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lantur · 5 years ago

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royai week 2020: day four, “crackle”

summary: The Colonel and the Lieutenant have an unusually candid conversation.

rated: t for teen

tags: pre-canon

words: 4384 | read on ao3

Identifying and interviewing candidates for the State Alchemist program requires travel all over the Eastern area of Amestris. A lot of soldiers - hell, even most of Roy’s unit - dislike travel. They’re reluctant to leave the comforts of home and put up with questionable accommodations and questionable food, not to mention the practical annoyances. The long rides in trains that are either too hot or too cold, and the inevitable delayed connections that turn a four-hour trip, one way, into a six-hour trip.

Roy loves to travel. He always has, ever since he had been a kid accompanying his aunt on trips outside of Central to meet with her network from outside of the capital city. The inconveniences are, well, inconvenient, but they don’t bother him much. They are considerably outweighed by the fascination of seeing the rest of the country firsthand; striking up conversations with locals (or overhearing conversations between locals) and listening to them talk about how they live, about what their thoughts and concerns are.

Employment is an issue in the northeastern sector of the East Area, and has been ever since the mines closed. Import of food and other necessities to the southwestern area is sketchy and unreliable. The farthest west areas of the Eastern region have a significant problem with drug-related crime, due to its proximity to Central. Roy notes all of this down in his travel journal during the train rides for later reference.

I like to keep my finger on the pulse of the people, he tells his unit. They agree that his phrasing is “a little creepy,” but also agree that this genuine interest in the populace is what makes him a good leader.

This month’s trip has taken Roy and his Lieutenant to Liore, near the border of the North Area. It’s quite a bit colder than it had been in East City, even though it’s hardly a week into October. Their appointment with this potential State Alchemist candidate - Robert Gotha - is at eight the following morning, leaving them with just about twelve hours of downtime when they check into their inn.

The rooms are side-by-side on the first floor. All Roy wants is a hot shower and dinner, in that order, but Riza insists on doing a sweep of his room first, as she always does, and making him wait outside for his own security.

“Nobody outside of Grumman’s office and our unit knew of our travel plans,” Roy points out, risking her displeasure by opening the front door a crack. Riza is inspecting the interior of the room’s small closet. “There are no explosives under the bed or under the sink. I’m willing to bet that there are no assassins hiding in the bathtub, either.”

She throws him a glance, and a frown. “You never know, sir. You remember Major Rosen. The bomb was strapped to the back of his nightstand. We shouldn’t take any chances.”

Roy does remember Philip Rosen, the Bone Alchemist, blown to bits a year and a half ago by a survivor of the Ishvalan massacre. He nods, somewhat abashed. “I appreciate your diligence, Hawkeye.”

“Of course, Colonel. Now, please close the door. You can wait in my room, if you want to set your things down somewhere.”

Riza’s room is even smaller than his. Maybe the reminder of the Bone Alchemist’s fate had set him on edge, but Roy walks the perimeter of her room, checking in the bathroom, pulling the closet door open. The last thing he needs is for someone who planned on attacking him to find Riza instead. Everything seems safe, but drafty, and he frowns, noting the lack of fireplace in the room.

Riza returns in a few minutes, and draws her coat closer around herself the moment she walks in. “Clear,” she says. “The locks are flimsy. I suggest bracing your chair against the door, just in case.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant. Your room is secure too.” He sees the surprise on her face, and he’s rewarded with a small smile. “It’s cold, though. You don’t have a fireplace. Do you want to switch?”

Riza shakes her head. “That won’t be necessary. I sleep better when the temperature is a little lower.”

“At least have dinner and do your paperwork with me, then.” Roy walks to the door. “Your food will go cold in a couple of minutes if you eat it here.”

Riza hesitates, and then nods. “Thank you. I’ll go get dinner for us now.”

He doesn’t have to tell her what he would like. She already has his preferences memorized, as he does for her. Roy gives her the key to his room, and the first thing he does when stepping in is to light a fire in the fireplace. It warms the room instantly, and he sighs with relief.

The shower has dreadfully weak water pressure, but at least it’s hot. Roy towels his hair dry, pulls on a pair of dark pants and a white button-down shirt, and then steps out, releasing a wall of steam into the small room. Riza looks up from her paperwork. She had changed into civilian clothes too, a long skirt and a white button-down like his, and settled into one of the armchairs near the fireplace. The warm glow of the firelight does lovely things to the color of her eyes and hair, loose around her shoulders. The heat brings a faint blush to her cheeks. It isn’t the first time he’s seen her sitting in front of a fire, but the sight never gets old.

“I bought kebabs with chicken, eggplant, and bell pepper.” Riza gestures to the foil-wrapped package in the chair across from her. “I had mine already. It was even better than the ones we had last month in Meox.”

Roy flings himself down in the chair, unwrapping the kebabs. They smell wonderful, and he’s glad that they had opted against the cold sandwiches sold on the train. “But are they as good as yours?”

Riza continues writing, and a tiny smirk touches her lips. “No.”

Roy wolfs down his dinner, making no effort to be decorous. “Why do I have all this paperwork on this table next to me?” he says, with his mouth full. “Isn’t it enough that I spent all of this morning and afternoon in meetings that could have been memos?”

“It’s because you spent all of this morning and afternoon in meetings, instead of getting any work done. And because you refused to make up for any of those hours while on the train, in favor of testing out that new long-distance radio with Havoc.”

Roy bites back a laugh at the memory of his and Havoc’s increasingly ridiculous codenames. “Right.” He balls up the foil packaging and tosses it into the garbage can in the corner of the room. “What are you working on, Hawkeye?”

“Figuring out your schedule for next week.” Riza taps her pen against the paper. “You have two weeks’ worth of meeting requests in one week’s time. I’m trying to make sure that you still have enough downtime to get your paperwork done.”

“Paperwork and downtime don’t go in the same sentence.” Roy picks up Breda’s most recent intelligence report and rifles through it. “Just plan on me working late on Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday. That should do it.”

Riza makes a note. “So, I assume I’ll be working late on those nights as well.”

“You assume correctly.” Riza gives him a displeased look, and Roy twirls his pen through his fingers, unable to resist teasing her. “What? Are you upset about missing out on the coming week’s date nights?”

“Hardly,” Riza says, impassive. “I figured that would be more of a concern for you.”

“It isn’t. I’m giving it up.”

Riza raises an eyebrow, managing, as always, to convey a great deal with that small gesture.

