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chal-lelerc · 5 years ago

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ok so like. here’s my harry potter house thing. i’m ngl i tried to do this but then i deleted it bc it was getting too long and i didn’t have the attention span but. it kept sticking in my brain so i decided to pick it back up and as such, i’ve lost the original post but it was a quarantine activity (sort drivers into houses, assign quidditch positions, explain) posted by @verstappened. houses done first, then positions, then explanations for both. i tried to make feasible teams, i.e making sure there arent too many of a single position per house, so this really screwed some of the sorting but oh well.

i did the houses first, then positions, then explanations in that order for the most part.

5/13/20: the sorting was mostly done before i heard all the differing opinions (of which there were many!)

5/19/20: alright so this is literally like 2 months old but i’ve just finished it lolol

Lewis Hamilton:

Slytherin: THE GLORY MAN. the aloof kind of superiority, confidence, is top dog, he’s simply the pinnacle of it all. kind of lethal and doesn’t do the whole ‘looking up to others’ things (outwardly, but he seems very soft on the inside tbh). very majestic and is almost a gryffindor, the kind of slytherin that Merlin is. hard-working, got here from incredibly humble beginnings, which kind of stands out from the rest, but he’s clearly now at the top level of society. still very protective of Others. scarily ambitious. Was originally a gryffindor but I wanted the brits to be in different houses for their quidditch positions to work. Could honestly go either way though.

Seeker: more glory. periodt. he stays winning and scoring the most points. clutch-man. Speedy boy, kind of in a different world than everyone else when competing (he’s always at the front lifetimes away from everyone else lmao. playing a diff game.)

Valtteri Bottas:

Hufflepuff: HE SEEMS. LIKE. A. BIG. CHILD. always relegated and brushed off but is literally God-Tier and no one can convince me otherwise. i consider him to be rather reliable (reflecting only the 2019 season at least lmao). a bit of a vindictive streak bc he knows what he’s Capable Of even when others underestimate him. has a very bright smile.

Beater: have u seen him. he’s a big boy even though he’s 5′8 and only an inch taller than lando norris he seems bigger than he is ok

Charles Leclerc:

Slytherin: this bitch. what a snake. hiss hiss.

Chaser: he wants what lewis hamilton has but chose the wrong position. still a star in his own right. pride and joy of his house, will be at the lead of every formation play unless told otherwise by his head of house, to which he will brood and complain ab but comply in the end bc he wants Team Success and loyalty to his Family. scores the most points on the team and people act like he carries even though he literally has a partner(s).

ok but fr my gut said charles is a slytherin (do i really need to explain why? very critical, doesn’t accept inferiority, somehow succeeds. just a feeling his brain seems to fit motorsport politics well), but i was seriously contemplating whether he’d be a gryffindor to max’s slytherin instead. but then i saw someone mention the whole lion schtick and i was like for all of max’s brattiness he is Gryffindor so sharl is snake. sorry don’t make the rules just follow them.

further edit: this was written before he started streaming (this is how old this draft is) and can u believe him he’s the epitome of the “not all slytherins r evil wenches” idea

Sebastian Vettel:

Ravenclaw: idk for all of Seb’s goofiness he just seems cerebral to me. Seems to know mildly irrelevant facts and is really quite smart however is hopeless in the modern age. Kind of that wise old(er he’s not that old) man knowledge. I’d trust him to give me all the life advice I need but also to write a 10 page essay on the nuances of the effect of emotion on verbal language (which we all know he is very experienced with).

Keeper: it’s the protective Dad Power.

Max Verstappen:

Gryffindor: WAS REALLY GONNA PUT HIM IN SLYTHERIN BC HE’S A NASTY LIL SHIT. TOTAL BRAT. GIVES FUCK ALL WHAT OTHERS SAY. BUT HE IS LION AND LION IS HE SO GRYFFINDOR IT IS. also just bc he needs to oppose sharl in every way possible it’s called Poetic Cinema. also his driving style is clearly the bravery and confidence to the point of recklessness that is prevalent among gryffindors.

Chaser: again, he must oppose Charles. so, not a seeker although he’s clearly singularly the most prized competitor. just like Charles, pride and joy of house, their star chaser. the comparisons never end. the competition never ends. the fighting never ends. one of the most interesting and dynamic performers to watch, is predictable in that he’s not predictable except that he will always be aggro to the max. will always be in trouble for getting rough bc that’s Not His Job but that’s just the gryffindor disregard for rules. master point scorer.

Alex Albon:

Gryffindor: was really a toss up btwn this and Hufflepuff but the ultimate deciding factor was the fact that I wanted all the British Boys to be seekers. he really just sticks it out as max’s teammate like a real one (nothing against max, everything against Helmet Merco) for the good of the team, still is sweet with max anyway. fitting that they’re in the same house too.

Seeker: he’s not the small boy that lando and lewis are but he is (thai/)British. very special boy (big ups on the promotion even tho it was Sad Times for Pear) deserves very special job. also he has a hot girlfriend (alex albon who i only know lily he’s boy toy) idk how that’s relevant but it seems fitting.

Carlos Sainz:

Ravenclaw: bc he’s a spaniard but is still better at english than Lando (i think everyone is tbh). Seems to be a quiet type of smart, sensible, but perhaps this is just the consequence of being compared to Lanno at all times LMAO (no hate all love bby Lannd). would be the type of ravenclaw to follow his friends on absolutely idiotic ventures but would step in to prevent near death or likely-legal-problem causing actions (and only then; otherwise it’s every man for themselves and everyone is free to make a fool of themselves and break some laws. carlos may dabble in such practices.)

Chaser: seems to be a go-getter, not going for points doesn’t even cross his mind. will always be the one driving up the pitch, the strategist of sorts bc he seems big(ger) brain (than lando lololol).

Edit: I wrote this part ab him long ago but this entire section of this post is now irrelevant and canceled.

Lando Norris:

Hufflepuff: you all know why. zero explanation needed. like, none.

also has a bit of an aggressive streak which tends to catch ppl off guard. is not afraid to confront u (hello pageNO) and at times defies the hufflepuff stereotype of being perpetually happy go-lucky (he has his bad days!). but when with His True Crew he is absolutely a hufflepuff ball of energy.

Seeker: small and speedy. energetic to the max. small. quirky and different from the rest, so he gets the special job. small. everyone would kill to protect him. small.

Daniel Ricciardo:

Gryffindor: AW I DIDN’T EVEN REALIZE THAT I PUT HIM AND MAX TOGETHER. LOOK I EVEN MADE THEM BOTH CHASERS. AH HOW BIGBRAIN MY MIND IS. everything ab dan is gold. golden skin, the colors in redbull and renault, his smile, just the vibes. he’s just got the enthusiasm and charisma and this intensity of a gryffindor. super aggressive, his late breaking (from his rbr at least) is legendary and maddening with how he pulls it off. is almost a hufflepuff but the gut said no.

Chaser: is Max’s teammate. so yeah. was obviously the star until younger max came to the show. a bit lost in limbo bc of it but they still work well together.

literally want to make him a hufflepuff so. bad. but i couldn’t split up maxiel. also his vibe is just different from other ‘puffs like stroll so.

Esteban Ocon:

Slytherin: ask max.

Chaser: being characterized off of their relationship with max seems to be a theme here. will go head to head with max w/ absolutely zero shits given. talented, but the rivalry with max is entirely secondary to charles imho. still yet to show his full potential but is still quietly a thorn in max’s side. many are interested to see what he is able to do in the immediate future.

Pierre Gasly:

Hufflepuff: GUYS HE WANTS TO OWN A PANDA

Chaser: constantly trying to prove himself and score big boy points. had a stint as seeker until lando came along. did not do as well as ppl had hoped, returned to chaser and proceeded to crush it from there. praticed a lot with charles as children (the friendship dynamic w/ their houses was definitely unforseen but is amazing).

Daniil Kvyat:

Hufflepuff: really wanted to make him a slytherin but the quidditch positions didn’t work out. firmly believe this works though. more of the rough and tumble type, definitely the kind that will sock u in the nose if u write off hufflepuffs as a joke. could honestly probably be a gryffindor too with how unapologetically aggressive he can be in the name of His Beliefs. gives me big dumb himbo vibes now that i think ab it tbh which is mostly the justification here. also he has a child omg.

Chaser: but the one that’s always headbutting bludgers out of the air (torpedo bitches). also had a stint as seeker before but it Was Not His Thing. he’d much rather be chasing and throwing things than seeking things. also he’s pierre’s mate :,) would’ve been a beater but romain and valtteri will not be anything else so daniil took the boot whoops.

Sergio Perez:

Slytherin: it’s just the vibe. knows his weaknesses and is able to make up for it with his confidence and talent in his strengths. very ambitious, plays the right cards at the right times to get the right results. something ab him puts me on edge, but like in a good way; i feel like there’s always a trump card up his sleeve, like when he gets to q3 out of fucking nowhere in a racing point.

Keeper: he gives me the same vibes as seb idk what it is. very dependable, backbone of his team.

Lance Stroll:

Hufflepuff: guys have u seen the guy. he’s just here to have a good time. may seem a bit airheaded at times but he means well 99% of the time. untapped potential. seems like a no thoughts head empty canadian hockey boy (and every one of these types is a hufflepuff don’t fight it); may or may not be the only accurate description of him.

Chaser: he’s just trying his best out here. i

KEEPER?: SO I DID A QUICK GOOGLE AND HE USED TO BE A HOCKEY

GOALIE?????

so scratch my initial thoughts (tbh i didn’t really know where to put him and i originally had romain as keeper but that’s an issue to fix later on now) BECAUSE LANCE STROLL IS A keeper GOALIE AND NO ONE CAN REFUTE THIS. ABSOLUTELY NO HUMAN OF THIS EARTH. WHAT GLORIOUS INFORMATION TO STUMBLE ACROSS.

Kimi Raikkonen:

Slytherin: guys i really don’t have an in depth analysis of this but i don’t think iceman needs one.

Beater: see above^. y’all must get the vibe.

tbh could also be a keeper tho similar energies to seb and checo, but honestly his no fucks given attitude is ultimately what swayed me

Antonio Giovinazzi:

Gryffindor: he just has that majestic quality (that could also fit a slytherin but i only see red when i see antonio). look at that lion’s mane. also he’s one of kimi’s to paddock friends? seems fitting that he’s a gryffindor to kimi’s slytherin.

Chaser: plays second fiddle to the duo that is max and daniel, often regulated to vibing on the side. but he’s there and he’s important and he has potential (i’ve been seeing ppl talking ab a ferrari move and i’m positively shaken). [edit: again, this post is old.]

im sorry its glaringly obvious idk much about him asdfjasldkd

Kevin Magnussen:

Slytherin: guys lots of these are just self explanatory sorry if i seem like im taking the cheap way out but it’s fact. brundle and crofty call him a great white shark for crying out loud.

Beater: unapologetically chaotic. lurking around the edges making people feel hunted. spends more time playing baseball in the middle of the matches than quidditch and sometimes it backfires but it’s good fun and it sometimes works.

Romain Grosjean:

Hufflepuff: y’all he’s such dad energy and he likes to cook. gets written off a lot but he actually cares (he’s a part of the grand prix drivers assoc.!). he seems so wholesome and he spends time with his kids and their school work when he can do u feel those water drops yeah those r my tears.

Beater: i really wanted to make him a slytherin beater to make him teammates with k-mag but he’s just. not a slytherin. but i kept the beater part. spends the majority of the hufflepuff v. slytherin matches sending bludgers kevin’s way even when he doesn’t mean to. it’s always reciprocated.

