#like in general Eliot is absolutely the Older Brother

[firebirdsdaughter]

I mean…

… Honestly, it works out.

Eliot is implied to not have spoken to his father since eighteen and never got to have a relationship w/ him beyond that.

Nate’s son died in early adolescence at the eldest, he never got to have a relationship w/ him beyond that.

It’s like family members rediscovering each other in adulthood.

[dandiesunzipped]

A Series of Unfortunate Debaggings, Chapter the First: The Wretched Reunion

If you are looking for happy-go-lucky Tumblr posts, dear reader, then exit out of this browser tab this instant. Then open your search engine of choice and enter “octogenarian makes friends with a hummingbird.” Or, better yet, destroy your electronic device in a fire and never open an internet browser again, sparing yourself from the cruelty and misfortunes of the world.

You see, dear reader, it is a sad truth in life that order continually diminishes. A cracked egg may never uncrack, yet clean, white eggs everywhere continue to fall off refrigerator shelves, adding to the world’s misfortune and chaos. A secret organization, however brilliant, talented, and kind its members were, may never truly heal after a devastating schism. And the corpse of a cherished loved one will never, ever unburn, no matter how grievously an author weeps over the pitiful tale. 

In the story I am about to tell, I am sorry to report on a panoply of augmenting disorganization, a phrase which here means “not what you want to read.” Orphans grow two years older, and with those years develop styles and interests ever more macabre and meterless--which is to say, one orphan does that. Mystery and intrigue each grow heavier and more complex, like how the derelicts that fill your recycling bin grow heavier and more complex with each passing day. And finally, all the young men in this tale (with the exception of one) are eventually separated from their clean-pressed trousers, left for the remainder of the tale with their scandalously mid-twentieth century underpants exposed.

This story begins like many before it: Violet, Klaus, Sunny, and Beatrice Baudelaire were charming, resourceful children, each with pleasant facial features and each with certain precocious gifts in the arts or sciences, such as memorizing and reciting passages of British Modernist poetry.

“We shall not cease from exploration,” recited Klaus, expertly steering the Beatrice onward. The outrigger bobbed in the gentle waves as it approached a safe gap in the line of ominous jagged rocks on the horizon that Violet had identified.

“And the end of all our exploring Will be to arrive where we started And know the place for the first time.”

As the four Baudelaires walked across the sand and then through the waterfall of foliage on the hill separating the halves of their island, Violet recited the next stanza:

“Through the unknown, unremembered gate,” When the last of earth left to discover Is that which was the beginning; At the source of the longest river The voice of the hidden waterfall.”

All at once, fond and wretched memories swarmed together. At last, the Baudelaires were back at the tree. The tree where their parents had lived and ruled. The tree that held secrets below the root. The tree that had saved them from a sad, painful death.

“And the children in the apple-tree” finished Sunny.

“I’ve always found T.S. Eliot opaque,” noted Klaus, “but that poem of his is clearly relevant to our situation today, don’t you think? Who would have thought we’d return to this apple tree?” 

“Before you wax too romantic,” Violet said warmly but firmly, “Don’t forget our purpose here: to collect supplies and leave this evening. If we leave too late, we may be living on this island another year thanks to the tides.”

“Yeah, I’ll be in the library” said Klaus vacantly rushing away, past the old elephant skeleton and into the open arboretum. Violet shook her head, knowing exactly what silly trinket Klaus would be fruitlessly searching for all day.

As afternoon rudely pushed into evening, desperation rudely pushed Klaus to the ground, as he kicked and tossed flotsam around near his feet. The most interesting artifact he had found today was his old concierge shirt, which he now wore to complement his sandy trousers. “I know it’s here...” he murmured to himself. “Father--what would you have done?” That’s when a new idea struck the middle Baudelaire, a bit like the moment when Violet’s hero Sir Isaac Newton was struck by his big idea.

“Last year,” he asked Violet breathlessly as they rushed past each other in the arboretum, “Did you ever look behind the book case in Ishmael’s upper room?”

“No... but remember, Klaus: no matter what, we’re leaving this wasteland tonight at the violet hour. If the tide recedes too far, the Beatrice will scrape the rocky atoll and may sink!

But Klaus was already gone. Up the stairs of the massive apple tree Klaus ran. In Ishmael’s upper chamber, bookcases had been carved into the tree itself, with centuries of histories of the island filling the space. Klaus spent several minutes finding the volume that about the first arrival of “Ish” to the island. Reaching deep into the carved space behind this volume, Klaus finally touched what he was looking for. Greedily grabbing the long, mahogany object, he blew, long and steadily, even though it was Decision Day and not Rosh Hashanah.

Satisfied, Klaus joined his family. They took Beatrice on a visit to her mother’s grave to place flowers and recite to the young girl their precious few memories of her mother. After Sunny and Beatrice went off to finish dinner preparation, Violet and Klaus stood pensively over Olaf’s grave. Then Violet spoke, flatly:

“We learned so much from him.”

Klaus stared. “I mean, he was a horrible villain,” Violet clarified, “but if it hadn’t been for the pressure he placed on us, I never would have thought of so many inventions, and you never would have learned about nuptial law, for example.”

Klaus nodded. “And I doubt he’s responsible for our parents’ deaths, anyway.”

“Oh, don’t bring that up again, Klaus,” said Violet shaking her head and walking away. “Of course it was him!”

