voice that was far from in tune with the Bee Gees. I was loud. I was obnoxious. But it didn’t matter because I was making her smile. “Well you can tell by the way I use my walk I’m a woman’s man, no time to talk!” My singing was more yelling than anything and it filled her small room.

            I pulled away to do an exaggerated version of the disco finger to the chorus of the song, thrusting my finger into the air and then back down at the carpet with each electronic beat. Then, I heard it. The most beautiful sound filled the air. Ariel was laughing. She began mirroring my movements as I taught her to dance (badly but dance nonetheless) like a 70’s Disco kid.

            A sliding piano began the next song and my face lit up. “You can dance, you can dance, having the time of your life!” I yelled, off cue and not caring. Ariel bounced with me, jumping up and down to ABBA and laughing at our ludicrous actions. “When you get the chance…you are the dancing queen! Young and sweet, only seventeen!” She soon caught on to the chorus and her voice joined mine as we spun in circles, entranced by the music and throwing our bodies around in the most ridiculous manner. “Dancing queen, feel the beat from the tambourine, oh yeah!”

            I pulled away from Ariel for a moment to catch my breath and watch her twirl. Something caught my eye. Standing in the doorway, her father leaned against the frame, his arms crossed across his chest and a smile unlike any other stretched across his often-serious face. I smiled back, breathless and pleased to my very core at the seven-year-old twirling in circles, black hair flying behind her and her father, the man I loved, watching us from the doorway. My eyes met his and a contented sigh escaped my lips. It was a start. This was our beginning, and it was beautiful. 

[bajoop-sheeb]

Meditation by Yoong Bae

[morningsaidthemoon]

Excerpt from The Song of Roland, translated by Norma Lorre Goodrich (Medieval Myths)

[drrav3nb]

MARCUS & LUCA | THE BEAR SEASON TWO

[cantsayidont]

In an undated letter written in the late 1950s, reproduced in THE LETTERS OF JRR TOLKIEN, Tolkien alludes to the legal difficulties Sam faced after returning from the Grey Havens at the end of LORD OF THE RINGS:

When Master Samwise reported the ‘departure over Sea’ of Bilbo (and Frodo) in 1421, it was still held impossible to presume death; and when Master Samwise became Mayor in 1427, a rule was made that: ‘if any inhabitant of the Shire shall pass over Sea in the presence of a reliable witness, with the expressed intention not to return, or in circumstances plainly implying such an intention, he or she shall be deemed to have relinquished all titles rights or properties previously held or occupied, and the heir or heirs thereof shall forthwith enter into possession of these titles, rights, or properties, as is directed by established custom, or by the will and disposition of the departed, as the case may require.’

You can see how the residents of Hobbiton might have seen Sam's return as the premise of a kind of Agatha Christie mystery plot: favorite servant of eccentric middle-aged local resident departs on an unexpected journey with his master; returns home alone two weeks later; and then conveniently produces a copy of said eccentric local resident's new will, naming the servant the heir to all his property — and the only account the servant can offer of his master's whereabouts is a preposterous story about Elves. Suspicious! Very suspicious indeed!

[webdiggerxxx]

꧁★꧂

[balancethescales]

thinking about the specific moments where the berzatto family falls in love with sydney (because of course they do, everyone does).

for richie, it takes the end of the beef and right up till the opening of the bear to happen. he is full of contempt and grief when he meets her and all he knows is that when he looks at her face he is afraid. he doesn’t like that feeling. richie is not a man who finds himself fearful a lot, but she is everything he is not and nothing that he is and he hates himself for it. if she is what it means to be passionate, then what is he? is he nothing but an empty shell of mikey, stuck on earth to shake his fist at passing clouds, because how dare they move and continue on like mikey was nothing to them, as if he wasn’t the very point that the earth revolved around? everyone is leaving him behind, and she is proudly leading the pack. it’s not right. but then— he gets it. he talks to garrett and jess and chef terry and he sees sydney in every corner of that restaurant. the fear slowly is replaced with respect as the week goes on and he realizes that just because she’s good doesn’t mean she’s out to get him. that’s the berzatto upbringing in him doing the talking, but it doesn’t have to, because shes a berzatto now, maybe not officially (not yet, but mark his words, she will be) but she is, and that’s not how she does things. so, he lets her lead them into the future to something good and different and better.