George Russell:

Ravenclaw: I’VE SAID IT BEFORE AND I’LL SAY IT AGAIN THIS KID. is so marvelously well spoken and he just has such a simple yet effective way with words. he knows what’s reasonable to expect but never fails to expect the most that he can given his circumstances. again, mentioned this before but a lot of it is his accent. the glottal stop is a historically stereotypically rural (i.e. “uneducated”) thing but I’m American and I Don’t Listen to the Rules, so the accent just makes him seem so sophisticated to me especially when he’s saying things like “horriiiiiiiific” and presenting his hefty powerpoints.

Seeker: my British Boys Are Seekers headcanon continues. definitely a Golden Boy of the team kind of guy (hello tragic dumpsterfire that is williams :/ ).

Nicholas Latifi:

Hufflepuff: same boat as lance. his twitch streams are so wholesome he’s just chilling man. twitter made me write him off as daft and unnecessary at first but like fuck twitter i’m all here for ninky latvia now.

Chaser: lowkey gives me keeper vibes as well? the sensible, level-headedness. but obvs that’s lance so chaser it is. still the level-headedness that helps him hold down the fort btwn pierre and daniil who can tend to get a bit imaginative, and also the energies of them + lando.

5/19/20: so it’s quite clear to me that i grew tired of brain functions the more time i took on this and the later ones are a bit lacking and for that i’m very sorry. that being said i’m still happy to see this finished bc the idea was VERY exciting for me.

#max verstappen #charles leclerc #daniel ricciardo #lando norris #f1 #formula one #f1 grid #harry potter grid #finally done folks lordt #was anyone waiting for this idk but it's here #it's also glaringly obvious who i know less about but that too is something that one must excuse #whoops

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philomenafm · 4 years ago

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(NATALIA DYER, DEMI GIRL) - Have you seen PHILOMENA CARMICHAEL? PHILLY is in HER/THEIR SOPHOMORE year. The WILDLIFE SCIENCE MAJOR is 20 years old & is a TAURUS. People say SHE/THEY are WHIMSICAL, PATIENT, APATHETIC and UNPREDICTABLE. Rumors say they’re a member of CALLOWAY. I heard from the gossip blog that SHE CONCEALED MURDEROUS EVIDENCE (JAMES. 21. EST. THEY/THEM.)

ive done sm switches bt. she is the one. she is the one i love. trust me. ples. this is an old intro n im frankly. too lazy 2 read it bt. i love her a lot shes very good please like her

TW CANCER, TRAUMA, DEPERSONALIZATION / DEREALIZATION DISORDER ( ALT. DISSOCIATION ), DEATH, DECAY, MAGGOTS.

aesthetic.

wildflowers in your hair and bare feet against moss, binoculars and maps, madonna beating out of half-dead speakers in a half-dead van, whipping wind, jumping off cliffs and rolling down hills, a bandaid wrapped around each finger, cryptic bumper stickers and cryptids in the woods, facing the sun and letting the rays hit you, counting stars late into the night, dancing naked in the woods with nothing but fire to light your way, mismatched socks and lucky ribbons, hoarding a box of special treasures, shoplifting and diner-dashing, bleach against roots, pink sweaters paired with ripped fishnets and slip dresses with knock off uggs, willingly wearing crocs, glitter stickers, fungi and feeling one with them, lying down and decomposing, they’ll find us in a week. they’ll find us in a week.

basics.

full name: philomena brontë carmichael

nickname(s): philly, phil, etc.

b.o.d. - april 20th, 2000

label(s): the amaranth, the halycon, the neophyte, the wanderer, etc. etc.

height: 5′4″

hometown: woodside, ca

sexuality: demisexual

pinterest ( & her family pinterest b/c they’re my most developed family uwu)

stats

favorite song: wonderfully bizarre, bendigo fletcher / we can be defined by the things we want / i’ll be a life full of free haircuts from the one that i love / we’ll collect fallen out teeth in a candy jar / mice for the backyard peregrine falcon reservation.

background.

a middle child belonging to christopher and imogen carmichael - two stanford professors. christopher specialized in british literature whilst imogen specialized in the classics. hence the name.

the order of siblings goes as such: lysander, elektra, juno, philomena, and twins orion & valora. the deal was that everybody had a greek (or in juno’s case, roman) first name and a middle name inspired by a piece of british literature circa 1800s and under. a family of nerds, if you will.

so, clearly - right off the bat, their parents are … eccentric. they’re both in love with their respected topic, and with each other, and with their kids. the carmichael family is a happy family.

they each have their own quirks and whatnot - though philly’s always been particularly dreamy - even as a child, she’d spend hours watching clouds or caterpillars or the leaves blow in the wind rather than play with other kids. she wasn’t a shy kid - she just had her own interests.

hardship doesn’t hit the family until philomena is five and starts having splitting headaches. they’re slow at first - but as soon as she’s seeing spots and unable to walk in a straight line, doctor appointments are made.

it doesn’t take long for them to discover the tumor, though the official diagnosis of malignant ependymoma comes a month later.

it’s grade ii but slow-moving, small enough to not be as much of a threat as worried, but big enough where removal is necessary. philomena earns a scar and brings it in for show-and-tell. for two months afterwards, philly’s at radiotherapy monday through friday.

they’re lucky - philomena’s considered cancer-free by the next year. she’s babied at first - handled delicately, as if she could break if touched - but with five other children … it doesn’t last for too long.

and life continues as normal.

her personality doesn’t shift much over the next few years - she’s awfully independent for a kid, and awfully quiet - when she speaks it’s about faeries and bigfoot, about how the sky is so blue and if you listen quietly, you can hear the leaves whisper their secrets to each other. this is not odd.

she’s close to all her siblings, but she idolizes her older sister - elektra. elektra’s six years older and dyes her hair whatever colors she wants. elektra bought a knife off a seedy guy downtown. elektra threw away all of her heels and renounced god. elektra is god. her music is loud but it’s not heavy - it’s florence and the machine.

they’re opposites - elektra’s boisterous and feels loudly, philomena’s softer and feels…less. when elektra sneaks out, philomena keeps watch. they are a duo.

philomena is smart - but she’s fifteen and hates school. hates sitting inside all day. hates the same routine - day after day - it’s all the same. her parents’ routine is the same, philly feels contained and she wants to live.

elektra’s twenty-one and just bought a brand new spanking (used but not falling apart) 19-something volkswagen … van - using her entire savings account. she says she’s tired of routine, she’s leaving the next day.

naturally, philomena stows away in the back and isn’t discovered until they’re two states away and she’s got to pee. elektra nearly crashes the van in shock.

it’s an argument - philomena vs. elektra, then them vs. their parents, then their parents vs. the school, the state - it’s an ordeal. philomena switches to an online program in the end.

it hurts christopher and imogen - lysander’s not having any of their nonsense, juno’s betrayed and alone - the twins are twins. in the end, it’s alright. the carmichael family is a happy family.

philomena and elektra take their time - it’s not a road trip, it’s their new life, permanently on the road. they stop and explore often - they do odd jobs in whatever town they settle in. they dine-n-dash, they shoplift. they survive in their own way.

during particularly desperate times, they two resorted to identity theft & credit fraud - getting away with it only by ditching the cards once they’ve made it out of state.

she drops out of high school officially when she’s seventeen - they have to drive all the way back to california to deal with the wrath of their parents and to deal with paperwork, but it’s done. philomena doesn’t know what path she wants in life - but it’s not that.

it’s during this time that the episodes occur - philomena’s outside her body, philomena’s wrapped in cotton, her memories are not her own. she’s looking in the mirror and she doesn’t recognize herself. they take shelter in a city for six months, long enough for her brand spankin’ new therapist to figure out what’s wrong with her. she’s diagnosed with depersonalization / derealization disorder - they think it’s stress. philomena doesn’t get stressed. they think it’s trauma. she laughs - she never laughs.

there is trauma though, deep-rooted but somewhere inside - you just have to look for it.

you. just. have. to. look. for. it. look for it. look for it. look for it look for it look -

you were ten and she was thirteen, an off-trail hike in familiar woods in a familiar town, safe and familiar. it was your idea, to stray from the carved out paths, down creeks and up hills and round, and round again. you’re the one who spotted the scarf first, sticking up from the dirt and dancing in the wind like the beginning of reincarnation. it was not reincarnation, it was discovery. it was ruin. with curiosity drawn, you skidded down - with compliance, followed juno, followed your sister - clumsy in her steps and tumbling down quicker than you. you saw the corpse, but juno felt it. decaying flesh and maggot.

and she left juno, just like that - just five years later, when juno had finally gone to the end of her wits. philly up and left. abandoned her.

philomena and elektra leave the city after that therapy session. they do not return. she’s always been good at hiding her secrets.

three years later and her parents want philly to have a higher education - desperate for it, really - worried for her future. it’s a battle that she loses, getting her ged and applying to a local college in florida in shameful compliance.

they’re there for a year until philly gets (expectantly) expelled from the community college & the two of them are banned from the town they’d residing in up until that point. they don’t talk about it - but boy, was it one hell of a time.

they found refuge in preaker, a town that seemed to suit them well - it suited elektra’s desire to travel up and down the east coast, and it intrigued philomena enough to the point of her being content with staying. soon after, philly officially transferred to yates for her freshmen spring term & theyve been here since.

(whenever anna brings cillian uh. he’s in here too he’s been traveling w them fr like 3ish years. i just cannot rewrite atm KDSGLSDKLGKFGHLKSL bt hes here. n hes sexy. n we love him. bro3tp)

OH. hey yeah the secret. errmm. tht’s on cillian. philly just hid the evidence. no they didnt kill someone yes they did no they did not <3 yes

personality & facts.

she’s quiet but she’s confident - her voice sounds like rustling leaves, if leaves smoked a pack of cigarettes a day.

often underestimated - philly’s petite and looks like she’d fall over if a plastic bag blew too close to her. she’s independent - for the most part. elektra is the only person philly takes orders from.

has always been considered odd - weird, strange. still talks about the trees as if they’re listening, as if they’re old friends. she’s vague and doesn’t elaborate on the things she says.

believes in pretty much any superstition you throw her way. luck is very important to her. if you ask her if the earth is flat, she’ll say probably. believes strongly in bigfoot and the lochness monster. has personally seen aliens, and loves ghosts almost more than herself.

she can be amusing - whether you ‘get’ her or not, her outlook is often bright - she talks about the negatives the same way she talks about the positives. can be seen as naive or gullible, but she’s plenty smart. even if half of her education has come directly from google.

philly doesn’t laugh. a smile, yes - often, in fact - not always reaching her ears, or bearing teeth - but these are not indicators of her happiness. philly is consistently content. she thinks many things are funny - she still will not laugh.

her voice is often monotonous - she doesn’t sound dreary, she sounds far-away. her voice carries. her emotions are often unknown to others.

is apathetic in most situations. she’s hard to bother - she’s incredibly patient and enjoys the company of most - tolerates them at the very least. it’s hard for her to express her emotions, because she feels them so little that it’s very nearly not worth it. her affection is not verbal - it’s small touches and gestures of kindness, love in her own way.

is a fan of knock-knock jokes and bad puns. she won’t crack a smile while telling you them, nor does she expect you to laugh. she just enjoys them.

she owns a motorola razr covered in puffy stickers - hasn’t ever had a smartphone. she’s a fan of emoticons. her favorite is :o)

has a lot of bruises and scratches and scars - she’s often getting herself into pickles. there are always, at the very minimum, three bandaids on each hand.

she has insomnia, so she’s awake often. is often seen wandering town - even when she shouldn’t be, even when it might be dangerous. her intuition is delayed. when she does sleep - her dreams are vivid and fantastical.

keeps a box of memories - sentimental bits and pieces she’s picked up over the last few years. there are a lot of buttons and postcards, but any teeny tiny object will do.

her style changes every week - most, if not all, of her clothes are thrifted. one week she’s baby spice and the next she’s lydia deetz. she combines pieces from different styles often - she looks like a barbie clothed by a child. she feels most comfortable like this.