“I am,” Roy insists. “It’s all getting to be a little much. And it’s pointless.”

Riza raises both eyebrows, this time. “Pointless? With all due respect, this doesn’t sound like you.”

Roy shrugs, and the expression in Riza’s eyes softens somewhat. “I’m sorry if you had a bad experience, sir.”

She’s speaking to him in the gentle, pitying way one would address the recently heartbroken. The same way she talks to Havoc, for heaven’s sake. Roy runs a hand through his hair, flustered. “It’s not like that, Lieutenant.”

Riza tilts her head to the side slightly, intrigued without pressing, and he has to elaborate. “I don’t mean to sound arrogant. But the women I’ve gone out with know of my rank and reputation. The Flame Alchemist, the Hero of Ishval,” -- Roy’s voice takes on a faintly mocking air -- “and the youngest Colonel in decades. I’m practically guaranteed to be a Brigadier General by the time I’m thirty-five, if I continue to play my cards right. Do you follow me?”

He sees a flicker of amusement in Riza’s eyes. “If I understand you correctly, you’re implying that your dates would prefer to be more than just dates.”

“Exactly. They don’t just want a couple of nights out. They want a real relationship, Hawkeye.” Roy sighs, rubbing his temples. “They want to be a General’s wife, someday, and live in a fancy house with large, manicured lawns, and a couple of nice cars, and a couple of nice kids that will go to Central’s best private school.”

Riza makes a sound that’s almost a laugh. “The dream.”

“I can’t provide that,” Roy says tersely. “I have no intentions of living that life. I have no intention of living a long one, after becoming Fuhrer and implementing the changes that we want. If there’s any justice at all, I’ll be held accountable for what I did in Ishval. I don’t want to leave a widow and a couple of kids behind. That’s not an option.”

Riza inclines her head. “That’s fair.”

He shrugs, momentarily lost for words. “It’s starting to feel...wrong, to take what I want from these women, when I know that there’s absolutely no chance of them getting what they want. They want the third date. They want the relationship. They want to be the girlfriend, and then the fiancee, and then the wife. And I’ll never make that happen.”

“So, nobody’s happy.”

“Basically. Which is why I’m finished with that.” Roy leans back in the armchair, stopping the pretense of working, setting his stack of paperwork on the side table. He regards her thoughtfully. “What about you?”

Riza tenses up slightly. “What about me, Colonel?”

“Oh, you know.” Roy waves a hand casually. “You may not be as highly ranked as I am, and you don’t have the reputation that I do outside of military circles, but you’re a beautiful young woman. That carries its own weight. I’m surprised you’re not beating men back with a stick. Or your pistols.”

He had intended it as a compliment, but Riza glances at her lap, momentarily downcast. “That’s it, sir. That’s all that men see when they look at me. Just another blonde that they’d like to buy a few drinks for, and then take home for the night.” She sounds resigned. “They don’t see me. It feels a little dehumanizing.”

This is all news to him, and Roy stiffens. It’s stupid, it’s hypocritical, to be so stricken by men doing the exact same thing to Riza that he’s done to other women.

“Even the nicer ones, the ones that ask me out to dinner first…” Riza trails off. “They don’t know about Ishval, and the things I did there. They don’t know the burden I carry.”

“Hmm.” Roy considers this. There’s still a knot in his chest at the idea of anyone being foolish and shallow enough to see his Lieutenant - thoughtful, empathetic, kind, intelligent Riza - as nothing more than a conquest. “You could tell them.”

Riza shakes her head, at once. “They wouldn’t understand. Or they would think I was a monster.” She pauses. “Similarly, I doubt they would understand my goals, and what I’ve dedicated my life to.”

Roy feels a wry smile tugging at his lips. “I figure that most men would struggle with the idea that their girlfriend spends every day, and some evenings and nights, in service of another man’s ambitions.”

“Exactly.” Riza looks at him steadily. “Besides, I’m in the same position as you. I intend to be held accountable for my actions in Ishval as well.”

They’ve talked - argued; even fought outright - about this before. About the fact that he has no intention of prosecuting her at the same level that he would seek for himself and the other State Alchemists. Riza’s entire kill count in Ishval had been a mere fraction of what his had been. She had vehemently disagreed with his position. “Hawkeye--”

Riza gives him a quelling look, and Roy falls silent. “I don’t want to leave behind a husband or children, either,” she says. “I don’t want to be in a relationship that will go nowhere. That can go nowhere. It seems dishonest - like I would be holding the other person back from the happiness and uncomplicated life they deserve. I would rather dedicate myself fully to work.”

Somehow, with everything else they have in common, he’s not surprised that they share this perspective as well. “We’re both in a similar predicament, then.”

Riza exhales slowly, and then looks into the fireplace, at the flames crackling there. She looks so far away all of a sudden.

“What is it?” Roy asks, and she glances at him, startled, as if she had forgotten he was there.

“Nothing, Colonel. It’s nothing.”

That piques his interest, and he leans forward. “Don’t lie to me, Lieutenant. It violates our unit’s code of conduct.”

Riza narrows her eyes at him, but finally, she gives in. “You pointed out that my commitment to you and our cause doesn’t leave much space for another man,” she says, but then she hesitates, and stops entirely.

“Well?” Roy prompts, his curiosity getting the better of him. Over the years, they’ve come to know one another so well - as well as they know themselves, he would guess - but this is the one thing they’ve never talked about before. About serious romantic entanglements, and their lack thereof.

“I’d rather not say.” Maybe it’s just the fire, but Riza’s complexion is a little warmer than it had been several minutes ago.

“Come on, Hawkeye.” Roy gives her his most charming smile; slides into his most persuasive tone. “My curiosity is killing me.”

Riza sniffs. “That sounds like a personal problem.”

“Unfair, Lieutenant. I told you what was on my mind.”

She sighs again, exasperated, a little resigned, keeping her eyes determinedly trained on the fire. “Fine. You know, you’re like a dog with a bone sometimes.”

“I am a dog of the military, after all,” Roy says sardonically, and his Lieutenant rolls her eyes.

“You’re such a significant figure in my life,” Riza says, at last. “And you have been, for so long. I worry that would open the door to...comparisons. That wouldn’t be fair to whoever else was trying to find a place in my life. ”

Well, he hadn’t expected that. The words are so unexpected, so sweet and so sad, that Roy blinks, lost for words. “Hawkeye,” he says, trying to inject some levity into his tone. “I’m flattered.”