“But he didn’t confess, even when we finally pressed him!” Klaus called after her. “Even on his deathbed! Even after he saved Kit!”

Later, over a parting supper of smoked oysters, seaweed wraps, and coconut smoothies, the cook confronted her brother about his wasted hours during the others’ laborious day: “What’s in the box?” Sunny asked perkily. After a day of labor, all Klaus had to offer the boating party was a light, tightly wrapped package shaped like a question mark.

“Oh, it’s just an old artifact I was researching. You know, once we have our fortune, I think that’s what I think I’d like to do with my life: collect artifacts, become a successful archaeologist. I think VFD has prepared me well for decrypting ancient languages.” 

“Maybe we’ll find more artifacts on the next island we come by,” Violet replied, passing the seaweed to Beatrice. “Sunny and I made sure our supplies will last another year if need be.”

“Excellent work,” Klaus congratulated them. “And what method of propulsion will we be using this time? How can I help with that?”

“Generally, the sail should be sufficient. The tide is receding, so we don’t need any additional thrust: the water pressure on the single opening in this atoll will generate a current swift enough to propel the Beatrice outward to sea.” Violet took a sip of unfermented coconut smoothie. “Swimmingly. This day has gone swimmingly.”

As you may know, “swimmingly” is a word which here means “well” or “splendidly” or “lacking a villain to inflict unfortunate events upon you.” But anyone who, while swimming, has gazed into the murky depths beneath their vulnerable, dangling legs, or who has been subjected to a physical education class in a swimming pool will know just how ridiculous this definition of “swimmingly” is. Too often, swimming is an involuntary, unnecessary, and downright cruel activity. For instance, my day once went “swimmingly” because I was pursued through a fire pond by a pulchritudinous platypus. I’m sorry to report that the Baudelaires’ day was about to become worse than that one.

The Baudelaire’s evening continued to go swimmingly, or perhaps sailingly. Just as Violet predicted, the Beatrice was pulled by the receding tide toward the gap in the atoll, which would free them into the open sea. Out of the blue, Sunny asked, “What’s that?” happily pointing. Out of the blue sea, exactly behind the gap in the atoll, a sharp, scaly plate covered in seaweed was emerging. Then came another, and another, until The Great Unknown had fully reared its ugly, pointed head. Enormous and slippery, desperate and hungry, it hung its jaw agape, ready to let in any driftwood, sea water, or passing sting rays past its six shiny rows of very sharp teeth. Even if the Baudelaires had abandoned ship right then, the current would undoubtedly have swallowed all who traveled--whether swimmingly or sailingly--into the jaws of The Great Unknown.

Beatrice screamed as the bombinating beast obscured the setting sun. Violet wept profusely, thinking of the promise she made to keep her siblings safe. Klaus stared fixedly into an eye of the beast, as though hypnotized. Sunny simply smiled.

“Come, sweet death!” she cried as the jaws of the bombinating beast crashed down, enveloping all four Baudelaires, Beatrice and all.

***

“Baudelaires!” As soon as the children came to, they found themselves inside what could have been the Curdled Cave but warm and oddly lit. “Oh, Baudelaires! I’ve been so afraid! I’ve been absolutely panic-stricken on your behalf! But you’ve returned to my care!”

“Josephine?” asked Klaus, astonished. Indeed, the Baudelaires’ second cousin’s sister-in-law whom they knew as Aunt Josephine stood on a ledge, glowing in a white robe over the confused, distraught Baudelaires.

“Don’t be afraid! I would come down to hug each one of you if I wasn’t afraid of the germs and leeches that may have washed in along with all that kelp and sea water.”

“Ike?” asked Sunny, suddenly recalling the image of Josephine’s late husband the cave explorer resting in a warm place in the afterlife. Then, with wide eyes, Sunny asked more softly, “Parents?”

Josephine looked at Sunny confused for a moment. Then she cocked her head to one side, smiling poignantly at the young girl. “I don’t know where your parents are. I’m sorry, honey. And you really must learn to speak in complete sentences someday, Sunny,” she added with disappointment.

“But look on the bright side:” yelled a figure, emerging on crutches from the dark. “You’re alive!”

“Phil!” cried Violet, rushing in to hug the optimist. 

“We’re alive?” mirrored Sunny with confusion.

“‘Baudelaire orphans found alive!’ That’s the headline I would submit to The Daily Punctilio if nefarious villains intent on hunting us all down weren’t lurking around every street corner.”

“Duncan!” shouted Violet running further into the cave to hug yet another friend from her past. “And Quigley?”

For a brief moment, Duncan’s face dropped. The thrill in Violet’s voice, the distance in her eyes, the emphasis she placed on his brother’s name--all of it indicated to Duncan that he was her second favorite. But just as quickly, Duncan returned to grinning and stepped aside for his triplet brother to hug the eldest Baudelaire. 

“Words:“ began Isadora in the tone of a slam poet, everything about her style now black and bleak as she leaned against a wall obscured in shadow. “Why torment me? Why needle and prod me as you do with meaning? If I repeat you, words, over and over, meaningless you become. When our Selves defy measure and lilt and vowels--even grammar!--who dares, dares to confine this Ether reality, this cryptic vivacity, this Great Unknown! inside of--words.” She and Klaus smiled shyly at each other while others sounded their approval.

“But how did you find us here?” Violet questioned after a few pitying snaps. “What brought you to this island?”