will either patch-up the clothes that get too worn or reuse them in some way. sometimes donates the clothes she gets tired off - isn’t minimalistic, but she’s learned to keep only a small amount of possessions.

the only consistency is her lucky ribbon - it’s pastel yellow and silky and as thin as a shoelace. she ties it onto her outfit of the day, everyday. if she loses it, she’s lost. elektra has a matching ribbon (& so does leo fowler eyes emoji)

has no problem with minor theft - she only takes bare minimum, puts herself and elektra first and that’s how it’s always been. she tries to be good while in preaker / yates - would hate to be forced out by mobs with torches and pitchforks

currently living in calloway while elektra stays in their van, florence - sometimes philly stays there during the weekends.

they used to live in motels on the occasion, the cheapest room, and more often than not they’d both go home with strangers for a comfier bed and a hotter shower.

it was a common occurrence - she didn’t sleep with them - but somehow, she weaseled her way into their homes anyway. has come out mostly unscathed, on most occasions. this has been a practice ever since they’ve been on the road.

really, truly - has not slept with anybody, had her first and only kiss at thirteen with a frog. this doesn’t bother her. edit: her first & only kisses hv been w leo fowler. this is important

will consume anything you put in front of her - isn’t picky.

listens to whatever they’ve picked up along the way but she likes instrumentals the best. her second favorite genre is 1990′s and 2000′s top hits. they’re nostalgic for her. third favorites? florence, of course. fleetwood mac. the bird and the bee.

loves storms - will go out in the rain and will risk her life for it.

owns a pair of roller-skates and is often skating rather than walking. unless she’s on grass - then she’s walking barefoot.

has many hobbies, and gets bored of them often. her favorite hobby is welding. she’s not certified.

also, juggling.

also, accordion.

the kind of girl who’ll do any job you give her. odd jobs are her favorite jobs. babysitting is her least favorite - but she does it anyway. has lost children before. have they ever been found? not by philly.

dyes her hair blonde often and cuts her own hair - bangs included - finds it cathartic, likes the itchiness of bleach.

everything she does is often in pursuit of feeling free, alive, and meaningful.

( like her frequent visits to the woods, late at night when the moon is high and full. it’s freeing to dance around a fire, stark naked in the cold. builds immunity )

comes and goes wherever she pleases, nothing & nobody can stop her. she knows to respect nature. exudes natural trust energy <3 dont know wht tht means but

the trust expands to animals as well, she has a certain knack for getting them to like her. has too many ‘pet’ rats that reside with her, alongside a baby raccoon & a few crow pals. has a new animal companion everyday, but she doesn’t contain them or force them to stay. edit: she hs a tabby cat named pail, now. named in honor of her mother, bucket.

leaves her window in calloway wide open because of this, because her window is conveniently right besides a tree with sturdy branches. good for animal smuggling, sneaking in and out, hiding, etc. etc. world is her oyster.

though her room in calloway is ??? frankly a mess ??? already ??? usually keeps most of her possessions in her memory box but she’s also turned her room into a mini labyrinth of knick-knacks. very cozy, but very nest-like. think of howl’s room from howl’s moving castle.

wanted connections.

how did you get in here ;; someone whose room she perhaps crashed at late at night, mysteriously. she refuses to explain where she’s come from. she’s gone before you wake. they could literally not know her at all she’s just sleeping halfway under their bed like <3 thank you <3

ma’am this is a wendys ;; someone who sees her constantly <3 doing outlandish shit <3 bc lets b real. shes weird. shes a weirdo. why do u think she wears the same hat everyday. (she doesnt wear hats often) anyways. they probably dnt even like her? just think shes very strange?

im literally going to dissect you ;; someone who. wants to figure out philly. pick at her brain. wear her shoes. kind of in the same category of above in this general like. ur fkn weird. bt they wna figure out why <3 they wna play therapist <3 jokes on u she hates therapists

liddle thief in the night ;; someone who has caught her stealing. or dining n dashing. either/or. perhaps both. she steals a lot :/

oh like. friends n stuff ;; of any closeness. ppl she talks 2 conspiracies with, ppl she goes on late night walks with, ppl she explores with, ppl she steals with, ppl she smokes with, etc. etc. ppl who bring her out to parties cos they like her funky little ways when she gets drunk n tries to climb atop everything <3

thts nice. anyways ;; this is fr like. literally anything unrequited. philly doesnt like <3 a lot of ppl <3 In That Way. so its basically just. ur muse thinks shes very neat n she thinks ur muse is very neat bt platonically. she doesnt do hookups or anything n if she does i tend 2 like. run purely based off of chemistry even with. most of her connections in general.

uuhh. anything ;; HLKDGKSDLKGHLKSFDSHGKFD i nvr rly hv a lot of connections up fr philly bc shes like. a very unpredictable muse n i think its usually better to just. throw her in! n see wht happens! we cn still plot obv n come up w some fun things bt fr the most part shes very organic

#yatesintro #cancer tw #trauma tw #death tw #dissociation tw #maggots tw #murder mention

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cherryyharryy · 5 years ago

Text

Burning Words

Chapter Two: Lunch, Library, and Lady Liberty

WC: 7,400

Previous part

Songs for this chapter

The prickling scratch of my highlighter dragging across a strip of text reminds me of how naïve I really am. I hate the sound, hate how uneven the lime green line sits, jagged over the inked words, with a pool of color where the pen sat at the beginning of the sentence.

It’s raining outside, and rain in New York is not like rain anywhere else. It’s purposeful, like a painting, like it belongs here. The only difference is that nothing changes—not like back home. In Georgia, people would come out afterwards, drive ten miles to the nearest pit and screw their trucks through the mud. Kids would run outside and look for worms and slugs, puddles to jump in. Dogs would dig holes in the softened earth. But here, no one stops. No one bats an eye, not even the people who forget their umbrellas. I wish rain was still life changing.

I sigh, close my notes, and cap my highlighters. “Any ideas for lunch?”

Jessie dips her head back in thought. I see her lashes flutter and her lips pinch, but then she shrugs. “We could order pizza?” She’s sat cross-legged on a patchwork armchair, laptop balanced across her thighs with a pen teetering between her teeth. I have to tip my head over the back of my chair to see her, upside down. “I’ve got a coupon for that place down the street.”

“We always order pizza.”

“We could learn how to cook.”

I click my tongue. “Bingo.”

The far wall of the apartment has a generous sized window. The floor creaks like we’re torturing it every time we move across a room, the bathtub faucet leaks when it’s hot out, and I know more about my neighbors’ lives than I really need to. But the window....it’s like a movie. My chair sits beside it. I try to count raindrops but there are too many.

“Chinese?” I offer.

“You and your egg rolls.”

“They’re the only thing I want when I don’t really wanna eat. I didn’t eat breakfast. And I only had a handful of popcorn for dinner last night.”

I can see a park from here, and in the winter when the trees are bare, a neighboring tennis court. Flowers hang limply from their stems along the sidewalk. A cat scrambles across the road, sporadic, and suddenly I envy the lack of knowledge animals have, lack of responsibilities, sense of time, unspoken contracts. At times I wish I were a depressed cat soaked to the bone, thinking if I move quick enough I’ll escape the rain.

“What?” I miss half of what Jessie asks.

“How’s your class been?”

“Which one?”

Jessie pauses her movements to assert me with a knowing glare. “You know what class. How’s the British babe?”

“Ugh, Harry.”

“Harry,” she tests his name before I continue. A few students have called him by his name, but he’s quick to correct them, surely enjoying his authority.

“He’s most definitely not a babe. A jackass. And he’s been as jackass-y as ever.” I join Jessie when she starts to laugh. “He calls on me every chance he gets. And I swear it’s just to humiliate me.”

“Well at least he’s nice to look at.”

“That means nothing when he’s a jerk.”

“True.” Jessie shrugs. “What about Truman’s...it’s near campus?”

I loll my head back and narrow my gaze. They don’t have egg rolls. “Yeah that’s fine.”

“My treat.”

***

In Hungarian, there are two words for the color red. Piros and vörös, with different times to use them, and should be used accordingly. When I was a kid I got them wrong; called my mom’s hat vörös, and got a slap on the wrist by my grandmother.

I spent that evening hiding in my closet, using the sleeve of my Winnie the Pooh pajamas to soak up the cascade of tears. When my cousin found me, I begged him to explain what I’d done wrong.

“Piros is blood inside the body. Vörös is when it comes out.”

That’s all I was left with. And I never did understand the difference. For years now that night resurfaces in my brain, and I think, I’m older now, I’ll be able to get it.

But now, as I stand on the sidewalk, peering through the window of Jessie’s lunch choice, I’m swarmed with the overbearing realization that age has nothing to do with it.

Harry’s in a striped button down, a sea foam green that reminds me of how different candy felt when I was younger, and high-waisted navy blue pants that couldn’t decide between flaring out or forming to the shape of his legs. I watch him balance plates and glasses, stacking forks and knives, spoons and mugs, soiled napkins and empty Splenda packets. He shovels his tip into his pocket and then disappears out of view while someone else wipes down the table.

“We can go somewhere else.”

“No.” I drag in the humid air, freshly washed, and hold it in my lungs until my head starts to spin. “This is fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. We’ll sit in the back. At Brigette’s table.”

I’m not sure if you can call Truman’s a restaurant. It isn’t fast food, fine dining, or even a bistro. It’s always dark. The chairs are pink and the tablecloths are green. There are flowers everywhere, I thought it was a flower shop and was sadly mistaken when I came in for the first time to buy Jessie a bundle of roses for her birthday. Strumming violins fill any silence between tables. It’s old but new, rooted woods, lamps from the 90’s, curtains from the 80’s, cooks from the 60’s and 70’s.

“Brigette’s not on today, but that table is available if you want it.”

Me and Jessie both blink at the hostess, unintelligible utterances coming out until we give up, give in, and sit ourselves down at the small tea table under the back window.

“I hope the rain doesn’t start again. I didn’t bring an umbrella.”

I hum, more preoccupied with trying to find a better distraction than my ripped cuticles.

“He’s up front,” Jessie assures, “I think I saw that guy I dated the summer after freshman year...Mack something or other...busing these tables. I’m sure he’ll wait on us.”

“Whitaker.”

“What?”

“His name was Mack Whitaker.”

“Yeah, him. It’ll be fine.” She shrugs like it’s nothing. I can’t imagine being her.

The place is busy, rightfully so on a bleak Saturday afternoon. The sun pokes through the clouds occasionally, carving streams of golden light across our table, Jessie’s face, and I assume mine as well. She compliments my eyes and I thank her, then proceed to detail a hundred abstract thoughts as to why she must pity me enough to lie. Someone—who isn’t Mack Whitaker—brings us each water and apologizes for the wait. They’re swamped, understaffed, and had barreled through a visit from the health department early this morning.

“Anthony’s pissed again,” Jessie mumbles, pursing her lips when I look up at her. I raise my brows so she’ll continue. “I missed his call the other night. But I was busy, so…” she shakes her head and scoffs a laugh.

“It’s sweet though, that he wants to talk to you everyday.”

“Yeah, I know,” she sighs.

“He’ll get over it,” I assure her. “He did the last time.”

“I just hope he’s over it before he comes up here.”

“Good afternoon, have you had a chance to look at the menu?” A girl from my class ends our conversation. She wears the same outfit as Harry. When she smiles I have to blink, her teeth whiter than heat, slightly crooked, and I imagine she overdoes the stinging gel against her gums to make up for it. It works. Her lips and cheeks look as if she’d became too friendly with strawberries; a character face, full and round, structured like magazine models with skin to match. I remember her from the previous year: pretty, even at eight in the morning. Boys like her, professors like her. Head of the Spanish club but I bet she can’t count past diez.

