#never forget that diary entry and his anguish

[dreamingofscully]

4x14. “Memento Mori” - X-Files Rewatch

"...I feel these words as if their meaning were weight being lifted from me, knowing that you will read them and share my burden, as I have come to trust no other. That you should know my heart, look into it, finding there the memory and experience that belong to you, that are you, is a comfort to me now as I feel the tethers loose and the prospects darken for the continuance of a journey that began not so long ago, and which began again with a faith shakened and strengthened by your convictions. If not for which I might never have been so strong now as I cross to face you and look at you incomplete, hoping that you will forgive me for not making the rest of the journey with you." - Scully, journalling to Mulder

OK you'll have to bear with me. This one is my #1 all-time most-favourite episode. I just think it's so perfect, it has everything I love. I've thought about it a lottttt. Heavy analysis and squeeing under the cut! Oh and bonus end-scene pics as well.

All of the monologues/journal entries by Scully are written to Mulder. *sob* She's saying what she needs to to the most important person in her life. She's trying to prepare him for the possibility of her death, for not being able to continue with him. 

Mulder does something sweet for her - getting her flowers, but he jokes about it when he gives them to her. Just so him. He can't be direct with his feelings, always needs to deflect it away. But he GOT THEM for her. He wanted to say with his actions what he can't yet with his words. I love Scully's bashfulness at getting them. 😍 And then they just stare at each other, like they can pretend Scully’s not about to say something completely devastating.

Scully tells him the brutal truth because he needs to know - deserves to like anything else. "As certain as you have ever been. I have cancer." Mulder's stuttering "I don't accept that."  😭

In Skinner's office, Mulder is super fidgety. He's standing behind Scully, letting her take the lead.

Mulder looking at Scully when they hear of Betsy Hagopian's death, wanting to know her reaction, be there for her if she needs it.

Mulder seeing evidence of her illness for the first time - her nosebleed. Scully’s “Quit staring at me I’m fine.” and Mulder’s "You okay, Scully?" when she’s in the bathroom.

When Mulder can't tell Scully that all the other women are dead, except for Penny. His face is tragic.  His hand on her arm/back, supporting her. Trying to be there for her, trying not to lose it himself. Talking to her about where the cancer came from, that she doesn't care. He wants her to talk to Penny. Why? Scully's defensive but Mulder appeals to the investigator in her - "You have one remaining witness". Mulder gets some insight into how Scully is feeling here - her denial, her anger.

After talking to Penny and hearing about the treatment Scully gets her first glimmer of hope.

Mulder's reaction of frustration when faced with Scully's illness. Lashing out when she's not there, tells him to bring her stuff so she can start treatment. He leaves immediately when she asks - forgets all else even though there's probably a ton of info in the files that he'd normally be salivating over.

Scully's mom. I loveLOVE Sheila Larken's acting in this scene. She portrays her absolute anguish so incredibly, manifesting with a bit of anger at Scully withholding the truth from her. I just... can't even. And then they hug, ❤️

"Mulder, I hope that in these terms you might know it and know me and accept this stranger some may recognize but cannot ever completely cast out. And if the darkness should have swallowed me as you read this, you must never think there was the possibility of some secret intervention, something you might have done. And though we've traveled far together, this last distance must necessarily be traveled alone."  - Scully, journalling to Mulder, part 2

Scully, knowing how Mulder is, trying to spare him guilt for something he could have done to save her. Hoping this won't destroy him.

Mulder willing to give up everything to save Scully - wanting to make a deal with CSM. Skinner convincing him not to (and then making a deal himself). Everyone loves Scully.

The Lone Gunmen. "Well, pick out something black and sexy and prepare to do some funky poaching." Not only are they IN this episode but they get to venture out on an adventure WITH Mulder. Be still my heart.

"Mulder, I feel you close though I know you are now pursuing your own path. For that I am grateful, more than I could ever express. I need to know you're out there if I am ever to see through this." - Scully, journalling to Mulder, part 3

I guess you could take this to mean - well, Scully being slightly psychic, she literally feels the closeness of his physical presence as he investigates the clinic where she is currently undergoing treatment. More likely, and far more emotionally satisfying, is that KNOWING that he is out there trying to help her, KNOWING how relentless he is, gives her strength. And she feels him close to her even though he's out there, because she knows he's doing it for her. She has hope with him on her side.