Riza doesn’t have a dry retort for him. She just looks at him with somber eyes, and Roy relents. “I feel the same way.”

He doesn’t tell his Lieutenant that when he’s looking into his dates’ eyes, he expects to see amber-colored ones looking back at him. He doesn’t tell her that when he leans over to tuck a lock of hair behind their ears, he’s expecting to see her blonde locks against his fingertips. He doesn’t tell her that when they laugh at his jokes (usually too long and too loud for what the joke actually warranted) he expects to see her small, wry smile instead. Or an eye-roll, or that look she gives him sometimes, the one that mingles exasperation with affection.

He doesn’t tell her any of that. But from the expression on Riza’s face, he thinks that he doesn’t have to.

Roy clears his throat, breaking their gaze, looking into the fire. “Well, Lieutenant. I think our close professional relationship has put us in an unfortunate situation.”

“As always, you have a gift for understatement, Colonel.”

It had been a typical Hawkeye deadpan, but when Roy looks back, he sees a tiny, reluctant smile on her face. It gives him a shot of courage, or recklessness; he isn’t sure which yet.

“You know,” he muses, “I have a thought exercise for us to work through.”

Thought exercises - running through hypotheticals, from the mundane to the far-fetched - are one of his favorite things about leading his unit, and they are at least a once-weekly event when the unit is together in East City. Riza sets her pen down for the first time, giving him her full attention. “Yes?”

“It would solve a lot of problems if you and I could...”

Roy trails off, his meaning clear, and Riza sits up straighter.

It’s bold, even for him. It doesn’t just cross the line; it sprints across the line. It isn’t the kind of thing he would have said if they were back in East City. But the sheer distance from the imposing figure of Eastern Command, from superior officers, from anyone else who knows them and might see or overhear something they shouldn’t - that has opened doors. That all feels so far away, here in Liore, sitting by the fire in his room.

Riza shifts in her chair - not in discomfort, but consideration, drawing her legs underneath her, tucking them to the side. “It’s interesting that you think that. I think it would create a lot of problems.”

Her tone is mild, though, and there’s no hint of affront on her face at the outrageous suggestion. Riza seems utterly unfazed by being propositioned by her commanding officer. Which isn’t that surprising, now that Roy thinks about it. He has discussed treasonous plans to overthrow and overhaul the existing government with her for years. Compared to literal, actual treason, the prospect of a sexual relationship seems considerably less shocking.

Additionally, she hasn’t yet threatened to shoot him in the foot, which is promising. She hasn’t stopped this little thought exercise that he had started.

“I argue that it would solve more than it creates. We’re both unable to pursue relationships, due to the barriers we’ve discussed.” Roy straightens his collar, feeling rather like an attorney beginning opening arguments in a case. “On the other hand, you and I understand our situation perfectly. We know where our lives are headed and where they will end. We know that we aren’t looking for marriage and children.”

He doesn’t have to say the rest. We know one another and what we’ve done in the past better than anyone else could. There are so many conversations we don’t have to have with one another, that we would have to have with others.

The truth of what they are striving towards and why, and their vision for their personal futures and the future of Amestris. The years in Ishval and what they had seen and done there. The ugly truth behind the harmless, bloodless epithets of Flame Alchemist and Hawk’s Eye. The nightmares.

Riza inclines her head slightly, wordlessly allowing him to continue.

“Pursuing anything with anybody else would distract both of us from our goal, which isn’t an option.” Roy studies her, trying to judge her reaction.

His Lieutenant’s expression gives away nothing. “What makes you think we wouldn’t distract one another?”

“Because I know us, Hawkeye,” Roy replies patiently. “I know that there’s nothing we’re more committed to than reforming this country. You and I both know where this work ends. We always have. Nothing and no one is ever going to make us change our course.”

“That’s all true,” Riza says, her voice steady.

He hears the rest of her sentence, and sighs. “But?”

“There’s one issue you haven’t addressed. The anti-fraternization regulations.”

“Oh, that.” Roy dismisses her point with a shrug. “It’s not an issue.”

Riza glances skyward for a moment. “Please elaborate, Colonel.”

“The anti-fraternization regulations prohibit personal relationships between officers and enlisted members within the same chain of command, as they are prejudicial to good order and discipline,” Roy recites, with no effort. He and his Lieutenant are both very familiar with the regulations, after all. “Romantic relationships, cohabitation, and marriage fall within the umbrella of personal relationships. We wouldn't be living together. We wouldn't be getting married. And it wouldn’t be a romantic relationship, Hawkeye. It would just be--” He pauses, searching for the most tasteful word choice. “Some companionship, as we need it. To help us make our way down the long road we have ahead. And we would be discreet about it. Nobody would ever know.”

Riza props her chin in a hand, mulling it over, and Roy watches the firelight flickering in her eyes. “No pressure, of course,” he says, with an easiness he doesn’t feel. The adrenaline and boldness has worn off, leaving him with an uncharacteristic case of nerves. “It was just a thought exercise.”

Riza glances back at him and then stands up, gathering her paperwork. “I think I’ll turn in for the night, sir.” She sounds so calm and even, as if they had been discussing the logistics of how to implement democratic voting in the most rural areas of Amestris.

Roy stands automatically and opens the door for her. “Good night, then, Lieutenant.”

“Good night.”

Roy watches until she closes her door behind her; until he hears the lock click safely into place. He closes the door, locks it, braces a chair against it, as Riza had suggested. Then he collapses onto the bed and presses the heels of his hands against his eyes, all the breath leaving his body in a long sigh. Hughes has always called him a risk-taker and chastised him for being impulsive. That’s nothing new. Tonight, though, he had taken that to an entirely new high. Or an entirely new low, depending on how one looks at it.

They return to East City the following day. A week passes, and Riza gives no indication that their conversation in Liore had ever happened. She treats him the same way she always has, both when others are around and behind the closed doors of their office, after everyone else in their unit has left for the evening.

“I asked Elizabeth if she’d like to start something up with me,” Roy tells Hughes on the phone, on Saturday night. He’s supposed to be working, but it’s half past eight already, and he hasn’t been working with his full attention span for two reports now.

Hughes makes a strange sort of spluttering noise; it sounds as if he’s choked on his sandwich. “No way.”

“It’s true.” Roy winds the phone cord around his finger absentmindedly. “I don’t think she was interested in the idea, though. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointed. She's the only one I've ever really wanted."