“Do you have food?” Sunny demanded. “Can I help?”

“What even is this place?” Violet enquired. “A camouflaged submarine?”

“Why are you alive?” Sunny asked Josephine.

“Selmo!” shouted Beatrice.

“Calm yourselves, Baudelaires! For once, all that is mysterious to you shall soon be revealed--I promise.” proclaimed Josephine, still perched authoritatively from her ledge.

“Even to those of you without any questions...” remarked Quigley, glancing askance at the middle Baudelaire. 

“Why so quiet, Klaus?” asked Isadora with a teasing smile.

The middle Baudelaire orphan had remained remarkably calm this whole time, as if non-plussed by the situation. He shrugged nonchalantly “After you’ve read the book that answers the questions that burn like a fire in the mind, the act of asking feels--hollow. There’s just one burning question I’d like an answer to: where’s Fiona?”

“Oh, Klaus! You mustn’t end an independent clause with a preposition,” Josephine chided with motherly concern. “My daughter is busy on the command deck with my husband. The two are co-captains now!”

“Actually, Aunt Josephine, I find that preposition rule antiquated nowadays. Plenty of authors simply ignore it.”

“Hmph, your grammatical proclivities may be on the, er, modern side, Klaus Baudelaire, but for as long as you’re under my submarine walls, I insist that yo--”

“Wait!” interrupted Violet. “Fiona is your daughter, Aunt Josephine?! Does that mean she’s our,” Violet gulped, “cousin?”

“All of your questions will be answered, dear Baudelaires! For example, ‘technically speaking, second cousins once removed,’ is the answer to your most recent of inquiries, Violet, darling.”

“First let me serve them tea, Josephine!” pleaded Phil angelically. “I want to try a special recipe: bitter as wormwood and sharp as a two-edged sword.”

Sunny yipped in agreement, following Phil down a shady corridor, deep into The Great Unknown.

“After you, Violet,” said Duncan with an unctuous smile and hand gesture. I needn’t tell you, dear reader, how eagerly the three Quagmires and four Baudelaires came together for tea, ready to reconnect after years of cruel wrenching apart. But one detail that may intrigue you remains. For in the interim, a word which here means, “the duration in which Phil offered the Baudelaires tea and Josephine offered the Baudelaires her tale of survival,” or “Chapter 2 of this narrative,” a mysterious figure reentered the anteroom to rearrange the kelp that had washed aboard The Great Unknown along with the Baudelaires. I regret to inform you, dear reader, that this rearranged kelp formed letters on the wall, and that those letters formed a cryptic couplet, and that cryptic couplet formed a threat to all aboard:

“Abandon ship or abandon pants./ Your fates are sealed; leave naught to chance.”

And so began, dear reader, a series of unfortunate debaggings along the eerie corridors of The Great Unknown.

[icarus-suraki]

unusual asks: 4, 14, 37, 79

4. do you like your name? why? Ah ha ha ha, so I'm not going to tell my real name, but I'll say that my first, middle, and (probably obviously) last name are all family names. My first name isn't so bad, except that my mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, and a number of other relatives all have the same first name. It's really a family name on my mother's side. It's not a bad name, but it doesn't feel like my name because I've been called by my middle name all my life. With so many people with the same first name, it makes sense, right?

My middle name is...different. I mean, I'm a woman (though I'm a bit sloshy on that sometimes) but my middle name is a really old, slightly ugly-sounding name that's usually given to boys. It's a family name, formerly a surname--and since my family is undeniably Southern, we follow the good tradition of giving daughters family surnames that were "lost" in marriages. And that's how I, a girl, ended up going by a name that's basically on par with Cuthbert or Aethelrad or Gruffudd. It did not make my school-years easy, no.

And my last name is a strange spelling of a Dutch name--if it were English, it might be something like the surname "James" being spelled like "Jaymesse." We aren't quite sure how it came to us since we can only trace it back to one person. We know when and who he married, but we have no information about him before or after that. We know he was out of the picture when his wife was pregnant (whether he died or ran off or was kidnapped or something we don't know). His wife, at a loss as for what to do, went to her sister's house and lived with her sister and her sister's husband for a while. And then she named the baby after her sister's husband??? But with her own (now our) last name???? She was an interesting woman. But we just don't know much about the man who gave us our last name. There's some family conjecture that he might have been an Eastern European Jew and, when that came out, that was totally unacceptable to his wife and her family. So either she left him or he left her. Either way, we've still got the name. And now, whenever one of us with the name goes to Europe, we like to confuse the locals. (I think I got more of the British Isles genes, but my brother definitely got the Dutch genes because he looks like a damn Tour de France cyclist.)

Do I like my name? It's not the easiest to live with, but it's got a colorful past. So I don't always like it, but it's interesting, to say the least.

14. if you can live anywhere in the world where would it be? why? This is so hard to answer because it changes based on my mood and the season. Sometimes I'm like "I want to live somewhere tropical and warm in a house that almost doesn't need windows with long sheer curtains where I can be a hippie doing yoga and eating smoothie bowls up in the trees." And other times I'm like "Wouldn't it be interesting to live in Japan? Maybe Tokyo, but more like Kyoto and out in the suburbs. Or maybe out in the country, like a real Studio Ghibli place." France crosses my mind too, sometimes Paris, sometimes Provence, sometimes Normandy...