“Two turkey on ciabatta with tomato soup. No mayo on one. Diet Coke aaand…” Jessie raises her brows at me.

“My water is fine, thanks.”

“No mayo,” our server draws out the syllables while jotting down our order. ”Well my name’s Danielle, if you need anything just—” She points her pencil at me and squints, as if that clears my image and her memory. “You look familiar…” She hums to herself, taps the end of the pencil against her lips before her eyes light up. I gulp. “Oh! You’re in my class aren’t you? The early one on Monday and Wednesday!”

I nod. “Yeah, World Lit.”

“Yeah! How are you doing on your book report?”

“Um, good I guess. Haven’t gotten too far into it yet.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty stupid right? I heard it was the TA’s idea. I mean, I haven’t done a book report since high school.” She laughs and rolls her eyes. “So—oh! Speak of the devil.”

My face feels as though I’m being stung by a thousand bees. Harry sidles up beside Danielle and nods to each of us.

“Afternoon, ladies.” He’s holding a pitcher of ice water and flicks his gaze down to my glass.

I regret how much I drank when he fills it back up to the rim. I scrape my teeth against my tongue before I’m able to say anything. “Thank you.”

He nods, opens his mouth, but Danielle beats him to it.

“We were just discussing our class.”

My veins are filled with wax, dripping at a pace so unoriginal, hardening, crystallizing. I grab my cutlery wrapped in a mauve pink napkin to occupy my hands, twisting and prodding and jabbing.

“Yeah,” she continues when all he does is nod. “So what are we doing on Monday?”

“I have a surprise for you all, something I’ve been working on with Dr. Pierce—”

“Oh!” Danielle interrupts. “What is it?”

Harry raises his brows and laughs. “Well I can’t tell you, now can I? Won’t be a surprise.”

“Ohh, yes you can. We won’t say a word.”

Harry denies her once more. His eyes flicker down to me. “I’m sure you won’t. But you’ll have to wait for class to find out.”

“Oh my God! Your hand!”

I follow Jessie’s voice to see a small pool of blood decorating the table, my napkin having soaked up some, my skin a bit more. Red reflects in the sparkling silver of a fork and spoon, glistening on the blade of a knife I have carelessly sawed against the tip of my ring finger. I didn’t feel anything until I saw the cut, and now it stings.

“We have a first aid kit in the back.” I hear Harry say but I look to Jessie. “Here,” he pulls a handful of napkins from his apron and cups them around my finger. “Is this okay?”

I nod without looking at him. He tells me to come with him, and I oblige, weighing my evils as the entire room is now focused on our table and the girl bleeding out right before their eyes. As I walk with him, I selfishly hope I do lose enough to earn a transfusion, amputate my finger, something, anything, so I can leave. If I get to stay in the hospital, I won’t have to go to class Monday.

“Don’t worry!” Danielle whispers as she passes by us. “He’s great with his hands.”

I see vörös everywhere.

***

It burns. Really burns. But I’m thankful. It’s the only thing keeping me aware that I’m alive, that I can’t hide away, that I need to mark my movements as always. He rinses my finger under an ice cold water bottle he pulled from a tiny fridge below the staff’s sign-in computer. Someone yelled at him—Ralph. His name is on the bottle.

“This is cleaner than whatever comes out of the sink.”

He slips his foot around the leg of a metal chair and drags it over by the sink; the closet door it had held open falls shut. With a nod he tells me to sit. I say nothing, just watch him care for the small wound like my life really is dependent on it.

“Can I have your hand—er—can I see it? Your hand?” He rolls his lips in and clears his throat when I extend my arm to him. His touch is almost nonexistent. I barely feel his fingers splaying my hand flat and wide while he rinses the blood off. He uses a towel tucked into his waistband to dry me off, and then pops open the lid of the first aid kit.

“This is just an antiseptic...don’t think it should burn.” He smooths a small bit of opaque gel over the ridiculously tiny split in my skin. “I think the head and the hand...always an extreme amount of blood. When I was a kid, my sister’s cat scratched me, right under my left eyebrow. It felt like someone poured water down my face. Mum thought I was goin’ to die.” He folds a purple band-aid over my finger, frowning when it’s not smooth so he starts again. “There. Are you alright? Did I hurt you?”

“No,” I whisper.

“Good. Okay. Um, well I guess I’d better get back.” His hand lingers on the bandage, running his thumb over it one last time, and then he finally pulls away.

“Yeah.” I’m shaky when I stand, and curse myself when I almost trip over the chair when I turn to leave. I pause to speak over my shoulder. “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

The walk back is long, and I have to fight the urge to look and see what he’s doing. I don’t hear the chair scraping against the floor or Ralph complaining about his water. I’m thankful I threw on my good jeans this morning.

Jessie is bouncing in her seat when I return—the table beside ours. “Is it bad? It was a lot of blood! Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. It was really small. The cut I mean.” I look down at my bandage like it’s a secret. “Where’s my stuff?”

“They’re replacing it all,” she waves off. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, it throbs a little bit—”

“No, not that! I mean him. Did he say anything to you? Was he mean? Because I’ll go back there if you need me to.”

“No—no, sit down, would you.” I hold back a laugh; she doesn’t need the encouragement. “He was nice.”

“Good. I tried to follow you but the manager came out and asked me what happened. We get our meal free, by the way.”

“Well then I guess this was worth it.”

Our food comes quickly, served by the manager herself.

“Why aren’t you eating?”

I stir my soup. I can see the reflection of my eyes in the red pool, and I watch myself blink once before rippling my image away. “M’not that hungry.”

Jessie leans over the table and lowers her voice. “What happened?”

“What?”

“With Harry, in the back.”

“No, nothing.” I sigh and slump back into my chair. “I’m just tired. And I have a lot of work to do. That stupid report. And I have a quiz in another class on Tuesday. I’m fine. And he—”

“How are we doing? Is there anything I can get you guys?” Danielle looks prettier each time I see her. I shake my head while Jessie answers, keeping my focus on my untouched food. “Did Harry take care of you?”

It’s a good thing I wasn’t eating or else I would have choked. “Uh, yeah. He did.”

“I knew he would. He’s a sweet one.”

“Mhm.”

How easy it would be, to tell her my name. Tell her that her teeth are too white and her shirt is too tight. I could tell her that Harry’s sister’s cat scratched him when he was a kid and that’s where that tiny little scar above his eye is from. Did you know that Danielle? Or were you too preoccupied with what his hands were doing?

“Alright, well just holler for me if you need anything!”

I ignore her but she doesn’t seem to notice, waltzing off. Harry’s counting menus when she approaches him at the front. I think I hear her call him an angel, but I know I see him smile. I tell Jessie I want to leave. If I’m going to throw up it’s going to be in my bathroom with my best friend holding my hair back.

***

I've had the Arctic Monkeys stuck in my head all morning. Every clink of the spoon against my bowl of cheerios, every step I took rushing to school because I decided to spend my time in the shower crying, every yawn from everyone stumbling into class.

And I'll be yours until the stars fall from the sky,

Yours, until the rivers all run dry.

It’s five past eight. Dr. Pierce stands towards the corner, pointing at paperwork another professor is showing him. Each time a student cracks the door open they smile and hurry to their desk like they’ve won something. Freshmen. He told us twice that he doesn’t care if we’re late, it’s our grade not his, which I appreciate. My pen taps across my notebook.

And I'll be yours until the sun no longer shines,

Yours, until the poets run out of rhyme

In other words, until the end of time

He is late, however. I try to refuse my need to look up at the door each time it opens. I want to dismiss the anxiety of waiting for him.

I'm gonna stay right here by your side,

Do my best to keep you satisfied

Nothin' in the world could drive me away

'Cause every day, you'll hear me say

“Sorry, sorry,” Harry apologizes, bustling through the door. He did his best to fix the upturned collar of his rose pink button-down, subtly, albeit he fails miserably when a smudge of maroon is revealed. “I uh,” he clears his throat, “had some things to take care of. Got carried away.” He directs his excuse towards our professor, scrambling to pull out today’s materials from his bag.

Dr. Pierce bids the professor goodbye and welcomes Harry, offering him time to gather himself which he does rather quickly. His lips are pressed together until he’s the center of attention, scanning the room as he always does, finalizing on me and I swear his eyes glisten.

“So, uh, today we’ll be—”

“So sorry I’m late.” Danielle hurries through the door and takes her seat at the front.

“Right, um, welcome.” Harry’s gaze is trained on the paper in his hands. His brows furrow and he clears his throat before continuing. “As I was saying, we’re doing something a tad different today. Dr. Pierce and I have been talking, and we decided to break up our usual routine And with your reports due soon, offer you all a little added support. So we’ll be heading to the library where you all can work, ask questions, get mine or Dr. Pierce’s advice—whatever you need to finish the final touches before you hand anything in.”

Most everyone appears pleased with this news, proceeding to sling their bags over their shoulders and get out of their chairs.

“Hold on, hold on,” Dr. Pierce interjects the flow. “You must work on your report and your report only. This isn’t a free-for-all. And I don’t want to hear that you’ve finished it, because I can guarantee that there’s room for improvement from each of you.”

Danielle is the first to make it to the front. She passes Harry on her way to the door and straightens his collar. His face matches the rose colored stain she thumbs over and I think about how if I veer off and go home, no one will notice.

And I'll be yours until two and two is three,

Yours, until the mountains crumble to the sea

In other words, until eternity

Baby, I'm yours

***

Our library is something out of a medieval storybook. Rich, haunted woods and six tier windows where dust sparkles through the light pushing in. You can lose aged pennies against the floor and get lost behind dusty shelves if you want to. There are microfilms, typewriters, and a spirit machine downstairs and two velvet couches on the second floor.

I spent the majority of my first semester here, back when Jessie brought a different boy home every Friday night. I’ve missed the smell, the quiet, the disturbed alteration of reality inside its doors. But when I look around at my class tossing their bags on tables and hollering for Dr. Pierce or Harry’s attention, I’m not sure if I’ll make plans to come back.

Ms. Bortnick, the head librarian, is a stout woman who barely sees over the front desk, but somehow always knows when I’ve come in. When it’s raining, she knows the shake of my umbrella from everyone else’s. And when it’s spring, she knows my sneezes from everyone else’s. She is like a grandmother, only she’d never had kids, so not quite so in that you can’t get away with stuff. She has a bad eye and one good kidney, and sometimes she mixes these two things up, but I gave up on correcting her long ago. That’s how long I’ve been here.

She is Ukrainian and her accent is thick and aged, much like her mind. “Hello nyuszi,” she says before I’m fully inside. It’s bunny in Hungarian. A nickname from my mom, who tells everyone because she thinks it’s cute. Everyone, including the tiny librarian during the campus tour we took forever and a day ago.

“Hi Ms. Bortnick,” I say, lagging, like I’m embarrassed, because I am.

She just waves with a big grandmother-like smile that makes you miss home.

I take a seat at a small table, behind a section of Virginia Woolf. Most of the voices die down, the clicks of keyboards taking their place, and I pull out the research I’ve started for my report. The Tropic of Cancer, slightly tattered and worn, lay open beside my notebook, and my laptop sits adjacent.

“You coming along well?”

Shit. I jump, my ears ringing. “I’m fine.”

Harry nods and paces behind me to look over my shoulder. The air below his body weighs down against my back, so suffocating and harnessing that I’m sure I feel the waves and vibrations his heart emits. I try to swallow but my tongue gets in the way. I should’ve stayed home.

“I actually did an analysis on Henry Miller a couple years ago. If you wanna pick my brain, you’re more than welcome to.”

“Oh uh, thanks.”

His voice is grumbly, like rocks turning over beneath tires. Yet smooth, like washing sand off your body. I’m perplexed for a moment, at how these two things meet together so well, but that’s always the case with people. Like how Ms. Bortnick can’t remember anyone’s actual name, but sews that wound up with a pet name she picks out just for you.