“Roy--”

Riza walks back into the office then, carrying an armful of files from the archives, and Roy is forced to improvise. “I have no interest in your services, and don’t call this number again,” he orders, in his most forceful tone. He slams the phone down, before giving his Lieutenant an apologetic smile. “Telemarketers. I have no idea how they get their hands on the military lines.”

“Please give Lieutenant Colonel Hughes my regards before you hang up next time.” Riza sets the files on her desk, and then picks up her coat. Roy notices that she’s changed back into civilian clothes, a dark skirt and a silk blouse. “We could head back for the night, since we got quite a bit done today.”

“That’s the best idea you’ve had all day, Lieutenant.” Roy stands up hastily, before she can reconsider, and picks up his coat. “Come on. I’ll drive you home.”

They live within a couple of streets of each other, about twenty minutes from Eastern Command. They pass the time in quiet conversation, speculating about how Breda’s undercover mission in Mouhed is going, and the upcoming joint training exercise at Fort Briggs. As always, Roy feels an irritating pang of disappointment when they reach the back parking lot of his Lieutenant’s apartment building. He spends every day with Riza, and many evenings and nights, too, and yet he never tires of her company.

“Sleep well, Hawkeye.” Roy throws her his most appealing look. “Any chance you’ll bring in coffee on Monday morning?”

“I could be persuaded.” Riza crosses her legs, and Roy tries to ignore the slit up the side of her skirt. She studies him for a couple of moments, and he catches the faintest flicker of apprehension in her eyes. “Would you like to walk me upstairs, Colonel?”

She’s never asked him that before. It takes the words - the offer - a moment to register. Roy shifts the car into park as soon as it does, more roughly than he should. “I would,” he says, realizing that he can’t remember the last time he had to fight back an actual shiver of anticipation. “Very much. Oh, and Lieutenant?”

Riza’s hand stills on the door. “Yes?”

“You should call me by my name, when we’re upstairs.” Roy remembers, then, that Riza’s apartment building doesn’t have an elevator, and they’ll have to make it up four flights of stairs like civilized adults.

“Of course, Colonel.” Riza holds his gaze, and Roy’s mouth goes very dry. “I think I’ll be able to do that. When we get upstairs.” She pauses and adds, almost as an afterthought. “You can call me whatever you want.”

Riza. It’s how he refers to her in his mind, but never out loud, not for years. It makes his throat burn, how much he wants to say it. To whisper it as he lets her hair down from its updo, and brushes his fingers against her collarbones. Roy exhales slowly. “We should go up. Now.”

Riza gives him a small smile. “Yes, sir.”

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notes

Writing from Roy's POV is always an interesting and amusing exercise. I had a bit of a laugh while I was writing this because it's basically like

Roy: What if... we fucked... ahaha, just kidding Lieutenant, it was just a thought exercise, just running hypotheticals...unless...?

I hope you enjoyed reading; I'd love to know what you thought! Royai Week has been super fun so far, both with reading others' amazing and creative responses to the prompts, admiring the gorgeous art, and sharing my own stuff. I'm hoping to have Day 5's prompt posted sometime tomorrow, but it might be a day late if I don't get it up in time.

#royaiweek20 #royai #royai fanfic

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firethatgrewsolow · 5 years ago

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From the lz site comments - I love reading firsthand accounts:

December 4, 2007 10:07am

Joe Schmidt

I write this to commemorate the 1977 Led Zeppelin U.S. Tour. To honor the Zeppelin legacy, and give an insight into the shows I experienced.

The date is Wednesday, April 6th, 1977. Led Zeppelin are to open tonight at the Chicago Stadium, in the first of a series of four shows. To give reference, I had just turned 17 a week prior and was a devout and rabid Zeppelin freak. My Zeppelin collection was rapidly building, including several bootlegs. The film The Song Remains The Same had just popped in October 1976. So I was very aware of their live capabilities.

Purchasing tickets for the shows was a story in itself. My friends and I decided to sleep overnight at the local Flipside, which was the Ticketron outlet. It was extreme. It was the 1970's. When the tickets went on sale, it became a literal war! Broken doors, shattered glass, fighting and fainting girls! I used my football skills to emerge 10th in line at the ticket dispenser. I was rewarded with Box Seats - Club Circle. The seats I possessed provided a total and unobstructed view of the complete stage. Raised seats just above the main floor. Yes, there is a God!

It was a cold evening the night of the April 6th show. The Chicago Stadium was in a very rough part of town and you had to be on your toes. The t-shirt hawkers were out in full force so I nabbed two real fine Zeppelin shirts. As I entered the facility, I could barely contain myself. There was Jimmy's speaker cabinet with the ZoSo symbol! Bonham had a new and beautiful gold metallic kit, waiting in ready, high atop his riser. The stage appeared sharp and clean with banks of lights and the P.A. hung aerially.

I found my seats and then wandered up the main floor aisle where the lighting man sat. This guy greatly resembled Keith Emerson. His eyes were red, glazed and glassy. I asked him about the set. He informed me Rock + Roll would not be the opener. It's going to be The Song Remains The Same. He added that Page was doing a wild version of Dazed and Confused with special lighting effects. As I walked back to my seat, toilet paper rolls flew off the balconies amid a blue-grey haze from the sweet smoke. Just as I sat in my seat the lights were cut.

Showtime! Pandemonium ensued. It's fucking Zeppelin! I added my own banshee wail to the moment. The spotlight hits Robert Plant. The firecrackers ignite prompting Robert to exclaim " Woa! Woa! Woa! Before we start can you please stop the firecrackers!" Just then Jimmy Page appears, turned toward Bonham . He's in white satin with a dragon design on his shirt's back. No design on his satin pants. Those were added later in the tour. As Page faces the audience I see him with a cigarette dangling from his mouth. He's pacing with nervous energy. Up until that point I had never seen a photo of Jimmy smoking. I was surprised.

Page is strapped up with his doubleneck. The opening D- note is struck, the full spotlight hits Jimmy and it's off to the races. On one knee, Jimmy slides over to Jonesy and JPJ bows his bass toward Pagey. Robert's throwing moves and shapes in front of Page's Marshalls as Bonzo unleashes his percussive fury. This rendition is very solid. Robert's voice sounds very clear and strong. Jimmy's a little sticky on some notes and Bonham plays on too long at the end bit. Which did mess up the segue to The Rover. It came off somewhat disjointed. Colored light changes punctuate the four opening chord strikes of Sick Again. As the song kicks in, I notice their doing it in a slower and funkier arrangement. Page's solo crawls out of the stew. Short and fiery. The ending is on the money. The strong ending elicits a wild audience response. Robert then reiterates to the crowd- " Cool the explosives!" Adding that the last time they played Chicago was 1973. I thought to myself. That isn't correct. It was 1975.