Mulder finding Scully's ova, finding out she's infertile. Are the Kurt's her offspring? Or are they all Emily's? Or are they separate things? (I've never been good at the details of the mythology, because usually it doesn't make sense.)

Finding Scully's room empty and her diary. His panic. Reading her words. ❤️

When he finds her in Penny's room, he nods at her. They have s silent conversation and he leaves. He waits outside for... hours?

Mulder tells Scully he read some of her journal. "I didn't want you to read that." Her voice is so small in that moment. Knowing that Mulder has seen her intimate thoughts makes her feel more vulnerable than any physical ailment.

"The truth will save you. I think it will save both of us." - Mulder

His emphasis on HER saving herself rather than HIM. He has faith in her more than himself. Wanting to give her comfort. Scully wanting to go back to work, and as we find out later, a lot of it has to do with Mulder.

Their incredible tenderness at the end. The first forehead kiss. The subtle caress of her face. Her arms wrapping around him under his jacket. Kill me now.

[noirangetrois]

The Gundam Wing Diaries

Entry number 11. Check the “#gundam wing diaries” tag for the rest.

April 3, 2000 (Monday)

Episode 21 - "Grief Stricken Quatre"

Quatre went insane. He really did. He was so kind, and I loved him for it. I really did. But now he’s gone. His last words were cried out in anguish over his father’s assassination. “Fatherrrrr!” he cried, tears in his eyes. His sister was beside him, unconscious after saving him. Then he raved on about how the assassins would never forget this day. Then he cackled. I don’t think I’ll forget it, either.

He was so kind, loving, and I loved him for it. It’s still hard to believe that he actually went insane. He needs a new name, he isn’t Quatre anymore. Nata, that’s it. It is Cuchrenata’s fault. I think Quatre might even have been my favorite, though I like them all. He was always so nice. It hurts. Nata hurts. For now, I just want Quatre back.

[usagi-mitsu]

This is something I never thought I would ever write – or would have even considered writing down even a few hours ago. But I feel like this needs to be addressed and I hope you all can forgive me for venting my feelings – about art, the reader/author relationship, art-theft, and the following consequence: deleted art.

And… this is also some kind of diary entry for me, to never forget.

About three to four hours ago, an artist who I truly admire, closed their account on Wattpad. Wattpad is not my personally preferred platform, simply because I’m not sure it’s ok for them to monetize an authors content the way they do – and that is a topic for a whole different discussion. But they had pulled their stuff from fanfiction.net a few years prior and (if it even was their account) even from AO3.

The last message they posted on Wattpad reads as follows:

“DUE TO PEOPLE CONSTANTLY TRYING TO STEAL MY FICS AND CLAIM THEM AS THEIR OWN, I HAVE REMOVED THEM ALL FROM THIS PLATFORM. VERY SORRY TO THOSE WHO HAVE READ AND ENJOYED THEM BUT ALREADY MULTIPLE TIMES MY WRITING HAS BEEN STOLEN AND IM DONE.”

 The author I’m talking about was called “Lusterrdust” on Wattpad and wrote the very popular Skyrim Romance Mod fanfiction about their Dragonborn Niamh and the mods main character Bishop. Their first story “Ranger of the Woods” covered the whole of the mod in about 52-53 chapters and told it beautifully: From when Niamh and Bishop first met in Riverwood (?), to them fighting side by side, him leaving her to go fight Alduin alone, them reuniting a few months later, the journey to Solstheim, the battle with Miraak and finally a small wedding far away from the public. The second story was called “Saviour of Tamriel” and was set about four years after the first one, with Niamh yearning to be a mother, while the Aldmeri Dominion was planning on slowly expanding it’s … well … dominion across the continent, with Niamh and the High King Ulfric receiving death threats, her actually getting pregnant and Bishop trying to keep his family as safe as possible. A meeting with the emperor Titus Mede was on the way and I think Niamh and Bishop were about to drop their baby boy Julian off with the greybeards to keep him safe, since the Dominion had already put a hefty price on the not even three month old infant.

 The reason for why I write this, why this is affecting me like this, is that Lusterrdust was the first author I ever interacted with: I wrote comments when I read the story and I left my impressions and came back to read it again and again. I even dropped theories in the comments, even though I knew the story was not yet one and when I left my ideas and theories at the end of one of the last chapters, they even asked me, if they could use my idea. And my comments were not there anymore, since I offered them to delete them – just so that nobody else would be spoiled by my … inspirational rants at the end of each chapter. (Which is why I assume Niamh and Bishop were in Ivarstead at the end of the last chapter – it was my suggestion to place the baby with the Greybeards. Who better to look after a baby, than a bunch of super powerful elderly men and an elder dragon..?