“Yeah, I think I might even have an essay on my laptop. You can look over it if you’d like,” he says.

“Thank you, but I think I’m fine with what I have.”

“Well if you need anything, just let me know.”

I nod. My eyes blink once he steps away, and it takes me a moment to remember where I am and what I am doing. I’m a bit separated from most of the class, at one of the outlying tables apart from the student section where Harry ambles around everyone. Whenever he bends over to look at someone’s work, the muscles beneath his shirt ripple and contract. I can see his shoulder blades from here, and I’m failing to recall a time when the definition of someone’s spine has ever called for my attention.

I shake my head, naïvely expecting that to clear my mind. Google is pulled up on my laptop, but instead of searching for The Tropic of Cancer, I press the keys in Harry’s name.

The first couple links that pop up are social media accounts. I avoid these and move on to the next option, a link going back to our school. It takes me to his name under the directory, nothing more than a profile picture and his credentials.

Harry Styles

Received his Bachelor of Arts in English Literature at New York University in 2016. He completed a one year internship at the Ann Rittenberg Literary Agency Inc. in New York in 2017, and in 2018, spent a year abroad in France and Italy studying classic literature surrounding the 16th, 17th, and 18th centuries. He is currently working on his graduate degree, assisted professional teaching placement, and his thesis on the cultivation of the Renaissance era in regards to English literature.

I read over everything three times. That’s how long it takes me to grasp it all. He’s accomplished more in three years of his life than I have in my entire existence. It’s weird, being in my twenties and already feeding off the desire of wanting to be young again. It’s not fair how some people are prone to achievements and winning, while the rest of us are left to scramble around, years later to piece together a life that offers a sliver of satisfaction.

I close the window and ineptly click on one of his social media accounts, and for some reason my stomach twists. There’s a picture of him on twitter, from this weekend. He’s at Truman’s with his arm around Danielle, a smile on his face, and a caption thanking her for getting him his job. They’re both pretty; perfect for each other really. The only thing I can think of being thankful for in this moment is that I was not included in their picture. No one needs to see that comparison; I provide myself with enough pity to feed an army.

And maybe it’s stupid, but I navigate to Danielle’s account. There’s a weird fraction in the self-loathing lifestyle, like my brain needs a reminder of where I stand in this world. It keeps me in check, I believe. I cannot imagine thinking I look good, only to be reminded that I don’t in fact, look anything close to good. That’s a big fall to take, and I prefer to spend my time at the bottom. I’ve earned my place here.

I zoom in to every picture. Have you ever compared your wrist to someone? Or the space where your neck meets your shoulders? She has a big, red birthmark on her hip, but she makes it look necessary. And I’m sure Harry probably likes it. And I’m sure she’s told him how she’s no longer ashamed of it, and she’s not afraid to wear bikinis because she doesn’t care what people think. And she probably thinks that’s what makes her different and that’s the story she tells, how she overcame insecurity and loves her body now. And she would probably tell me that I just need to learn how to accept my flaws and learn to love them and then I’ll finally be happy like her. But that’s stupid, even stupider then me scrolling through her account to find some awkward picture, maybe one where her nose and lips are less perfect and I can start saving up for surgery too. Because if I looked like her, I’d have no problem being happy. I’d post pictures on the beach, and find a boyfriend, and not feel like a pathetic loser who’s done nothing with her life.

“Are you writing your report on Danielle?”

I lurch with stiff bones, and now I can’t remember if I’ve had this headache all day or if Dr. Pierce’s voice triggered it. Shamefully, I close the browser. “No, I’m sorry.” I hope that’s enough, because it’s all I can afford to give right now. Maybe if he knew I was seconds away from crying he’ll leave me alone.

“Get back to work please.”

Just make it ‘til you get home. You can cry there. Not here. Not here. Not here.

***

I tediously lower my body so that the water pulses right below my chin. My knees are covered, but only if I remain motionless, or the water will break against my skin and then my knee caps will appear suddenly. I inch my feet further across the acrylic until they are hidden once again.

There is a window extending from the floor beside the tub all the way up, over my head so I have a view of the street below as well as the sky, and it’s always quite a contrast. If the street is busy, then the sky is not. But then if the sky has a heavy to-do list, then it’s the road below me that becomes shallow, except when rain is falling in a race to its demise against the concrete.

I suck in a breath that’s full of my shampoo and bodywash and the rose oil I dropped in twenty minutes ago. I can taste it in my lungs, so before it becomes too much, I push against my heels, my knees forming mountains as they break the surface and my head becomes consumed a moment later. The pressure is light, just enough; I’m more aware that I’m living than I did when oxygen was flowing through my lungs. I count to ten and then release the burn as I crash upwards. It’s a bit dramatic and cinema worthy, but there’s no one watching; even the city-goers are too far below me to care that I live here.

“Is my phone in there?”

I drag my eyes open and sure enough, Jessie’s phone sits on the counter. “Come in!”

“Oh thank God, thought I left it at that party.” She picks her clothes from last night off the floor and throws them in the hamper. “You’re up early.”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“And why’s that?”

I shrug, but she doesn’t see me, now straightening up the mess she made of her toiletries, her back to me while she shoves everything into her drawer.

“Just one of those nights I guess.”

She peaks over her shoulder and hums. “You have a lot of those.” She turns fully, looking at me like she is a mother. I rack my brain for an excuse but I can’t find one. If I did, I would’ve tried it out on myself years ago. “Y’know I’m here to talk. I’m your best friend...that’s part of my job.”

I smile at the water, but turn away when I see my reflection. “I’m fine. Just getting used to the semester.”

She lets the defeat show on her face, and I’m glad I know how to mask mine. “Alright then. Well just text me if you need me. I’m always here for you.” Her voice is soft and patient and I feel guilty for lying to her. “I’m late for cello practice.”

“I’ll be fine. Gonna enjoy my day off.”

“And actually enjoy it! No studying, no flash cards!” She laughs when I roll my eyes. “I mean it. Go to the park, eat a pint of ice cream, masturbate, please, anything outside of those notebooks of yours!”

“I’ll add those to the list,” I laugh. “I’m probably just gonna stay home and relax. Watch Uptown Girls or something. Eat cookie dough.”

“And—”

“And masturbate I know.”

She kisses my head and grabs her phone, heading out the door, her voice fading as she leaves. “You can tell me all about it later.”

The tile is cold beneath my feet, and slick with warning as I pull the plug on the drain and take a moment to scan the world outside. The sun is in attendance today, some of its beams make their way into the bathroom and have crawled across the floor all morning. I decide to stand there, on the beams to warm my toes slightly. It’s probably more in my head, the warmth, but I’ll take it either way. The tiles are black and white, a classic checkerboard, and I gave up on choosing a color to step on not long after we moved in.

The mirror is foggy and I work fast to wash my face and brush my teeth, keeping my towel tight around myself until the last possible second, trading it’s warmth for a sweater and jeans. I slip into my shoes. I haven’t read much for leisure, and pick up my copy of Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl from my bookshelf before I leave. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve read it, but each time never fails to reward me with something I didn’t catch the last time.

***

There’s a park within walking distance from my apartment. I like to go there in the rain sometimes, under my green umbrella, and read literary magazines with a thermos of coffee Jessie made me. I look like the adult that I’m supposed to be. I don’t think anyone ever notices, which isn’t much different then the expectations I lay out for myself the night before.

Today, however, I am not walking to the park. I am taking a train to the park. The park—Central Park. And it’s not raining and I forgot to bring coffee, but I need today. I need to do something for myself. Something outside my comfort zone. That’s how you become a better person, right?

We don’t have subways back home. There isn’t much of anything back home other than high school football games, car washes, and stray cats that everyone feeds. The first time I rode the train I cried. Jessie told me that it was okay, and that’s why I did it the next time, and the time after that. I’m not going to cry today, though. I am not going to get overwhelmed and worry about when to get on and when to get off and who’s looking at me and how I wouldn’t be able to help anyone if they get mugged or how if I trip and fall on the platform, I’ll start praying for death.

Light flashes at a rhythm I’m unfamiliar with, but I manage to keep my focus on my book. It shakes in my hands but I keep reading. I’m not really reading, in its true form, that is. I’ve marked this book up so much I could use it as confetti, and those are the parts I’m reading. The parts that meant something to me at each stage of my life: I used a green pen at age eleven, red sharpie at fifteen, blue highlighter at twenty, and ripped sticky notes at twenty-three. It’s less of a commitment this way, but when the screeching travels up my spine and I can smell something other than people when I’m back on solid ground, I wipe my cheeks and they’re dry.

When I lie in bed at night and think over the many sins and shortcomings attributed to me, I get so confused by it all that I either laugh or cry: it depends on what sort of mood I am in. Then I fall asleep with a stupid feeling of wishing to be different from what I am or from what I want to be; perhaps to behave differently from the way I want to behave.

I have a plan in place. One that I didn’t feel comfortable telling Jessie even though I know she’d be supportive. That’s the conundrum; having a best friend who loves you so much they want to fix you. She would have tagged along today, asked me how I’m feeling a million times and try to rationalize everything. She’d tell me all the ways I can be happy. But she can’t do that. No one should be allowed to, really. Because if you say can then there also has to be the option of can’t. And if people had the choice to pick what state their mind was in every day, I wouldn’t be strolling around parts of New York I’ve never been in, trying to scrounge up some off-handed version of self-love.

I bought a bath bomb and candles, stopped at a stationary store to pick up pens and notebooks that I don’t need, another Beatles t-shirt and chocolate. A farmer’s market was selling fresh fruit and I bought a tomato and ate the whole thing right there. I don’t care that it’s cheap retail therapy. It’s blocking out school and certain people and my age and my lack of success as an adult. And maybe it’s not working, but it’s New York—there’s distractions everywhere. And that’s exactly what I’m doing today.

***

Liberty Island. That’s where the Statue of Liberty is. I am stupid for thinking Staten Island, but in my defense, that’s where everyone outside of New York thinks it is. When I moved here I wanted to see it. It was going to be this defining moment that solidified me in my new home, this incredible rebirth that validated me leaving my parents. I was going to buy cheap postcards and send them to my mom and I’d say See, I’m here and I’m happy. This was the right choice. I fit in. Please stop crying. At least I didn’t think it was Ellis Island.

I’m on the right ferry heading towards the right island. Soon, I really see her and I start crying. She’s green but she’s not green, and she’s copper but also not really. She’s this woman and that’s fucking cool, except I know had she not been a gift, she would have been a man. There is someone with a microphone talking about her but the wind burns my ears so I pull up google on my phone.

The Babylonian Ishtar, Imperial Rome’s goddess Libertas was Papal Rome’s “Mother of the Harlots and abominations of the earth” and the template for America’s Statue of Liberty.

I paid to visit the pedestal but not the crown. I don’t trust my body to climb twenty stories. I don’t wanna know what I’ll think about that high up. I saved up and bought a reservation and now that I’m here, I wish I’d brought Jessie along. I wish I had more people to choose from to bring along because this isn’t Jessie’s thing. But that was the idea, after all, to keep this day to myself, venture out, mark something off a bucket list I haven’t started yet. Distractions, distractions, distractions.

My bags are heavy and it’s hot, but I manage to read a lot of plaques and stroll around intentionally. I do, at certain moments, feel a sort of liberation with myself. Kind of like the first time you go out driving on your own. It’s scary, and a part of you still wishes your mom was behind the wheel, but that kind of being alone is freedom. It’s not the car or the license, it’s the option to be fully by yourself at any time.

And I can’t help but wonder, compare, really, myself to the woman who I’m wandering around below her dress. She does lonely well. She does it right. All by herself she stands, a beacon, a purified symbol. And this is where I’m at, apparently, scrutinizing my abilities at making loneliness look mature and comparing myself to a statue.