The harmonized opening lick of Nobody's Fault But Mine soars across the Stadium. Now on the Les Paul, Page's E7 th chord overhang and arm sweep captivating the masses. As Page and Plant play in unison. Bonham and Jones are backlit with spotlights as they play their counterpoint rhythm. Hot Stuff! But, Robert's harmonica solo is indecipherable and Jimmy's lead bears no relation to the studio version.The solos sound very early tour. Damn.

In My Time Of Dying slithers out of Page's Danelectro as the concert progresses. There are some real problems with this one tonight. The missed breaks are glaringly obvious. During the fast part they kept trying to find a way out of it. Slop. Robert then goes into a homily about Chicago Blues legends Buddy Guy, Willie Dixon, Muddy Waters.

Blue light solely envelopes Page as he picks out the intro of Since I've Been Loving You. Crystalline notes that were chilling! Robert sounding much better than 1975. Fuck it! I'm going to the front! I start my trudge up to the stage. I was evasive and agile, my adrenaline surging as I approached the stage barrier. There were people shooting photos , so I nestled in with them. Right in front of me is Jimmy Page blasting out the climactic solo of SIBLY . High register notes to discordant low bends. John Bonham kicking it in his tuxedo t- shirt. My chest cavity being pummeled by the force of the band. Plant hollers out- " Jimmy Page! Guitar!"

Directly in front of me, Jimmy acknowledges the crowd as he sits on Bonham's drum riser drinking a Heineken. Robert introduces Jonesy as " The most debonair member of the band. He can speak two languages. Featuring John Paul Jones on keyboard.. No Quarter!" Page stands up and walks over to his theramin. He throws a karate chop in front of it emitting a sonic Woop! Woop! The dry ice filters in, shrouding the first 15 rows. Jonesy in emerald light plays the opening theme. Page and Bonham fall in powerfully. Jimmy's wah wah piercing through it all. Jones hints at Rachmaninov, as green lasers flutter behind him. As JPJ does his solo, Jimmy and Robert are 20 feet from me. They were having a drink and chatting near Page's theramin. They seem to be laughing about something. Then it's on to the main improv guitar solo. Jones plays the transition as Bonzo lays into a mid tempo feel. Seeing Pagey so close, jabbing at chords as his body reflected every note he emitted. Switching pick ups to emphasize tone shifts and dynamics. He was dancing, slashing and hypnotizing. At the solo's finale, I'm shooed out of the front and return to my seat. As I walk back, the last notes of No Quarter expire. What an experience!

Robert admits to some band rustiness when he introduces Ten Years Gone - " This is a thing that we never did until 3 weeks ago. And we're still running through it. As we are through everything." Out comes the now famous Telecaster B- Bender. Page twangs out a few notes. JPJ plays 12- string acoustic. Not yet in ownership of his triple- neck. Bass pedals at his feet. Jimmy and Jonesy are loud and full, crashing out the melodic riff. Even more powerful as Bonham enters. Page's middle solo is a mess. Missed and clanging notes. Robert sounds fantastic on this song! Great choice Guys!

Bonham strolls out from behind his kit. Plant announces - " To the front of the stage for the 1st time. John Bonham. Looking very suave. In his 2- piece tuxedo." Four chairs are set up as the Zeppelin take their seats. But the monitors are feeding back and JPJ's guitar is out of tune. There'a a lull in the action to fix matters, and the crowd does become restless. Jimmy , now on mandolin, strums out the opening notes of Battle of Evermore. It was a riveting performance, especially the swirling jam.

The monitor system from hell continues to plague the acoustic set. Robert is now clearly agitated - " We have an acoustic guitar on this number gents. So turn the bloody thing up! Last time we played here I remember the night very well, cause I'd got the flu and nearly died. And, the monitors were so bad they were doing just what they're doing now. Get it Right!!!"

Going To California is superlative. Conjuring images of tranquil and beautiful hillsides. The Minstrels at play. A magic moment.

Robert teases with a bit of Elvis' Surrender. He then spiels about the Black Country describing it as - "The land where men are men and sheep are nervous!' Page then provides a classic moment as he leans into his microphone and drolly states - " It's better to live one day as a king than a 1,000 as a peasant." JPJ brings out a bizarre looking stand- up bass for the Black Country Woman / Bron- Yr Aur Stomp combination. Bonzo's back on skins and Jimmy displays some fine fingerpicking during his solo turn.

More equipment woes precede White Summer/ Black Mt. Side. And, the song itself is an utter shambles. Audibly out of tune, Jimmy makes a game of it. He chases himself trying to retune as the song progresses! Able to regroup, the seated Page plucks out a few more notes, kicks out of his wooden chair and then....

Kashmir! From one spotlight on Page to every light in the rig, the Stadium exploded in heat and light. Huge spinning globes above the stage showering light shards over us. Robert confidently projecting as the Golden God! Page as the Whirling Dervish propelled by Bonham's cannon shots. I will never forget during the coda, on one of Bonzo's final flurries, Jimmy stutter- stepping his way across the length of the stage. From JPJ's side to his side. Arms outstretched and his mouth agape in some euphoric state. Indelible.

A beach ball bounces above the main floor. Playfully, Robert comments - " A soccer match!"

Plants ominously introduces Over The Top: " We've been here 3 or 4 days and he hasn't been to jail yet." It's the Out On The Tiles riff and into Bonzo's Barrage! I had a straight shot at him as I looked through my binoculars. The cat would not let up! His drum kit motored out to the front of the stage for the Hands solo and Phased Tympani segment. During his big build up before the band returns, I saw Jimmy standing by his amp watching in amazement. Bonzo turned and looked at Pagey. You could literally feel the head of steam that Bonham was generating! I can still see it. You must hear this version! The crowd went nuts as Bonzo soaked it in. He had big smile and gave a hand wave.

Onto Jimmy's Noise Symphony. What can I say? What I did say was ' Where the fuck is Dazed and Confused?" It was a big disappointment for me. I thought, Dazed and Confused represented so much of their power, fluidity and mystery. I was shocked they didn't play it! Between the harmonizer solo and the violin bow it was like a white noise experiment. The laser pyramid was visually spectacular. Bonham rumbles around his phased tympani and a wash of sound leads into the first tentative notes of Achilles Last Stand. This song did not come off well at all this evening. Sloppy playing that gets worse as the song progresses. An atrocious solo by Mr. Page. It's as though he forgot how to play the song!