But I think, and this is probably pretty predictable, that the most aesthetically-comfortable place, to me, would probably be the Lake District in the UK.

Is the UK all that great in ever sense? No, for many reasons (Brexit is only one of them). But in terms of weather, wildlife, scenery, familiarity from children's picture books, I think it's got to be the Lake District (and environs).

It was one of the last places we visited when I did a summer abroad. We'd done London (exciting but such a city), we'd done Scotland (rather craggy and gray), we'd done Bath (I was sick as a dog so I can't make much of a judgement and would like to go back), we'd done Oxford (and I thought I was a snob, fuck me), we'd done Yorkshire (suddenly the grimness of the Bronte sisters makes sense)... And then we took this long bus ride northwards and up into the Lake District and it was such a...relief in a funny sense of the word. Trees! Fields! Foxgloves! Stiles over fences! Walking paths! Lovely cottages!

If I was appallingly rich, I'd find an old cottage to move into and live there and grow a cottage garden and probably have a Patterdale terrier named Toby or Tommy and take lots of walks.

The Cotswolds were a close second, as I recall, but not quite as much of a spiritual(?) relief.

37. do you read a lot? whats your favorite book? The greatest irony of being a librarian is that everyone thinks you read all the time but you often don't have enough time to read at all.

Some librarians manage to pull it off, but I don't. I've gotten picky about books as I've gotten older. I had to lead some book discussions at my libraries, so I've had to read some very boring books (in some cases the book was boring but I did understand why books like it would appeal to some people). And I just don't have the mental capacity to suffer through boring books if I don't have to. So, no, I don't read all that much--

--in terms of books, at least. I've found that I'll read zillions of articles: longform, shortform, magazine, newspaper, online... I've got a few websites for sources and I'll just kind of look around and then suddenly say, "Wait, what?" and find myself reading, say, a GQ article about two Mormon brothers accused of murdering their parents and the whole backstory of the situation. If you drop a longform article about Weird Shit in front of me, yeah, I'll probably read it.

Which actually makes me wonder if I might want to read more nonfiction at the moment. Hmmm........

But favorite book? Favorite favorite book? Fuck, I'm such a sucker for Ulysses. I know, everyone's like "it's dirty!" or "it's too hard to understand!" And that's cool. But for me, it reads rather like poetry to me, dirty bits and all. And I love it and it has saved my life a few times. James Joyce got me through my 20s, okay?

I had hoped to go to Ireland, and Dublin specifically, in the summer or fall of 2020. Obviously that didn't happen, lmao. But part of my idea was to research tattoo shops before I went and to get a line from the "Ithaca" chapter tattooed on me somewhere. The line is:

"The heaventree of stars hung with humid nightblue fruit"

It's got to be one of my favorite lines in all of literature. T. S. Eliot has a couple of lines that are close seconds (it's almost time to read Ash Wednesday again and, hnnnngh, it's so good), but between the Eliot lines and the Joyce lines? Yeah, I'm going with the heaventree of stars.

I am a terrible person with a dirty mind. What can you do?

79. do you believe in ghosts? Most of the time I'm like: "Nah, I don't really believe in ghosts. It’d be kind of cool if they were real, right? But, nah, l don’t."

And then I'll watch some really good “real” ghost videos and it'll be about 11:30 at night and I'm immediately "I have changed my stance re: ghosts and I will be sleeping with the light on. Goodnight."

But generally speaking? As someone who has spent the night in a couple of supposedly haunted places? I guess I'm more in the "I want to believe" category. It'd be cool, wouldn't it? But I don't think it'll happen.

Now that said, I do still wonder about the Gray Man With The Hat that my mother and I have both seen on different occasions. It has to be something about how human brains understand certain things in certain situations (esp. related to light/shadow). We both wonder if it might be kind of like a "collective unconscious" situation, where something unfamiliar is interpreted as something familiar and then the brain puts that familiar "icon" (which is Pete Lorre in M, evidently?) over whatever the image the brain can't compute.

It's not directly related to ghosts in the typical sense, but I do have strong feelings about certain Jungian concepts (I have an aunt who's got some major Jungian background)--sometimes in a mystical way, sometimes in a more rational way. So I guess that's why I feel like I, personally, don't believe in ghosts as ghosts are generally viewed today. But I also think that people who say they've encountered ghosts shouldn't be dismissed immediately as wrong--they experienced something, I absolutely believe that, and it’s not fair or kind to dismiss them out of hand.

[richardgloucesters]

3, 4, 12, 17 & 25 for the ask

thank you for so many questions!! i’ll leave answers under the cut because this will probably be a long one :)

3. What were your top five books of the year?

in no particular order: the secret history, if we were villains, wuthering heights, mrs dalloway and the lonely londoners. wh and mrs dalloway were not my ‘favourite books’ (i’ll admit it took me weeks to slog through wuthering heights, it was an absolute drag to read until cathy’s death) but i’m glad i’ve read them regardless. tsh and iwwv come under the same umbrella of so-called ‘dark academia’ but both were nice to bury my head in for a while. reading about the murder of the worst character in a friendship group revolving around classics or shakespeare is equally pretentious and intriguing. 

4. Did you discover any new authors that you love this year?

hm not strictly related to books but t.s eliot! i loved the waste land. first time you read it you kind of go... huh? further reading only makes you ask more questions about it and i love love love that. reading tsh also just reaffirmed my love for donna tartt but We Been Knew about that. 