for sugar, it’s instant. she was born to a mother who is triggered by her very existence, and it has hurt her all her life. she is full of love and the one person she wants to give it to the most doesn’t want any part of it. she was born to give but is surrounded by those who are afraid to even take it, to reach out their hand and meet her in the middle. and if they cant take then they themselves have nothing to give, so she gets used to being the one who has to force feed her love down their throats, because if no one does, if no one shows them that they are worthy of good things, then they will crumble (“if i just talked to him more—” “no, nat—” “if i had just—” “it’s not your fault, honey. it’s never been.”). but when she meets sydney, it’s like looking into a mirror. she sees her bright eyes and soft smiles and careful but strong hands and instantly recognizes her for what she is: a giver. and sugars heart swells with even more love than she thought possible, because finally, she’s not alone— there is someone else there to slowly, albeit subconsciously, take care of her crumbling family, to show them that despite what their mother may have taught them, its okay to not be okay (she tries her best not to cry when syd asks her if shes okay, but she does. and syd doesnt grab her face or yell at her or call her stupid. she makes her a meal. and sugar cries some more).

for cicero, the love isn’t instant, and it’s not even entirely love. she is strong and she is assertive, but that also makes her naive and a very expensive risk. she makes him curious for what’s to come, intrigued by the way she doesn’t back down from carmy whose voice so often mimics the berzattos that came before him (“you’re better than this, kid.” “i don’t know what i am.” “whatever it is, it’s not this.”). she's self assured and knows her place in the establishment and is unafraid to let people know it. it’s a refreshing change of pace from mikey, who often resorted to intimidation to get his way, or carmy, who’s anxiety envelopes him and distracts him from what’s right there in front of him. but she is not them. she is focused and on track and is willing to put in the work to get what she wants. he doesn’t visit the bear often, only drops by once in a while to deliver bad news or to fulfill a favour or to just enjoy some good food, but when he does, she is always there, dedicated to ensuring that carmy and michaels, and now, her dream stays alive. she is good for his family, and he trusts her to keep the berzatto spirit alive.

for michelle, it’s quite simple. she always looked out for carmy, their little bear, so when she meets her it’s a family thanksgiving party at the bear and syd stumbles out of the kitchen, obviously frazzled and a little sweaty (“carmy, im not ready, i didn’t even change yet and the turk—” “don’t worry, tina will take care of it, you look great, they’ll love you, they just really wanted to meet you—”), but she’s smiling. she’s a little awkward when she introduces herself, and michelle finds herself endeared by her nervous ramble (“it’s, uh, really nice to meet you guys. sorry, i didn’t know that i was going to be pulled out of the kitchen so soon. uh, im sydney. yeah, i guess carmy already told you guys, huh? um. im sorry, how are you related to the family again? i mean, i dont want to offend but it’s just. uh. well, you guys are just very... normal?”) and she’ll laugh and look at stanley and the two of them will think to themselves, good job carmy, she’s a good one, before telling syd something dumb and nonsensical about a genetic mutation and richie interrupts to tell michelle it’s not a genetic mutation it’s called being boring and syd will laugh and michelle will too, truly happy that their little bear found someone normal, a breath of fresh air within the smoke of their family.

for donna, it’s weird. it’s tense. they don’t meet for a long time. they don’t meet at the bear when it first opens and not at the bear even when it has found it’s footing, but by chance. they are somewhere mundane (a grocery store, a park, or maybe just the street) and there is no other family member around when syd meets the berzatto matriarch. she only knows what donna looks like from photos at sugars house because carmys apartment is devoid of any actual sentiment (although that has begun to change since she made him get an actual dresser and he dedicated one of the drawers to her stuff). she calls out to her by her name, and donna turns around startled. she doesn’t recognize syd, of course, who introduces herself and informs her of who she is to the family. when donna smiles it’s not a real one, and syd knows this, but it doesn’t deter her. she tells donna that her kids love her (“even after everything, nat?” “she’s our mother. its all that we can do.”) and that her kids are great (“carmy, you are not broken.” “im a little broken.” “no, listen to me, the fact that you are still here, means something. its something.”) and that there will always be a table for her at the bear (“chef, someones calling in for a reso for 1 but we’re all full up… except for—“ “yo, dont finish that sentence. table 7 for ms. berzatto is an indefinite booking. is that understood?” “yes, chef”). donnas smile fades and her chest fills with anger but just as she’s about to explode in typical berzatto fashion syd interrupts her. she has faced the bear many a time before and has handled herself with grace and dignity everytime, so this is no different. she smiles brightly and thanks donna for listening to her and hopes she considers coming in, because she’d really like to cook for her. she looks like she needs a good meal. she deserves one. she turns and walks away. donnas stomach growls. that night, table 7 is occupied for the first time since the bear opened its doors.