Now the set closer, Stairway To Heaven begins and is performed faithfully. Just as Bonzo joins in, Jimmy's guitar strap breaks. Ray Thomas dashes out and attends to Jimmy. The solo kicks into gear as golden light shimmers off Page's white suit and Robert grooves with his tambourine. The compact lead gives way to Robert's pleading vocal lines and the final title lyric. Brilliant white light hits a huge spinning globe as the band head off stage. A several minute wait at least before they return.

Encore time. The band reappear and Bonzo begins Rock + Roll. Major explosions ignited onstage give off tangible heat. Jimmy's lead is loud and errant. A big bang ending. Rah! Offstage once again for several minutes before one more.

Push! Push! It's Trampled Under Foot! The fucking loudest song of the evening. Page had his amp on 11. Jones and Bonham were slamming . Jimmy's solo was absolutely blistering. Peeling off licks with conviction. Robert and Jimmy as one doing their Push Push bit had everyone rocking. A great finale!

So concludes the first show in Chicago. It was beautiful, inconsistent, mind blowing , sloppy and sublime all in one show. I'd love to see them again. That's right! There's tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow...........................

#led zeppelin #1977 #the boot’s on youtube #not great quality but it’s there #i can’t believe this guy remembered so many details #maybe he took notes or ha maybe it’s fic #either way - a fun read

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hoodiesandcomputers · 8 years ago

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Shared My Body and My Mind With You (That’s All Over Now): Epilogue

Six months ago Felicity did the unthinkable and paid to have sex with the one and only Oliver. Despite being worlds apart they’ve become close friends, but what happens as feelings change, a rival comes into the picture, and a friendship suddenly starts to break? A continuation of a prostitute/client AU, which comes from my one-shot “Taste of Your Poison Paradise.”

Ao3 // FF // Ch 1 // Ch 2 // Ch 3 // Ch 4 // Ch 5 // Ch 6 // Ch 7 // Ch 8

Two years later

A breathy moan escapes her lips, and grinning at the sound of it, he goes back to the same spot on her neck to hear it once more. It never really occurred to him how well he knows her body, but he’s conquered every inch with no mercy, his hard earned knowledge his best and only weapon to use against – or perhaps for – her.

There’s only so much time before they have to go back, but everyone else can wait. After all, it’s his business and second café opening, and he gets to control when he can work . . . and when he and Felicity can spend hours holed up in his office, doing every sinful position they can think of.

He loves seeing her life this: out of control, uninhibited and he knows if someone were to walk in she wouldn’t even notice. Felicity’s always been responsive; it's one of the first things he noticed about her during their fateful appointment. Having sex with her is life coming home – he knows which road to take, which shortcuts to use that’ll cause her to moan wantonly, and which hills makes her ticklish.

Oliver’s fingers are inching up on her thigh, and he swears he can feel the heat coming out of her – that’s how strong it is. He’s planning out how he’s going to devour Felicity when she suddenly pulls away and pushes his hand to the side. “We have to go back and help everyone.”

Her voice is husky, her pupils are dilated, and Oliver’s cock twitches at the thought of making her so desperate right here, right now. Glancing up at her half-hooded eyes, he grins but pleads, “Come on, they can handle it. We’ll only be gone for a few minutes, maybe an hour.”

Felicity laughs and a gust of cold air hits him as she gently pushes him away. Straightening her clothes out and putting her glasses back on, Felicity smiles wickedly at him. “You can make it up to me tonight.”

She knew exactly what this would do to him, because Oliver immediately groans at the thought of making her weak and thrashing beneath him. “Fuck, Felicity. You shouldn’t have worn that skirt if you want me to wait till tonight.

It’s a billowy orange skirt with white flowers on it. The color and shape compliments her, but it’s short enough to leave little to the imagination. She’s worn it before but only for a few minutes until Oliver had her pressed against the kitchen counter, his fingers making her go wild as her hands gripped his shoulders so tight they left bruises.

The memory assaults his mind and he has to restrain himself from groaning aloud once more. “You need to behave,” Felicity admonishes. “The press are coming – you need to be at the counter to help.”

Letting out a breath, Oliver sighs and shakes his head. “I can’t believe you’re going to make me wait for hours until I get to touch you . . .”

His rake over her body, making sure to touch upon every glorious inch of her. Her legs have gotten tanner since the summer started, and he can’t wait to have them wrapped around his legs, preferably in Felicity’s vacation home in the Hamptons where he can have her outside and feel the sun beat down his back.

Oliver doesn’t miss how Felicity’s begun to squirm under his gaze and he can’t help but smirk. “Jesus Oliver, you’re insatiable, you know that?”

“Can’t help it – you make me that way.”

Laughing once more, Felicity smiles brightly before heading towards the door. Turning around, she points a finger at him and says, “Don’t blame me for your crazy sex drive, you nymphomaniac.”

Shaking his head, he winks at her and watches Felicity leave the office. Smiling to himself, Oliver gathers the apron he dropped to the side and ties it around his waist, readying himself for the massive crowd on this fine Saturday morning.

There are some days, like today, when Oliver can’t believe his luck. Just over two years ago he was working as Emerald’s premiere escort, doing a job he didn’t love, and working under a madam who cared more about her profits than the welfare of her employees. Days would blur into months and Oliver aimlessly wandered about, unsure of his future and unwilling to do something about it. He and Felicity met on their fated appointment, became friends, broke up and now they’re, well, together as a couple.

Life couldn’t get better than it is now. His café – Nocking Point – had above average profits in the first year, and Oliver didn’t need to be told twice to open another location. The café has also worked to hire the less advantaged, many young high school dropouts and anyone else who needs an extra hand. Oliver knows firsthand what it’s like to be desperate, and he doesn’t want that situation for anyone else.

Of course, it makes his life all the sweeter by having Felicity proudly standing next to him. Oliver's so lucky to have Felicity – she’s encouraged and pushed him to be the man he can be, and for that he’s forever grateful. Oliver’s always wondered what it felt like to be truly in love, to worship someone that it aches to not be near them. Felicity’s taught him so much about love and being in a partnership, and he swallows it all up, keen on becoming the man Felicity deserves.