12. Any books that disappointed you?

first one was anna burns’ ‘milkman’. the narrative was so jarring that i couldn’t get more than a few chapters in - and i really tried! everyone is referred to as ‘brother-in-law’ or ‘older sister’ etc etc which gets so old after a while. it was so frustrating that i had to put the book down. i know it’ll have been written like that for a reason but i just felt so disengaged from the text as a consequence. i’m sad about it because people raved about this book and i’m pretty sure it won the man booker. i will try and finish it at some point but i’m not all that excited about doing so. 

second one was ‘eleanor oliphant is completely fine’ by gail honeyman which i liked the look of because again, a lot of good reviews and i always love when i share a name with the main character lmao. it was a fairly easy read but not more than 3 stars for me. i can’t really explain what it was, maybe the fact that i managed to predict all the twists in the story or just the fact that it reminded me a little too much of another book which i don’t like, but it was only a meh reading experience. fine for a holiday read but nothing that really stuck with me. 

17. Did any books surprise you with how good they were?

if we were villains. a friend who has a very similar taste in books to me pressed it into my hands and said ‘you HAVE to read this’. i went into it thinking it was just a secret history knock off which i’d seen it called a lot online. to be fair, it shares a lot of the same tropes as i’ve already mentioned but the narrative is so different. i often felt frustrated with the secret history because richard as a narrator is so oblivious and the pace draws to a halt after bunny’s death (but i was still consumed by it!). iwwv’s narrator oliver is a much more present character in both the narrative and the action of the story unlike richard. he’s not so much nick carraway like richard is, much less so the outsider looking in. also the amount of times i gasped while reading it was ridiculous. the prose is lovely and there are some wonderful images, not as ‘poetic’ as tartt’s but very few could compare. would recommend if you want some escapism, it will keep you hooked. plus the ambiguity of the ending... that’s all i’ll say! 

25. What reading goals do you have for next year?

straight up: read more! i want to dedicate more time and thought to my assigned readings and also try and make some time for general reading. i won’t set a number of books to read (because never once have i met my goals set on goodreads) but i definitely want to tick a couple of books off from my to-read list. 

much love to you for asking! mwah! xx 

reading ask!

[ohmyohpioneer]

my best friend’s brother is also on this snowy vacation queliot headcanon:

So I just got back from a snowy vacation and I was a little winedrunk on the plane and I thought (and consequently typed) a truly idiotic headcanon. 

Quentin is invited (ok bullied into but with good intentions) last minute by his friend, Margo, to come on her big annual ski trip and even though he doesn’t ski because his parents never had the money he says yes because it feels nice to be invited and, well, he likes Margo. It can’t be that bad, right?

Except that it kind of can because he didn’t realize Margo’s older brother, Eliot, is also invited (why did this not occur to him because of course he is) until Eliot steps out of the car, all regal and long legs in a crazy expensive but ok pretty cute Canada Goose parka.

And he knows Eliot. It’s not like they’ve never met before. Which is kind of the problem because Quentin inexplicably just really likes him. I mean, yeah, he’s attractive, sure, but the last time he went to one of Margo’s parties they ended up talking and laughing for, well, a long time and it was all knocking knees and shared bottles of tequila. And Quentin–

But it’s all beside the point because Margo is a good friend and Eliot is off limits and absolutely unattainable for someone at Quentin’s level. Also potentially involved with that guy Mike - who has bad hair - regardless. Just. Not anyone he should be sweating.

And ok. Eliot seems delighted - which is not a word Quentin uses with any sort of frequency - to see him and gives him a hug. A big one. Like, the kind with great arm pressure? And a shoulder sniff? Fuck, Quentin is weird. God. Why can’t he be normal?

But of course Eliot is charming and immediately they’re all in the little rented chalet with hot toddys heavy on the toddy (assuming that’s the whiskey part), and he really needs to keep himself in check.

Quentin’s only frame of reference for ski lodges or ski culture or whatever is from movies, namely romcoms, and it seems exactly right that the rented chalet is tiny and there are only a few, cosy (the rich word for cramped) rooms and he ends up sharing a room with Eliot. It’s a bunk bed because sure. And Eliot immediately claims the bottom (“I am a top in all other realms” he smirks and is that flirting or just witticism?)

Josh and Margo and Penny and Julia all immediately go to the double and triple and quintuple diamond and rhombus hills (it is all utter nonsense terminology to him and maybe this is what people feel like when he talks Fillory) but Eliot stays with him while he rents skis and insists on joining him on the bunny hill (“It’s where all of the cute instructors are. All you have to do is ask about the french fry pizza technique and Marcel, who is here for the winter from Switzerland, is buying your après aperitifs.”)

Quentin falls. A lot. But Eliot laughs and picks him up and it’s sort of okay. But cold. People like this?

They call it early because “the chalet is calling, and so is an adequately made, intensely overpriced cocktail” (Eliot, not Quentin)

Somewhere around day three, with less falls and a lot of Eliot insisting he’s ready for at least one of the lesser diamonds, he starts calling him Q.

Quentin (Q) absolutely does not blush when Eliot cheers and hugs him in a clacking frenzy of skis when he makes it down his first real hill without so much as a stumble.