Truly, this is my day.

I take pictures of everything around me and it must be the sea air, because I do contemplate asking this dad of four kids to take one of me. I push that out of my head rather quickly. I switch the filter to black and white and angle my phone to get a photo overlooking the harbor once I’m back outside, but stop right in my tracks, when a familiar face is in the frame.

“Oh my God! I can’t believe you’re here! What a small world!”

Dozens of names swim around my head, and my courtesy smile eases into a real one once one of them starts flashing, matching this person’s face before I make a fool of myself.

“Devon, hey, s’been a while.”

“I know, God,” she shakes her head in disbelief, “high school feels like a century ago.”

She looks the same, only like a new version. Not exactly older or more mature, but like she stopped experimenting with makeup and her acne finally calmed down. All of her features sit on top of her face, warm, eyes just as piercing as when we were seventeen. She was always cute and that quality has followed her over the years.

“So what are you doing?” she asks and I squint because of the wind, imagining her words rearranging in the breeze into something easier to answer.

“Um, just sightseeing.”

“Well I figured that,” she laughs. “I mean, your life, what’s up?”

I know my face looks resistant. Everyone pulls the same look when your stuck explaining something that is going to automatically lower the standard in which the other person sees you: nearly closed eyes, barred upper teeth while your top lip pulls up in thought, sucking in a short breath before speaking, stiff neck and chest.

“I uh, well I’m still in school,” I nod along and loosen my volume to sound like I’m happy. “And uh, working.”

“Oh are you working on your masters?”

“No just um, maybe one day, but not right now.”

“Okay.” It is that ‘okay’. The you-are-turning-pathetic-right-before-my-eyes Okay. She smiles anyway. “I’m thinking of going back next year to get my doctorate.” She shrugs. “So do you live here, or…”

“Yeah, yeah, I got a scholarship—”

“Oh well that’s good!”

“Uh huh.”

“We’re just visiting. Trying to hit all the hot spots though.”

“We?”

“Me and my fiancé. She’s—” she cranes her neck and points to somewhere behind her, “on a work call at the moment. Y’know it’s beautiful here, I wonder if we could have the wedding right here,” she laughs.

“Yeah that would be something.”

“So, are you seeing anyone?”

“Not at the moment.”

She gasps like she’s discovered something and points at the air between us. “Wait, weren’t you dating that guy, the uh, really smart one who graduated early? God, what was his name, Mark or Matt?”

“No that uh, that wasn’t me.”

“I could’ve sworn it was,” she laughs.

“Nope.”

“Aw, bless your heart, well you’ll find someone. The city’s big!”

I am done with this conversation. I force a smile and excuse myself, heading off in the opposite direction so if any tears fall she won’t see, and keep to myself until it’s really cloudy and mist pricks my skin. Not soon enough, we’re boarding the ferry again.

I wave to Lady Liberty and imagine her waving back when we leave. If I squint, it kind of does. Whether she’s saying goodbye or good luck, I don’t know.

***

Dinner is one of those meals that either means everything or nothing. Tonight it means nothing. I walk past Truman’s, slowly. Harry isn’t in there and I stop right outside the plated glass window, now decorated with orange and yellow leaves, and try to figure out if I would’ve gone in had he been there. A band is setting up along the back wall and that’s where I see Danielle. She’s got a tray of drinks that each member takes. When she spins around she’s smiling and she smiles as she walks towards the hostess’ podium and she smiles when she squeezes the hand of some guy that comes up and she smiles when she sees me.

I wave because what else am I supposed to do. If I flip her off, she might strangle me with her extensions, or tell Harry that I was a bitch, or spit in my food the next time I come in. I wait till she’s distracted, and then I leave. I stop at a food truck and stuff my face with a taco. Nothing.

Back down the street, back on the train, back to my apartment.

“I didn’t cry this time.”

Jessie glances up from sliding the bow across the strings, the last note stinging the air. She looks so small next to the instrument.

“On the train. I didn’t cry.”

****************************************************************************************

Next Chapter

Let me know what you think!

Thank you to my wonderful beta readers @aileenacoustic and @bathrobesinparadise!!!!!!!!!

#ta!harry #burning words #harry styles #harry styles writing

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pamphletstoinspire · 6 years ago

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A Great Catch: The 153 Fish

“I welcome you on the eve of a great battle.” So began General Dwight D. Eisenhower on May 15, 1944, solemnly addressing the admirals and generals and officers of the Allied Expeditionary Force, announcing the proposed strategy for Operation Overlord, codename for the Normandy invasion. Underestimated as an orator, Eisenhower’s speech riveted the attention of all in the tense atmosphere. The location was an unlikely one: a lecture hall of Saint Paul’s School in London. The boys had already been evacuated to Berkshire during the Blitz. The top brass, who had arrived from the advance command post of the Supreme Headquarters of the Allied Forces at Southwick House in Hampshire, were seated on school chairs, with two armchairs occupied by King George VI and Prime Minister Winston Churchill. General Bernard Montgomery, the future Field Marshall, brought out his maps to show the British and American positions. The school served as headquarters of the XXI Army Group under Montgomery, and he felt at home there because he was an Old Pauline. Planning took place in the office of his old Headmaster, or High Master, which was the title used from the day of the school’s foundation in 1509 by John Colet.

As a close friend of Erasmus, and an even closer spiritual advisor to Thomas More, Colet was the epitome of a Renaissance humanist, laden with learning he had brought back from France and Italy for lectures in his own university at Oxford. More lured him back to his birthplace of London where his father had been a rich merchant and twice Lord Mayor. As Dean of Saint Paul’s cathedral, Colet put his reforming principles to work with eloquent imprecations against the pride, concupiscence, covetousness, and worldly absorptions that had tainted the priesthood. Archbishop Warham of Canterbury dismissed frivolous charges of heresy brought against Colet by offended clerics. Colet’s combination of charm and audacity engendered the respect even of Henry VIII, despite his bold preaching against the king’s French wars. As a priest with no children of his own, and no nieces or nephews because all twenty-two of his siblings had died in childhood, Colet devoted much of his inherited fortune to founding Saint Paul’s school for teaching 153 boys literature, manners, and, with Renaissance flair, Greek on a par with Latin. Erasmus said that when Colet lectured he thought he was hearing a second Plato. If so, his Platonism was Christian. He wanted a great catch, similar to the 153 fish that the apostles had hauled in at the command of the Risen Christ. The boys would be welcome “from all nations and countries indifferently.”

The catch was great indeed, and since then the school has turned out graduates including, just for starters: John Milton, Samuel Pepys, John Churchill, G.K. Chesterton, three holders of the Victoria Cross, and the astronomer for whom Halley’s comet is named — all rising from the first 153.

Exegetes, sometimes with too much time on their hands, and even earnest saints, have teased 153 and other numbers into signifying possibly more than their meaning. Jerome tried to find some significance in the fact that the second-century Greco-Roman poet Oppian listed 153 species of fish in his 3,500 verses about fishing, the “Halieutica,” dedicated rather sycophantically to the emperor Marcus Aurelius and his son Commodus. Of course, Oppian was wrong in his counting; besides, he wrote after the compilation of the Gospel. Augustine found that 153 is the sum if the first seventeen integers, which may reveal nothing more than his skill at arithmetic. In his devotion to the Rosary, Louis de Montfort found something prophetic between the catch of Galilean fish and the sum of fifteen decades of Hail Mary’s plus the first three beads.

There may be no end to such agile mental exercises, and I once wrote a book — Coincidentally — rather whimsically illustrating how it is possible to detect endless matrices if you try hard enough. For example, faddish New Age fascination with the esoteric numerology of Kabbalah cultism can strain minds. It may not have been a helpful influence on the popular singer who gave millions of dollars to a Kabbalah institute and recently was confined to a mental health facility purportedly against her will. Carl Jung wrote at some length about what he termed “synchronicity” and warned that an obsession with “acausal principles” could unbalance reason. Yet even a detached observer might pause at the fact that the Sacred Tetragrammaton appears 153 times in Genesis.

The point here is that there are many levels of meaning in divine revelation that may be clues to the operation of Divine Providence. “For I know the plans that I have for you, plans for welfare and not for calamity to give you a future and a hope” (Jer. 29:11). Even our limited mathematics may articulate something of the symmetry by which the pulse of Creation may be taken: “‘To whom then will you compare Me, or who is My equal?’ says the Holy One. Lift up your eyes on high, and behold who has created these things, who brings out their host by number” (Is. 40:25). Perception of this saves the saints from madness and inspires them to awe.

Contemplation of the unity of the True God and True Man encounters layers of reality beyond the comprehension of human intelligence. Nonetheless, we can perceive the existence of those dimensions. A “Participatory Anthropic Principle,” first forwarded by John A. Wheeler, suggests that the universe is structured with a set of physical constants or “cosmic coincidences” without which there would be no intelligent life on Earth, and that it is only by participating in that structure by rational perception that the constants or coincidences have their potency. So there may be in those 153 fish the Voice saying: “I have yet many things to say to you, but you cannot bear them now” (John 16:12).

It would be a mistake to suppose that the apostles went back to fishing in disobedience to the Master’s command years before that they drop their nets and follow him. Christ is the Alpha and Omega, meaning that he is able to know everything from start to finish at the same time. Before the Resurrection, Jesus told the apostles that they would meet a man in Jerusalem carrying a pitcher of water, from whom they would rent an Upper Room: “So they went and found it just as Jesus had told them (Luke 22:13).” Thus he was also able to “set up” his men, ordering them to go to the Sea of Tiberius, knowing what he had prepared for them there, in order to instruct them.

In his humanity he did a domestic thing in cooking breakfast. In his divinity he predicted what the apostles would become. Whatever else may be encoded in the number 153, the fact is that this event happened, for had it been an oriental myth there would have been a million fish. This number was a detail never to be forgotten. Even when the youngest of them, the cadet of the Twelve, was the last to survive and his mind was weary with age, he said with a thrill like that of a youth: “That which was from the beginning, which we have heard, which we have seen with our eyes, which we have looked upon, and our hands have handled, of the Word of life” (1 John 1:1).

There is one thing we know that prevents miniaturizing Christ as the best of men but only a man: “For in Him all things were created, things in heaven and on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or rulers or authorities. All things were created through Him and for Him. He is before all things, and in Him all things hold together” (I Col. 16-17). In him was an urgent appeal to the intellect, which for the Jew was a function of love and not confined to the brain, as is clear in the Resurrection appearance to Cleopas and his companion on the Emmaus road: “O foolish ones, how slow are your hearts to believe all that the prophets have spoken. Did not the Messiah have to suffer these things and then enter his glory?” (Luke 24:25-26). Here was the culmination of his earlier rabbinical catechesis: “‘Do you have eyes but fail to see, and ears but fail to hear? And don’t you remember? When I broke the five loaves for the five thousand, how many basketfuls of pieces did you pick up?’ ‘Twelve,’ they replied. ‘And when I broke the seven loaves for the four thousand, how many basketfuls of pieces did you pick up?’ They answered, ‘Seven.’ He said to them, ‘Do you still not understand?’” (Mark 8: 18–21).

The unseen calculus that fascinated Oppian when counting fish in coastal Cilicia much more amazed William Blake when describing an imagined “Tyger” which certainly was not rampant in London: “What immortal hand or eye / Could frame thy fearful symmetry?” If there is substance to some anthropic principle in the play of numbers, it is found in the fact that after the 153 fish had been dragged to shore, a small fire was burning as Jesus asked Peter three times if he loved him. And Peter wept in remembering that by another small fire in Jerusalem he had said three times that he never knew the Man.