The first few months of their relationship was uncharted territory for the both of them. Oliver insisted on doing things the right way – going on dates, keeping his pants zipped, and showering Felicity with all the love he could muster. Felicity, on the other hand, had a few other ways to start their relationship, and naturally Oliver was powerless to stop her.

Regardless, they’ve managed to work past their insecurities and fears of abandonment through countless of hours tucked away on Felicity’s couch, whispering their confessions late into the night. He’s learned to communicate when things are bothering him, as opposed to shoving them away and waiting to explode at the wrong time. They’re honest with each other and after all the hard work they’ve put into their relationship, Oliver just knows there’s nothing which can tear them apart.

Even though Felicity’s begun to travel a lot for her work – being CTO is tough business – and Oliver’s become more focused on his growing business, they find ways to spend as much as they can. He supports Felicity in the same way she supports him, and he wants nothing more than for Felicity to succeed and be happy. It definitely helps living with Felicity in her gigantic house, and every night Oliver genuinely enjoys coming back to their home, curling up to her in front of the fireplace.

He’s worked hard to get to this point, but he wouldn’t have it any other way. He’s learned what it’s like to lose everything – his parents, his money, fame, and sense of worth – only to gain it all back in different, better ways. He’s learned to appreciate everyone in his life, and to take any opportunity to grow from his experiences.

Oliver has everything he ever dreamed of and there’s no way in hell he’s letting this go.

Taking one last glance at his office, Oliver grins and steps out into the café, eager to see what the world has in store for him. And with Felicity by his side, he’s ready to take it on headfirst.

Whew, this is a long time coming! This is the first multi-chapter fic I've finished since 2010, which is so crazy because that's just unacceptable lol. I know it's taken awhile (OK, a long time) to finish, but I can't thank you all enough for sticking with this story. This story's been through the ringer, so I'm absolutely floored you guys have enjoyed it as much as you have. I know it wasn’t as Olicity as a lot of people expected, and there was a lot more angst involved, but I promised you it would all work out. ;D It's been a pleasure to write for you all and I hope you stick around for my other stories.

I can't finish this note without thanking the amazing @curvy-tam for beta-ing this story. She's fixed all my annoying little mistakes, and has provided much needed support when I've been hella stuck. And the wonderful @the-mimi-hiddleston is definitely the BEST cheerleader out there, because she's always there when I need to throw out ideas, and her enthusiasm is unmatched. I'm so glad I got paired up with you two! And thank you for everything!

And last but not least, many thanks to the amazing @awriterincowboyboots for being my second pair of eyes and ears. She's been nothing short of amazing, and I've come to rely on her opinions so much that I can't imagine NOT asking her. She's helped me out even though she's extremely busy, so thank you for taking the time to help poor old me. You're the best <3 Please take a moment to read and review her stories, I promise you'll love them!

Anyway, thank you all once again and I hope to see you soon!

#olicity #olicity fic #olicity fanfiction #olicitysquee #oliver queen #felicity smoak #ofbb 2016 #thank you everyone!

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newsfundastuff · 5 years ago

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There were bugs, and the showers were cold. Air conditioning was not available, but the heat was turned on inexplicably.If you didn’t have family in the United States to send money for food, you would go hungry.Those are just some of the conditions Manuel Duran described after he was released from a US immigration detention centre.As a journalist in Memphis, Tennessee, Mr Duran had been reporting on immigration enforcement officials and sordid conditions for more than a decade by the time they took him into custody last year.Now, he says he’s experienced the neglect himself.“I’ve seen the cruelty of the mass detention of immigrants firsthand,” Mr Duran told reporters in Spanish on Wednesday, “and it is unnecessary and inhumane.”Mr Duran, a native of El Salvador, had been working for the Spanish-language news outlet Memphis Noticias.After being released last week from 15 months in detention, Mr Duran, 43, decried what he called the brutal treatment of immigrants by Donald Trump’s administration.Detention centres have faced severe overcrowding in the past several months, prompting outrage and calls for change.Unlike many reporters who focus on immigration, Mr Duran has lived through the detention conditions he covers.Migrants did not get enough food at any of the four facilities where Mr Duran was held, he said at the news conference on Wednesday.They had to buy rations with money sent by their families, and if they didn’t have relatives in the United States, the migrants would go hungry.The holding facilities were infested with cockroaches and spiders, Mr Duran said. At Etowah County Detention Centre in Alabama, he said he had to bathe with cold water from hoses for two months.The air conditioner was being repaired for most of the spring, Mr Duran said, and the heat was turned on at one point, making it difficult to sleep.“I’ve seen the disastrous effect of Trump’s anti-immigrant policy,” Mr Duran said. “I’ve seen working men, businessmen, who have lived their whole lives in this country and who haven’t committed crimes crying and longing to reunite with their families.”Mr Duran alleged that ICE had singled him out for detention because he was a journalist from El Salvador.His attorneys at the Southern Poverty Law Centre also argued in a court document that law enforcement had arrested and detained Mr Duran in an attempt to suppress his reporting critical of immigration enforcement.“In the US, we are made to believe that freedom of the press is valued, but I can tell you all that under the Trump administration, this isn’t true,” Mr Duran said.He was released from detention on bond on 11 July while the Board of Immigration Appeals considers whether to grant him asylum because journalists face dangerous conditions in El Salvador, his attorneys said.Gracie Willis, a staff attorney at the Southern Poverty Law Centre, said Mr Duran decided to speak to reporters about his experience in detention because he considers journalism a form of advocacy.“I think for him, it was important for him to speak to the press, who are his brothers and sisters in his vocation – to inform them about the things that he saw,” Ms Willis said.On 3 April 2018, Mr Duran was reporting on a protest of local police helping Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) when Memphis police arrested him while they were trying to clear people from the street, according to Mr Duran’s attorneys.Mr Duran was charged with disorderly conduct and obstruction of a highway, the lawyers wrote in the court document, but the charges were dropped two days later.Instead of releasing Mr Duran from jail, his attorneys said he was turned over to ICE and brought on an eight-hour bus ride to the LaSalle detention centre in Jena, Louisiana – without access to a bathroom and with his wrists, ankles and waist in shackles.Mr Duran migrated to the United States in 2006, when his television reporting in El Salvador subjected him to death threats, his attorneys wrote.He missed an immigration court hearing the next year because he was not told about it, according to his lawyers, causing a judge to issue a removal order for him.ICE on Thursday did not respond to a request for information about his case and for a response to his criticisms of the detention centres.Mauricio Calvo, the executive director of advocacy group Latino Memphis, said many other immigrants face the same conditions that Mr Duran described.Attorneys from Latino Memphis, an organisation that provides services and advocates for policies that benefit Latinos, were part of Mr Duran’s legal team.“This guy had a lot of support because he’s a journalist and all these different things,” Mr Calvo said, “but we have 500 cases at Latino Memphis, and most people cannot get the attention that Manuel did.”Mr Duran is not the first foreign-born journalist to be detained by ICE.Emilio Gutiérrez Soto, a Mexican reporter, migrated to the United States in 2008 after he says soldiers broke into his home and took his identity documents.He and his son Oscar were denied asylum in 2017 and temporarily detained. Their immigration cases are ongoing.Washington Post

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#IFTTT #Blogger

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glamourbeastie · 6 years ago

Text

When Darkness Fell - One

I sit, watching television in a house where there is heating, food and water. There is a clean bed for me to sleep in. My wallet sits on the kitchen counter, and my phone is charging on the other side of the room.