They’re all very drunk and playing the Forehead Game, pieces of masking tape stuck to their heads, names written in disorderly Sharpie letters (person, fictional or real rules: no you are not real, yes you can talk, yes you are animated, fine yes, you are the Brave Little Toaster, you cheater) when Josh and Margo start making eyes and not-so-subtly tell each other that Margo is Jon Snow and Josh is Kylie Jenner so that they can “sneak off” (stumble out of the room making out with disturbing vigor) to do whatever it is they plan on doing (subtle)

And Penny and Julia decide to go on a starlight walk or some uber-saccharine romantic beautiful thing

And then it’s just. Quentin and Eliot. And a lot of wine. In front of a cracking fire in a moonlit chalet and they slump even further in their chairs by the mantle and they’re talking about something so inconsequential and great (“Ugh. Margo usually has flawless taste in friends but Back to the Future III?? No one with any decency is allowed to like that movie, Q.”)  and fuck Quentin is giggling and they’ve fallen to the floor (“How can you have not read any of the Harry Potter books?”) and if his head lolls just a fraction closer to Eliot’s wild curls, it’s because of some sort of scientific, magnetic pull or something.

He’s pretty sure that Eliot is leaning forward, or maybe somehow the wooden floors have slanted, or-or the world has moved and slid him closer to Eliot - his face in particular. And lips. His lips are like just molecules away, and–

Penny and Julia. Back. Snow dusted. Glowing. In love or some shit.

He accidentally calls him El. It just happens when they’re both at the breakfast table drinking coffee one morning. (“Of course you like it black, Coldwater. All tortured 50s existentialist.” “Just shut up and pass me the butter, El.”) And Eliot doesn’t correct him, just smirks and sips daintily at his coffee (no sugar, lots of milk) and nudges the butter at him.

Quentin really likes the way Eliot says Coldwater. He just. Does.

It’s Vermont during ski season so there’s a giant snow storm. 

Obviously.

All that snow has knocked the power out. It’s getting increasingly cold inside the cabin the longer they’re without heating, and Penny and Julia Do the Brave Thing and venture out to see if they can scrounge up a generator or something to make this less miserable. Margo and Josh beeline for their room without a word and that’s that, apparently.

His bunk is fucking freezing.

He can hear Eliot on the bunk under him turning and turning. He wonders if he’s any warmer.

“Q. For the love of all things unholy, could you please get down here and help me generate some body heat before I go full Ötzi the Iceman. Not that a millennia of future generations wouldn’t benefit from seeing my beauty preserved in icy mummification- but I’m not that altruistic. Oh. And please bring all of the blankets you have.”

Eliot’s bed is. Really small. Well, it’s the same size as the top bunk, but with two people on it, it’s notably less spacious. Eliot is big spooning (as a verb), and Quentin is small spooning (silently freaking out), but it is really helping to keep the chill off. The four blankets Princess and the Pea style stacked on top of them probably aren’t hurting either.

Somewhere in the middle of the night, the heat must have kicked back in - or Penny and Julia had succeeded in their quest - because Quentin wakes, sweating, pushing off cover after cover after cover and Eliot has somehow lost his shirt (and Quentin quickly loses his shit), but mostly he just lays back down and doesn’t go back to his own bunk.

He wakes up again because there are lips on his shoulder.

Not like, random, disembodied dream lips. But specific lips.

Eliot lips.

It’s still dark outside.

Quentin had kind of forgotten that feeling? That one low, low in your stomach when you wake up in bed with someone, someone who is against you and kissing your skin and you feel warm and dazed and blissed the hell out.

But he definitely remembers it now.

And he turns and they are for sure, absolutely, 100% full-on making out now and it’s really small in this bed.

Somehow Quentin loses his shirt, too (Eliot is good at somehow misplacing clothing)

“Just making sure you’re warm, Q.”

“Yeah. Taking off my shirt is definitely helping.”

They wake up in the morning and it’s hot and sticky and the opposite of Ötzi and Quentin says so. 

Eliot agrees and doubles down.

They decide to stay in the chalet for the day while Margo and Josh and Penny and Julia spend their last day on the slopes. They drink hot chocolate with peppermint schnapps and Quentin hates it (the schnapps), but doesn’t tell Eliot, and Eliot loves it (burrowing into the couch with no clothes, but wool socks on, next to Quentin) but doesn’t tell Quentin.

“This hasn’t been that bad.”

[egelantier]

snowflake challenge, days 8-10

drabbles for the day 8:

staring down from the fifty-sixth floor for court_of_ocelot, sw: tfa, finn the anger of a gentle man for hamsterwoman, killjoys, dutch and johnny they just gave me a number when i was young for perpetual, guardians of the galaxy, groot (and rocket) from the sphere of our sadness for wordsofastory, lotr, sam (sailing to valinor) game of sweet surrender for kiphiana, leverage, eliot/parker/hardison absolutes for dhampyresa, librarians, eve and ezekiel but they're not yours, they're my own for tamsin, criminal minds, jj doesn't mean i'm lost for turps33, bandom, mikey/ryan (old school!).