and carmy? well, there isn’t an exact moment. its a culmination of awkward partnership (“i don’t want to be shitty.” “okay, then dont be.”) and flawless teamwork (“the menu needs—” “already on it, chef.”) and nights unwinding at the bar down the street (“of course you drink an old fashioned.” “what’s that supposed to mean?” “nothing, it’s just very… tortured-chef-from-the-slums-of-chicago of you”) and spontaneous phone calls just to hear the others voice (“why are you whispering?” “i… don’t know. my dads home. its a habit.” “you’re 27.” “and you’re white, you wouldn’t get it.”) till they’re just inseparable (“cousin, wheres carmy?” “with syd, duh.” “why'd i even ask?”). and then, sydney and carmen become something else. something tender and sweet and terrifying and beautiful all mixed together into… something. there’s no word for what they have. but it feels so right; to the guests who taste their food and recognize that the hands who put it together are full of love and care; to the staff at the bear who see the unspoken communication, the lingering touches, and their soft eyes that seem to always be on the other; to the berzatto family who notice that carmy looks a little brighter, and shakes a little less. yes, its love, but its so much more. it’s syd and carmy. it always has been, and always will be.

(“can i ask you something? something corny and lame and gross?” “always.” “when did you, like, know?” “know what?” “like, when did you know that you loved me? like, not as a chef or a friend, but as... y'know.” “that’s very middle school of you to ask.” “shut up, i did warn you.” “…” “so?” “its, uh, i don’t, i don’t know.” “well, that’s rude.” “no, i mean, i can’t say its one moment because... it was all of them. together. like, one moment you’re staging and then everything happened and, and, keeps happening but the next thing i knew you were there and you always were there and i just knew that i never wanted you to not be there.” “that’s…. really, really, disgusting, and frankly, a little unprofessional.” “oh, fuck off.” “no, like, i knew you were obsessed with me, but wow, that is a whole new other level.” “fuck you, get off of me, don’t touch me.” “no no no, please—” “i let you into my family—” “let me?” “into my restaurant—” “i think you mean OUR restaurant—” “only for you to humiliate me in my own bed? how dare you.” “…are you sulking?” “…” “…carmy?” “syd?” “me too.” “…heard, chef. now come back here.”)

(and it’s unspoken, but everyone knows that michael would’ve loved her too. i mean, she’s sydney fucking adamu, she conquered the bear. how could anyone not love her?)

[butchcarmy]

I miss season 1 of the bear.

I miss the grunginess, the messiness of the beef, with its busted appliances and claustrophobic chaos, but also so much love. I miss the slowly unraveling mystery of Michael, the tragic ghost haunting the narrative. I miss seeing a rowdy bunch of cooks becoming greater and greater at their craft, growing to respect themselves and others.

I miss season 1 carmy, the incredible premise of a most excellent fine dining chef coming back to work at the struggling family business that rejected him. Season 1 Carmy, riddled with anxiety and grief and anger issues, but also a real desire to be good. To be better, kinder. I miss seeing Carmy’s beautiful monologue for the first time, after spending the whole season trying to piece together what made him like this. Just watching him in awe.

There is nothing quite like season 1 of the bear.

[ryllen]

Look what came through the mail today! The letters & ( •̀ω•́ )σ 3 little gremlins from letterstoear.

Just wanna say i adore the flower stickers on the letters too much, they are that much worth mentioning.

[elennemigo]

Benedict Cumberbatch´s year in review ✧ 2023.

“Don’t be afraid of failure, that’s only learning, don’t be afraid of being yourself, that’s the single most unique thing you have, and keep trying.”

[peppermintmochafem]

butches who like to be little spoon

you mean good boys? Butches who get their hips held in place while I casually grind into and tell them ~ I'm not even doing anything ~ when they whine for more. Butches who get head scratches (and maybee their hair pulled). Butches who get occasionally felt up as they cuddle into me. Butches who get held softly like my teddy bear as they fall asleep. Butches who get gentle kisses across their shoulders. Butches who get sweet nothings and reassurances whispered onto their ears before bed. Those Butches <3

[toalloftheboysivelovedbefore]

R.A.R.,

You were right.

I should have gotten out when I had the chance.

I stayed.

It happened again.

I'm all gone now. Whatever was left from you, he took.

I hate that you were right.

I wish I could tell you that you were right. I don't know why.

Maybe because you could see me and you could see him.

Maybe because I am so tired of being invisible. I am so fucking desperate for someone to look at me and see me. See the hurt. See the desperation. For someone to understand and to just give me a hug. Your hug felt like home, even after everything.

I'm sorry for arguing. I'm sorry I didn't listen to you. I was never good at that.

Some good it did me.

Regretfully yours,

H.L.F.

[whereifindsanity]

[dearmouse]

Papel de Carta

[badnewswhatsleft]

okay damn drm got hands

[thepalerimitation]

Season Four spoilers leaked