BY: FR. GEORGE W. RUTLER

From: www.pamphletstoinspire.com

#a great catch the 153 fish

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taiwanpuppetryproudthunderbolt · 5 years ago

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interview 15

Richard Chamberlain - How he keeps the Faith in his Private Life

"Fame isn't the answer. The answer is allowing yourself to be who you are."

"I'm not interested in being a multimillionaire; I want to do the kind of work that interests me. When I was beginning, I wanted to do everything: films, TV, modern things, period things, classics, musical theatre, I wanted to make records and I also wanted to paint. I'm a medium with occasional goods. I took dance lessons, and I have discovered that you can't do everything, but I've done a lot of it."

In a company town, Hollywood, where a favorite indoor sport is to trash everyone, its almost impossible to find anyone with a sour word to mutter about Richard Chamberlain.

The erstwhile Dr. Kildare, perhaps unintentionally, has made a secondary career of winning friends. He is Mr. Nice Guy wherever you turn.

He is therefore going against casting in his current role of Father Ralph in the ABC-TV mini-series, The Thorn Birds. For those unfamiliar with the best-selling Colleen McCullough's supernovel, Fr. Ralph does just about everything a priest isn't supposed to from having money of his own - courtesy of the character played by Barbara Stanwyck - to not being obedient or chaste.

In fact, there are those who might consider him a bit of a rotter. Not so Richard. We're sitting in his offices at The Burbank Studios just a few months after he has finished production on this massive film. He is about to don another hat: that of executive producer on a TV movie for CBS, hence the office setting complete with a round black glass conference table and comfortable chairs. Only successful executive producers rate such perks. But enough business talk. We are here to discuss The Thorn Birds, how he feels about yet another blockbuster following his so-successful Shogun and his real life.

First of all, Richard doesn't believe that Father Ralph behaved in such a reprehensive manner. "He followed his destiny," he states. "That process brought him to a kind of humility he never would have found otherwise. He needed to do that. He needed to fall from grace. I'm not saying all priests do; Ralph was too in love with the image of a perfect priest, with the glamour," he explains.

Those sentences give one a clear indication of what makes Richard Chamberlain tick. He's a perfectionist, although certainly not a bore - far from it - but he does get inside the character he plays. That's what makes him such an outstanding actor.

For this part, he researched Catholicism with Father Terry Sweeney, a Jesuit priest. He visited a Jesuit novitiate and stayed over with the young novices. "I had never before been involved with organized religion, and I got the feeling of what it's like to be part of a group of people who put the love of God and humanity before personal happiness. It is unusual and rare. The novitiates I met are in the process of doing that," he learned.

The painstaking research aside, working in TheThorn Birds was a grueling six-month assignment. A large portion of the nine hours was filmed in the Simi Valley, north of Los Angeles, where an exact copy of the Australian Drogheda landscape has been built. And it was hot. Richard's priestly garb, donned in layers, must have been well nigh unbearable.

With a boyish grin, he acknowledges that it wasn't an actor's dream come true, commenting that the plastic collar cut into his neck a lot. Just another of the ordeals that an actor goes through for the sake of a great role.

And a great plum it is. "I wanted it when I first read the book four years ago. I salivated over the part; it was such a wonderful love story. I chased after the part for years. I told my agents I wanted to do it; at that time, it was to be a feature movie and it went through the hands of numerous producers. They had Robert Redford at the top of all their lists. So I waited it out, like I did with Shogun. When they realized it couldn't be a film and Warner Bros. decided on a mini-series, then I knew I was in a good position. The producers - David Wolper and Stan Margulies - wanted me - and it became a dream come true," he says comfortably.

The dream realized, Richard was in the same position as all other actors when a role is complete: he was out of a job. "I have the actor's habit of thinking once a job is over I'll never be hired again. I can get very anxious about not working. It doesn't go into anxiety attacks, but there is a sense of fickleness about the business. If I allow myself, I can worry a lot."

He didn't allow himself to this time. Instead he took off for two and a half weeks to his little house in Hawaii. He has what he describes as, "a place on the beach in the toolies where there is nothing to do except eat." Or so he says. It doesn't show on his trim waistline two weeks after he has returned.

"I had forgotten what it was like to spend a day doing nothing. I kept saying I must be doing something wrong, this can't be right. I had a vague guilty feeling. So I just lay there on the beach and I didn't do anything," he laughs. "I find it an incredibly healing experience to go there. It's a wonderful change from the madness around here," he motions to indicate Hollywood. "I'd like to go there more often. As it is, I get there twice a year if I'm lucky."

The house has a live-in caretaker who looks after the property while its famous owner is gone. It is also rented out, through an agent, so the tenants never know that they're sleeping in Richard Chamberlain's bed. Pity.

It would appear that Richard is indeed the golden boy we all envy, whose life has been comparatively uncluttered with the "stuff" that make most of us miserable. And looking at him, handsome, trim, relaxed, just a few flecks of gray in the beard and mustache he has grown for his next part, he reflects total peace and tranquility. He's sipping a cup of herb tea from a delicate Japanese cup, NOT imported from Japan as were many of his household furnishings. Shogun did leave an impression on him.

He admits of being happier with his life as it is today than in previous years.

"As I look back, one of my big motivations for working so hard in this business in the early times was to find for myself a kind of self-worth which I imagined I would see reflected from the world when I became famous. It didn't work." He laughs shortly. "Being well-known has worked in other ways, but it didn't make me particularly happy. When I first realized that wasn't gonna work, I found other ways to work on myself, through Gestalt therapy, and working with Dr. Brugh Joy (a world-renowned metaphysician who gave up his medical practice to work with groups at his establishment in California's Lucerne Valley. Richard brought the film rights to Dr. Joy's book, Joy's Way, three years ago, and has a contract to produce and star in the story for CBS. He hopes to get it under way later this year.)

"Fame isn't the answer. The answer is allowing yourself to be who you are. I grew up at a time when certain values were deeply impressed upon children: in school and at home. There was a certain image to be maintained and a certain goal to be achieved."

One must bear in mind that Richard was born and raised in the rarefied atmosphere of Beverly Hills, where most of his friends at school were super-rich. His own father was a first salesman for a market fixture company, and then took over the firm. But he still wasn't raised in an atmosphere of wealth.

He became interested in acting while he was in college, but recalls, "My family wasn't enthused about my going into show business. They'd seen me in some college productions," he laughs. "I did want to go to college, but in my senior year I made a decision to take the gamble and get into acting. They didn't say 'don't do it'; they were supportive and they helped me, even though they didn't say 'Oh boy, this is terrific'."

His career proceeded normally: he studied with noted acting coach Jeff Corey, he got minor roles in a dozen TV shows, and in 1961 he got really lucky with Dr. Kildare. By the time that show had finished its run - there were 132 one-hour shows between 1961 and '65 and 57 half-hour episodes the following year - Richard Chamberlain was a big star. So big, he wondered if he'd live down his reputation of being the noble young doctor who did everything including make house calls.

He did what was then considered a rash step: he moved to England and worked in repertory. "I went to England because I felt it the best place to go and study. I had this real powerful hunch that I should go there and study. I was attracted to British theatre and I had amazing luck."

Indeed. He got raves for his role in a six-part adaptation of Henry James' Portrait of a Lady on the BBC. He appeared in Hamlet, The Madwoman of Chaillot, Julius Ceasar, and played composer Peter Tchaikovsky in the Music Lovers opposite Glenda Jackson. There was more Shakespeare, other classics, and when he played Aramis in two versions of The Three Musketeers followed by Cyrano de Bergerac, no one made anymore jokes about the boyish Dr. Kildare. Richard Chamberlain had arrived, as a serious actor of the theater and films. Deservedly so.

He is, of course, delighted that he listened to that powerful hunch, as he terms it. "I always try to listen to my inner voice. That seems to be one of life's most ironic essences: that very soft little voice of intuition is so easy to ignore, yet it's so often accurate. I always choose my roles intuitively. They appeal to me for reasons I couldn't say. I always have an answer as to why I choose a role, but the answer really is that it has a magnetic quality. Now, as a producer, I know that I read scripts looking for ways to make scenes work, and ideas that come up seemingly from nowhere. They just spring into my mind. It's not an intellectual process. Oh, it is to some extent, but it is largely emotional and intuitive."

As noted, here is a man who is comfortable with himself and he doesn't have to prove anything anymore. He's done that. So, when asked how he can top the role of Father Ralph, he says easily, "I don't think in terms of topping things. Everything is different and real to me. My next movie, titled By Reason of Insanity is for my own production company. I play a man named John Balt, who murdered his wife, spent years in an institution in therapy and is now back in society as a contributing member. In fact, he wrote his own life story, which this is. This story goes into areas I've never touched upon, so it's a vast challenge.”

"After Shogun and Thorn Birds, I find my interests are turning back to more ordinary parts - not that the John Balt story is ordinary, it isn't. He's an ordinary man who gets caught in an incredible vortex. Yes, I have leaned towards larger-than-life roles and that might have something to do with the fact that I have a very romantic nature. I didn't find life terribly interesting when I was a little kid. I hated school and I didn't like sports. I didn't like anything that anyone else liked. I felt out of it. It isn't that I didn't have friends. I did. And I had a pretty good time, but I was always fascinated by adventure movies. Especially Errol Flynn. But the other night when I couldn't sleep I turned on an old Errol Flynn movie and it was boring. It didn't hold up. The Three Musketeers and that kind of swashbuckling does, but not the one that I saw," he mock mourns.

Every actor has a dream role, and Richard has played such variegated parts - has he played it already or is his dream part still in the future?

"I think John Balt is as fascinating a part as I'll ever get. What are dream roles? Roles that call for words like depth and complexity, people who want things passionately and have to overcome tremendous obstacles to get them. My theory about John is that he wanted wholeness in his life that he unconsciously felt wasn't there. I think murdering his wife was unnecessary, but who am I to say that? He was living a life complying to images. He had an image of manhood, an image of the writer, of the husband and father, and he never said 'Who am I, what kind of man am I, what kind of father, do I love my children?'"

"Who am I?" Richard repeats the question. "I'm beginning to get answers at long last. What I am is an ever-changing alive being, who is not an image, who is not consistent, and I'm beginning to allow myself to BE instead of trying to be consistent and trying to comply to images. Images such an American hang-up. And so here I am in a business where images are more powerful than almost anyplace else except sports. I have found that I have warmth and lovingness and creativity. I might have doubted that before. I'm much more comfortable with people, much more willing to speak my mind. I don't have to try to manipulate people into liking me. I don't. I thought that I did." He is very thoughtful now and seems to enjoy looking within.

What are his long-range goals these days after 20-plus years of a good and rewarding career?

"I've done some satisfying work in the theatre, and I'd like to do more but I find it difficult to find the time. I want to continue along the lines I've been pursuing. I really like what I've been doing. I like my mobility in TV, I want more emphasis in films. I think I'm ready for that."

"And I like my life. I've finally created a home that I really love. I've had several houses, but I just remodeled this one - in a quiet canyon street, and it's just perfect for me. It's slightly Oriental, slightly Japanese. I brought back a lot of stuff from Shogun."

And who lives in this perfect house?

Just Richard Chamberlain and his pals. "I have two dogs," he says with all the love in the world in his voice. "Two Dalmatians: Jessie the Bandit Queen and Billy Boy."

And what does Jessie steal to merit that colorful name?

"My heart," he says in a tone that any animal-lover can recognize.

And so, then, one knows that Richard Chamberlain, a really happy man, does indeed have it all.

http://www.richard-chamberlain.co.uk/online.htm

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interview 32

Dick Diagnoses Dick His candid answers to 55 probing questions

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starboyjxmin · 8 years ago

Text

Equinox (Hoseok x Reader) Pt. 2

Synopsis: There was a boy who always sat at corner of my complex. Most of the tenants wanted him death, but maybe that's what it took to let them see just how beautiful and human he was.