day 9: send feedback to two fannish people — they can be anyone you want: a writer who’s made you happy, a moderator of your favorite exchange (not us!), a fanartist you avidly follow… there are so many possibilities. just let someone know you appreciate their work. done, partially via comments and partially personally; i've been trying to be better about comments in general, too. there's this hypocritical divide going on, of course, where the reader!me is all like, 'oh i only have a one-line comment in me, who wants that," whereas the author!me is, of course, all VALIDATE ME, SENPAI, and treasures all the 'liked that!' and "nice work!" i've ever gotten. so, you know. day 10: in your own space, share your love for a trope, cliché, kink, motif, or theme. (more than one is okay, too.) tell us about it, tell us why you love it, give us some examples and recs. leave a comment in this post saying you did it. this year i will manage not to make it about hurt/comfort... haha, no, of course it will be about hurt/comfort. but let's talk about self-sacrifice! god, i love all the versions of this trope ever. give me martyred older siblings looking after their younger brothers and sisters, give me literal martyrs, give me people leaving behind to give cover, give me doomed last stands, give me jumping in front of the bullet intended for somebody else, give me dramatically opening your veins over some dark altar, give me giving up into captivity and torture for your friends' sake: i will read every last damn word. i also really love this trope in conjunction with religious imagery: i'm the (modly) reason crucifixion survives year after year in hc_bingo (yes, there's been complaints, i know, i'm sorry), i'm so easy for each and every depiction of a character falling from great heights with their hands outstretched (as you might have, ahem, noticed. just let me say that luke on bespin had been a formative experience), all the ceremonial bloodletting and stepping into deadly rays of light, et cetera. you know? you probably know. (there's a trope that's in some - disconnect with things in real life: in my opinion, unless it's literally about falling on the live grenade to save others, in mundane day-to-day life most sacrifices are foisted on people who might or might not want to be so thoroughly martyred for, and healthy relationships shouldn't run on them; but that's a different story altogether).

[limejuicer1862]

Wombwell Rainbow Interviews

I am honoured and privileged that the following writers local, national and international have agreed to be interviewed by me. I gave the writers two options: an emailed list of questions or a more fluid interview via messenger.

The usual ground is covered about motivation, daily routines and work ethic, but some surprises too. Some of these poets you may know, others may be new to you. I hope you enjoy the experience as much as I do.

Jason O’Toole,

is a Rhylsing Award nominated poet, musician, and elder advocate. He is the author of two poetry collections published by the Red Salon, Spear of Stars (2018) and Soulless Heavens (2019). Recent work has appeared in Nixes Mate Review, The Scrib Arts Journal, The Wild Word, and Vita Brevis.

The Interview

1. What inspired you to write poetry?

From a young age, poetry has been my way of sharing thoughts and observations that could not otherwise be easily introduced into conversation. As an adult, it’s also how I process trauma and grief, from surviving shoot-outs and seeing horrible events at work, to losing contact with my children in the wake of a divorce. I don’t want to self-obsess and start every poem with “I” though and many of my current poems tell stories about the down-and-out people I encounter throughout my day, whether an addict waiting for her dealer behind a building or a disabled vet whose family never visit.

2. Who introduced you to poetry?

When I entered 4th grade I had a teacher at the Albany Academy named Mrs. Everett. She was from England and “old school” in the best way. We were given short poems to memorize and recite each week such as Carl Sandberg’s “The Fog.” If we got our assignments done, she let us read books from her library, which contained classics such as Malory’s Le Morte d’Arthur.

My family had shelves full of books. My brother and I recognized that these contained the secret to the mystical power that adults had over us. He got started on the science books, and I started reading the philosophy and poetry. I didn’t always understand what I was reading but they felt familiar to me somehow. I kept a dictionary on hand to look up the meaning of words. The first poets that I recall relating best to were e.e. cummings, T.S. Eliot, William Butler Yeats, and A.E. Housman. I also discovered William S. Burroughs way too young.

2.1. Why did you find yourself relating best to “  e.e. cummings, T.S. Eliot, William Butler Yeats, and A.E. Housman.” ?

The accessible avant-gardist e. e. cummings appealed to me as his poems were stripped down to the bone yet impactful and visually appealing. His playful, off-label use of syntax and made-up words opened up possibilities for me as a kid writing my first non-rhyming poems.

T.S Eliot was another poet that every college educated family had hanging around on their shelves. The Waste Land gave me a road map for leaving the 20th Century. It didn’t go anywhere especially good, but how could it. “Well now that’s done: and I’m glad it’s over.”

William Butler Yeats was one of the greatest magickal minds of his time. I didn’t realize this on my first reading of his poems as his occult history was almost entirely glossed over by the academics. As a kid I knew there was something pagan and exciting lurking behind the verse. I also enjoyed reading the Irish folklore he and Lady Gregory preserved. Later I would learn of his run ins with Aleister Crowley and that added to the allure.

A.E. Housman’s A Shropshire Lad was written with the gloomy adolescent male in mind. I memorized several of the poems and drew cartoons to go along with them. When The Smiths came on the scene, I immediately connected with the lyrics on the Hatful of Hollow ep which seemed to have been spawned from a similar maudlin mind.

2.2. Why did you discover “William S. Burroughs way too young”?

My grandparents had friends, Vincent and Brita, who were painters who also owned an enviable art collection which included a Picasso, purchased for half-nothing before he was famous. I would sit and read in their library, and of course the title Naked Lunch jumped out at me. I was in middle school at the time. Maybe 5th grade? The strangest fiction I had read prior to this was Madeleine L’Engle’s Time Quintet and Ursla K. Le Guin’s The Lathe of Heaven. I didn’t quite know what the hell was happening in it, but it was filthy and funny. I was hooked and read almost everything Burroughs wrote before the age of 16. I enjoyed making collage and cut-ups, some of which I published in zines I made with Sam McPheeters, and during high school, Burroughs was one of my main influences along with The Situationists International, Dr. Anton LaVey, and The Church of Subgenius in my visual art, comics, poetry and prose.