There is safety, warmth and hygiene.

The programme I’m watching is the new 3-part SBS series, Filthy Rich and Homeless. In it, 5 high-profile folks live the experience of being homeless, sleeping rough out on the streets and having to live by their wits from day to day - no wallet, smartphone, cash… all the accessories which makes us, us.

(If you’d like to find out more, click this link.) The irony is that in my wallet, there is a Centrelink Health Care card that is mine. It has my name and a unique, identifying number.

It also says, “NO FIXED ADDRESS”. February: My ex-fiancee stands at his full height and screams at me until he’s red in the face. “You’re MAKING me do this!” he shouts.

He stands above me, a large man, double my weight. I have never been scared of anybody before, but I am terrified now. It’s a completely alien feeling, being afraid of bones breaking, afraid you’ll have to hit back, afraid of what he’s going to do or say next. It’s the realisation that the train has derailed, and that whatever happens next is what will happen TO you and you won’t be okay afterwards. Salvageable, maybe, but definitely not okay.

The next day, he enters the bathroom as I am showering. He then starts to talk to me, saying, “I need you to understand me.” He keeps badgering, over and over again.

I end up crying, hysterical, wet, naked on the floor, asking him why he’s doing this. I try to rip the gold chain off my wrist - made from my grandmother’s gold, the only material possession which matters to me - I try to rip it off and give it to him, anything to make it stop. He wants, he wants, he wants, and I am told that I owe it to him to give him what he wants.

He tells me that I’ve never listened to him, although I have sat down with him in silence, taking notes on paper on his grievances, scribbling studiously; never acknowledged his needs, even though we frequently spoke about how myself, and others, can fulfil them; that I am controlling, even though I ask his opinions and he has always been free to act independently.

That night, there is more hysterics. I give him a glass of sweet cola cordial, as he must be dehydrated from all the sobbing. Nothing is resolved, the hysterics do not subside, and I am screamed at once more. Doors are slammed, and I am afraid he will harm himself. I call his girlfriend, because he needs assistance from someone other than myself. He does not want me calling her, because he does wish to reveal his worst self.

He has always saved his worst self for me.

That night, I barricade myself in the second bedroom, pushing shelves firmly against the door. I pack a bag, containing one change of clothes and toiletries. I hope I will not have to smash the window in order to leave the next morning. The night marches on grimly. I do not know if I will get a fist through the door, or mournful wailing, or even more screaming. My phone never leaves my hand, in case the police needs to be called.

At first light, I am terrified as I pull away the barricade, and walk quietly out. A bad Catholic, I don’t often pray, but I thanked God that morning that he’s a heavy sleeper.

This is how I came to have “NO FIXED ADDRESS”.

Now: In ‘Filthy Rich and Homeless,’ Benjamin Law walks into a dentist and asks, politely, for a sample pack containing toothbrush, toothpaste and mouthwash. Dr. Catherine Robinson later admonishes him, saying that it’s his privilege that allowed him to do so. Well - so darn what? She says ‘privilege’, I say ‘resourcefulness’. Because when the chips are down, resourcefulness is not a bad place to begin.

The show touches on a few raw nerves for me. Just for background; I am in the process of reconstructing my life after having been subject to emotional and financial abuse from a domestic partner. Previously, I had thought that one had to be struck, or pushed or physically overpowered in order for a situation to become abusive.

Now I understand, firsthand and also through the resources I have accessed, that this is not the case. I currently stay in the home of a very dear friend, although it appears outwardly secure, it is impossible to shift the cold terror of uncertainty. Due to what has happened, it may be difficult to shift for quite some time. It is my responsibility to deal with that terror, and manage it. It is exhausting, inescapable, and I hope in time it will subside. My ancient Honda has sunburnt paint, and is out of registration. I had a small business which I can no longer afford to run. I had a Pretty Good Job, but more duties were laid upon me, for no more pay. My ex-fiancee had come into an inheritance and after much discussion, we agreed that he would support me financially whilst I worked on my business. We were polyamorous - it was more difficult for him than anticipated (although not easy for me either). Those difficulties chipped away at him, revealing a terrifying, uncontrolled ugliness, turning him from one person into someone else, someone I did not know at all. The dating and rejection hurt his ego, and the inheritance gave him license to treat me akin to a prostitute, a woman who could be bought, an object solely for hire, for calming his sexual urges and emotional storms, instead of a loyal friend, adviser, teammate and life partner.

He turned into someone who harmed me, someone I had to get away from in order to remain a whole human being.

I am fortunate enough to be getting back to feeling human, although I have no job, no savings (he took everything) and very little material possessions. And I have had to be resourceful. And charming and polite. I had to learn to ask, had to learn to admit I needed every scrap of help possible. So there’s nothing wrong with going into a ‘fancy dentist’ and asking for something. I asked to be able to stay at various friend’s houses. I asked for advice from WIRE, Women’s Health West and other agencies. I asked for the roof I currently have over my head. I shop for groceries, cook, clean, care, and pay half the bills. I am not without shelter or the hard-won love and the consideration of others. Sometimes, when I have my bad days, I shake and cry with both gratitude and terror. It can be hard. The person I currently stay with said, “I’m not going to make you homeless,” when I landed here, terrified and unsure about where I would spend that night, and the next many foreseeable nights. I can never, in this lifetime, express my gratitude and the immense amount of love I have for them, just for being the kind, sane and compassionate person they are.

But my future is still uncertain. No fixed address.

#filthyrichandhomeless #sbs #sbstv #tw: abuse #personal #writing #filthyrichhomeless

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