Warnings: Fluff, A Little Bit of Angst

Genre: Romance

Word Count: 2401

Pairing: Hoseok x Reader

(A.N.: This is written in first person which is your pov, I hope you guys like it! Also, this fic was written with POC in mind, mostly Hispanic, but I did put in that the OC is Mexican but feel free to disregard this or change it to your ethnicity :)

Freak was nowhere near what I had imagine from underneath.

"I cut myself a bit but I cleaned your bathroom thoroughly." He had a visible red nick on the tip of his soft chin.

"That's okay," I breathed as I took in who was in front of me. Freak was... Every bit more human than anyone here in this flat complex.

His almond, half moon eyes were dark brown. His skin complexity was almost golden like with a tint of a sunrise shade but the grey tone to it made him appear almost like Icarus and the Sun’s son in some way. It seemed illogical but it just worked on him. Freak had even cut his hair, ridding it of the dreadlocks. It was shaggy and dark coloured. I made a mental note of taking him to my hair stylist tomorrow to clean him up more properly. He had managed to do a clean, close shave. Was he attractive? Very. Seeing this new man standing in front of me wearing the father of my child's clothes pestered but at the moment, I was more trapped in his almond eyes.

He shift uncomfortably.

"So, I'm sorry for using your toothbrush." Freak rubbed the back of neck cautiously.

"No, it's fine." My eyes adverted from his. I quickly cleared my throat as I reached for the two flutes, handing him one.

"What's this for?"

"To celebrate another day!"

"You're not going to actually drink that right?" He gestured towards my drink by giving his head a quick tug towards it.

"No, it's just for show." Freak raised an eyebrow, clearly unsatisfied with my answer. I pointed to where he would sit for our dinner to which of course, he politely said a thanks and moved, standing behind the chair.

"This looks great." I knew he was probably being polite since my cooking wasn't the best. Once I started living here, my food was either microwaved heated or restaurant bought. Cooking was something I rarely ever did given that I was born with a silver spoon between my lips the second I left my mother's womb.

"Thank you," I was going to pull my seat out but was quickly interrupted by Freak who somehow made it behind my chair, pulling it back for me. "Thank you." Once again I repeated as I sat down, with him pushing the seat in along with me. "So now can I know your name? It's only fair since we are having dinner together." Freak quickly retreated to his spot at the table and sat down with his eyes locked with the plate before him with a blank face.

"Hoseok."

"Hoseok?" He nodded curtly. Well, I guess that would explain the faint Seoul accent in his voice. I had spoken to many people from Seoul given that my best friend was a huge fashion icon, Seoul being the biggest fashion city point it was natural that I associated with them. "Are you Korean?" He held the middle fork in his right hand, gently pressing it into the grilled, creamed coloured breast.

"Yes." I decided to eat so he didn't feel awkward. After a bite, deciding it was actually decent, I asked him another question.

"Seoul?" This caused Fr-Hoseok to look up at me swiftly before returning his eyes to his plate.

"No actually," Hoseok took some of the chicken in his mouth, quickly chewed it before swallowing. "I'm from Gwangju."

"Oh, I haven't heard of that state. My best friend use to do work in Seoul so I assumed, pardon me." I was cut off by my phone's brisk vibrations. A quick glance at it told me it was my mom. "I'll be right back, I'm sorry." Annoyed, I stood up, and walked to my bedroom with my phone already on my ear. "Hi mom."

"MIJA! Ah, thank god! You will never believe who is here!" My eyes rolled back into my skull with deep anger. "Aldo!" The normal rhythm of my heart quickly stopped. "Aren't you excited! He asked your father for your pretty, delicate hand!" God, please no. "(Y/N)?"

"Mamá, no." The door was pretty open but I didn't care if Hoseok heard. "He left me before, I'm very capable of getting along well without a man, much less that puto of a guy."

"(Y/N)!" My mom's screeched voice made my eardrum throb but I wouldn’t have it.

"Tell pappí I said no. This isn't for discussion." I didn't bother to heard my mother anymore causing me to hang up the call. "God.." My body felt heavy, extremely. Maybe it was the stress that my mom has inflicted upon me by informing me of that dickhole.

"Are you okay?" Frea-Hoseok called from the dining room. A deep sigh simply escaped my lips. There was nothing I could say to this man. I was stupid. I let some stranger in. What if he would do something to me? No, I quickly shook the silly thoughts from my head. Momma had me on the edge, that was all.

I breathed out, not realizing I had held precious oxygen in my lungs, not letting out any carbon to exchange it for new air. "All is well, dear." My feet brought me back to the dining room, Hoseok was standing with a very concerned look striking his pretty, coffee eyes. "Let's just continue to eat." I sat down, across from him, and immediately stabbed my fork into the tender, cube cut breast.

He cleared his throat, looking at my lucid, annoyed face before sitting down and turning back to the food. We ate in silence with the occasional sounds of chewing, and sips from drinking. (The previous white wine in my flute had been replaced with Canada Dry by Hoseok, I assumed, when I had left to speak to my mother, if it were appropriately called speaking.)

"I really would like to thank you for what you have done for me, it really means a lot." The Seoul, deep, rich accent became a new lullaby to me, causing my eyes to flutter open a little slower.

"You're welcome." I smiled at him, finally looking up and into his dark eyes. This caused Hoseok to smile back, leaving me to wonder how was it that such a gracious man ended up in England, of all places, and homeless as well.

We continued to eat and after a while of silence that was occasionally interrupted from sips and eating sounds, Hoseok finally spoke up.

“You seem very angry.” His accent was beyond beautiful to me, far more than a British accent.

“I’m okay, babe.” I smiled at the sun-kissed boy in front of me who seemed genuinely worried for me. But Hoseok didn’t say anything to further anger me.

After a while, he got up and thanked me for the food and picked up his plate as well as the flute. I was about to protest but he smiled.

“I’m going to wash the dishes, do you want me to pick up yours as well?”

“Um.., It’s okay Hoseok.” I stood up, placing my flute on the plate like he did earlier. “I have someone come and clean this place. I don’t really enjoy it but the help came with the place.” He nodded, studying the creamy residue on his plate left from the pasta.

“I see.” His Seoul accent cut through the sudden nervousness aura he held.

“You can sleep in my room, I’ll sleep in my old room.” His beautiful eyes fluttered to my eyes and I could swear he was touching me by the simple look of worry he gave me.

“No.. No, it’s okay.” His smile however, didn’t reach his almond eyes.

“What’s wrong, Hoseok?” He shift uncomfortably.

“Look, you seem very off. You picked up a filthy homeless from the street, brought him into your home, you’re pregnant not to mention, and this is just dangerous. Are you suicidal?” Hoseok’s face held a certain hint of worry.

My hand automatically reached out to him.

“The world is an unjust whatnot. I always hear people talk about how to be the good in the world is what will change it and although it might not be all true, this will make someone’s world better and good.” He let a smirk out before carefully touching my fingertips and bouncing them lightly on his rather large hand.

“Goodnight, (Y/N)-ah.”

“Wait, so you just decided to pick up some hobo from the street?” Elizabeth’s American accent always cut harshly through the very smooth atmosphere of the cosmetic dentist’s office. She was actually a medical biller who worked the front desk and very polite usually especially with me since we made each other feel at home which eased the homesickness we both would sometimes suffer.

“No, well, he lived in front of my flat building. I was in a community meeting with the rest of the tenants and God, you should heard some of the things they were saying about the lad!”

“’Lad’.” She giggled. I quickly rolled my eyes at her indication of my profound British slang.

“They wanted to kill him.” Elizabeth’s blue eyes widen. “I had to leave the fucking meeting. It was horrid. Anyways, with the pregnancy I eat a lot. I get a call from these homeless help place I assume because they asked if I knew if such person had crossed paths with me to which I said yes.”

“Mhm.”

“Long story, I went outside and brought him into my home and that’s that.”

“For a wealthy girl, you speak with such simplicity.” Dr. Winston had appeared behind Elizabeth, flashing me a bright, pearl smile.

“Your friend is ready. He is still in the room looking at his new teeth though.” He laughed as he set down the chart in his soft looking hands, next to Elizabeth. “Remember to update this into the digital logs.” She simply nodded, looking right at me with unsaid words that seemed to scream, “He’s so hot!”

“May I go into the room to greet him or must I wait here for him to get out?” Dr. Winston was looking at some papers that a dental assistant had given him prior to speaking to me about my Hoseok.

“I don’t see why not. Could you take her, Miss Tom?”

“Of course,” The smitten look on Elizabeth was too bright as she got up from her chair and walked to the other side of the reception desk and towards me.

“Could you be any less obvious?” I whispered as she ushered me quite hastily to the corridor of doors with patients inside.

“Am I actually obvious?” The colourful whispers between began to illuminate the pale, cream walls of the hall as we make small talk about her crush on the dentist.

“How many room are in this office?” Elizabeth smiled as she stopped us at the one where I presumed Hoseok was in.

“37!” I cringed at the odd number as she opened the door.

The natural lighting of the winter sun pooled into the very sterile looking room which contained a small flat screen tv against the wall. Hoseok turned around with a hand mirror tightly clasped in his hands. He quickly flashed me wonderful smile.

“Wow! Your teeth!” He shyly looked down with the mirror now by his side.

“I’ll leave you two alone. Also, you can just leave, I have everything already at my desk for his next appointment which is in 6 months just so we can check up on him and his oral health.” Elizabeth smiled at Hoseok who was now placing he hand mirror on the counter. She quickly left, not giving me a second look as she closed the door behind her.

“Do you like them?” He timidly looked up as he nodded. “I’m glad, your teeth finally as bright as you are.” This caught him off guard.

“Bright?” The Seoul accent made the winter light warm as if we were currently discussing affairs with pastel coloured mochas between us.

“Yes, you have thing about you. I can’t quite explain it. But your hair looks good and your teeth are beautiful. How about we get you some clothes now?”

“Your maternalness is coming out.” I opened the door as I readjusted my purse on my shoulder.

“That isn’t a word, Hoseok.” He stepped out with me by his side.

“You are quite impossible, Jung Hoseok.” My rather sunshine friend gave me a warning look from underneath his precious eyelashes and dark fringe.

“So will he be talking the jacket as well?”

“N-!”

“Yes!” I reached above his head and passed the floral jacket with hues of blue to the employee who was now holding far too many items of clothes.

“What about the shoes?” I quickly looked down at the shoes he had on. They were plain but the embroidered roses on the sides made them beautiful. He was still looking up at me.

“Yes,” I looked down at him and gave him a tender smile.

“Nice view you have there, lad.” A tall, beefy man commented as he passed up us with a smirk at Hoseok and a wink thrown at me. Hoseok cleared his throat and looked down at his shoes. He was seated in a french country, beige loveseat with me standing on it with my knees instead of my feet, and leaning over his head. It was’t that my position was inappropriate but from the look that the stranger was giving me, he thought it otherwise.

“(Y/N),” Hoseok gently placed his hands on my hips and sat me down next to him. “We should pay now.”

The employee smiled at us as I got off the couch and mentioned her to come close.

“Could you please ring our stuff up?”

“Of course!” Her cloy smile sent Hoseok into a frenzy of squirms.

“Are you alright?” He quickly stopped and looked at me with wide eyes.

“I’m allergic to the fake.”

“Este chamako.” My hands automatically reached for his face to pull at his pointed like sides of his new fringe like hairstyle, the total rage in Korea as he called it, but he quickly grabbed them and pulled them into his chest.

“Aein, I suggest we go.”

“A donde?” He cocked his head to the side. “Where, Aein?” He rolled his eyes before pulling me even closer into him.

“Down the rabbithole.”

(A.N. Sorry this is crappy, I tried but my writer’s block isnt fully cure. I promise to do better!)

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