3. How aware were you of the dominating presence of older poets?

In my early teens, I’d gone on my own to hear Allen Ginsberg and Anne Waldman read, and having read Burroughs, Kerouac, Corso and others associated with them, knew that I could learn a lot from the Beats. I also knew that I would have to find my own voice. I was in absolutely no rush to do so. Though I have contributed lyrics and vocals on several underground recordings of punk and experimental music and edited Situationist and Punk zines and an academic journal (Dialectical Anthropology) I did not start seriously seeking publication of my poems until 2018. Now I am one of the older poets!

4. What is your daily writing routine?

I never know when I will be struck by the need to write a poem or story. Almost none of my poems are planned. I don’t sit down and say, “I’m going to bang out a poem about a seagull.” I might overhear a phrase in conversation, read a terrible on-line review, or have a traumatic memory resurface. I always keep a notebook on me so I can jot down whatever strikes me as worth recording. Some of these notes wind their way into poems.

Less often I will write short stories, essays, or tinker with one of my novels-in-progress. I find that speculative fiction allows me to hide real stories and people (from my work as an investigator) in plain sight and process some of my worst experiences.

5. What motivates you to write?

Poets and authors have helped me make sense of being human better than any church ever could. I hope I can help others unravel some of the mysteries, complexities and inanities of existence. For some of us, it’s a matter of survival – finding a reason to stay sober, make less terrible choices, and get through another day.

6. What is your work ethic?

Many people complain that they have no time to write. I do my best not to have unmet obligations hanging over me. I pay my bills, get the laundry done, never leave a dish in the sink. I may find other reasons to procrastinate, but at least I won’t waste time worrying about daily chores and it’s easier to write with a clean house.

7. How do the writers you read when you were young influence you today?

I feel a distinct kinship with certain poets and authors. There is a lineage that exists for writers akin to the lineages in religious orders, martial arts schools or royalty. There are poets I read in my teens and twenties who I abhor now, such as Bukowski. I still read him now and again, perhaps as a reminder of what not to be. As for my own tribe, I’ll read Corso and then follow the stream back to Shelley who defined “the pain of bliss” that both poets articulated. I’ll jump from Ignatow’s mountains and bagels, to Williams, “No ideas but in things” to Whitman’s sacred bodies, and to teenage rebel Rimbaud, and then back to where I find – myself.

8. Who of today’s writers do you admire the most and why?

Juleigh Howard-Hobson is a fellow avant-garde traditionalist. Unlike most modern poets, she is also a formalist. Despite poems written in form not being in style, she is prolifically published and has earned awards and several important nominations. She’s also published fiction and non-fiction, all while living off the grid and running a small family farm in the Pacific Northwest. As one of my mentors, Juleigh has been generous with her time and is always willing to share calls for submissions and her extensive knowledge of the small presses and poetry journals.

9. Why do you write, as opposed to doing anything else?

I am a fair guitar player, have managed to sell some of my art in galley shows, and apparently my singing is okay for what it is, but poetry is the one thing I feel I have the ability to be “the best” at if I focus more of my energy on reading, appreciating and writing poetry. It’s sometimes a solitary exercise, but there is a vibrant community out there as well. Now that I’ve been sober for three years and am not a resentment machine, I can get along fairly well with other poets and maybe even be an asset to the community.

10. What would you say to someone who asked you “How do you become a writer?”

I can only answer how one might become a writer like myself. There are many paths, and some are surely more lucrative than my own. First you must be a reader. I don’t trust poets who don’t read other poets. I believe they are only taking selfies with words.

Secondly, you must be a listener and understand that listening isn’t the opposite of talking. It’s an active role. Be a semiotician and try to understand why people are saying what they are saying. Why are they choosing certain words over others? Pay attention to tone of voice, body language and the messages that they are trying to convey with their personal style. This practice of reading the signs that people flash, has the added benefit of anticipating problems, and could save your life!

Get outside, have some adventures, mix it up with people outside of your usual circle, and observe everything. Try to spot the details that others miss. Drive to some town you’ve never been to before and spot what’s different about it from your town. What are the names on the headstones? What are the mom and pop businesses selling? Get out of the car and talk to people and ask them questions and you may learn of local legends, ghost stories, and witch’s graves.

Stay curious and be present in life. Maybe then you’ll have something interesting to tell the rest of us. People love a good story, so you have that in your favour from the start. Go find one.

11. Tell me about the writing projects you have on at the moment.

I am contributing spoken word to recordings with Herr Lounge Corps and we should have an album out before long. I am performing and recording stateside with Alec K. Redfearn, a Providence based composer of weird music. I plan on introducing and editing the collected poems of a certain forgotten female poet and occultist. Some of my weird fiction stories have been published by horror presses and I’m slowly working on a couple of novels. I’m gratified that my poems have been published in journals and anthologies around the world, that I’ve been nominated for the Rhysling Award, and that I have more than enough for a third collection when the time is right. People are reading my writing and are reaching out to tell me what it means to them. For me, that means everything.

Wombwell Rainbow Interviews: Jason O’Toole Wombwell Rainbow Interviews I am honoured and privileged that the following writers local, national and international have agreed to be interviewed by me.