But aside from having a baby at the worst possible time, aside from Niamh and Bishop still trying to learn how to communicate with her being the Dragonborn and therefore a person of public and political interest, aside from a potential alliance with Titus Mede and a hopefully good ending for them all.. there was so much more: There was the sub-plot with Breezehome being remodelled to be an orphanage, Niamhs brother having been brainwashed by the dark brotherhood, Lydia and Farkas having a third baby, Vilkas being with a Mere (elven woman), the implication of Ulfric slowly growing old and openly admitting to wanting Niamh to be his High Queen …

There was so much yet to explore.

But the author stopped updating in 2018, when their grandfather died. Which was ok. And everything was still ok to this day. At least for me: Even though they did not publish any new content, I still had all those many chapters to read again and again in my own time, whenever I got to it.

And it inspired me. It inspired me so much, that I went ahead and dove head first into Elder Scrolls Lore. A few years back, I could name all the Daedric Princes (Sanguine is the god of tits and wine – change my mind) and tell you which of Tamriels nine gods ruled over which dominion and why the fight between the Elves of Summerset and the other peoples of Tamriel was utter religious bullshit.

It even inspired me to think about my own Dragonborn, a nord woman called Kahira van Rae, and what she would do in a situation like Niamhs. A train of thoughts, that lead to me having RP sessions with my friends via WhatsApp and hour long talks about the politics of fictional lands. It even made me call my new character in the next fandom I’d dive into “Shia Tamriel”. In honour of a story and fandom I had come to love deeply.

And while it has been some time since I last checked in with these stories, I never forgot them. I did keep on coming back, enjoying them again and again. And every time I read them, I discovered something new.

These two stories were important to me.

The author was important to me.

 And now, all of those things are gone, because someone apparently copied their work and posted them as their own.

And that’s what really gets me.

Some random person out there on the internet thought it was ok, to simply copy-paste another persons hard work and put their name on it.

And let me put this as simply as possible:

THAT IS NOT OK! NOT IN ANY WAY!

 Because of your selfishness, a few hundred people will never get to know the end of Niamhs story.

Because of your selfishness, a few hundred people will never get to reread the story.

Because of your selfishness, an author was hurt and annoyed so badly they decided to pull all their content.

You should be ashamed.

You stole someone’s precious art that they decided to share with the world and let me be clear – just because they shared their art, you are not allowed to simply make it your own!

 Copyright is an iffy topic in fandom culture, with different countries having different rules and different companies going after fan works in highly differing intensities. But it should be common curtesy to not simply steal another persons art! Be it literal artworks as in pictures or edited videos or cosplay ideas or written art like fanfiction!

If something inspires you, that’s great! But you always ask consent before doing anything with the art! And if asking consent is an entirely new concept to you, I’d like to ask you kindly to go educate yourself on it. It will not only pop up in fandom culture.

 To conclude this…

I’m just sad at this point. I remembered the story two nights ago and I jumped right back into it at some random point and read it. I even put up with Wattpads shenanigans like forcing me to log in to keep on reading or requiring me to download the app so that they can show me stupid 30 second long ads in between reading.

I know that the world is not ending because of this.

I am well aware of the fact, that it was just a story.

And I truly support the authors decision.

 But until they pulled all the content, until they deleted their account, I had always hoped to maybe one day read more about Niamh and Bishop. And Bragor and Julian. About their Ulfric and Ralof, Lydia and Farkas and their children. I had hopes to discover their Titus Mede and how they were going to resolve the conflict between Skyrim, the empire and the Dominion

But now I cannot even go back and reread the sassy exchanges between Casavir and Bishop. I will never again be able to experience Bishops anguish when Niamh receives an almost mortal wound. I’ll never again know the inner thoughts of the Dragonborn, who thought she was barren, getting told that she is pregnant.

 I think the author did the right thing. It saddens me nonetheless.

 So let me end this here with one last plea to everyone in every fandom out there:

Do not steal art.

 Thank you for reading.

[dragestilwrites]

B-Side

Rated G The Adventure Zone ~1700 words

Taako looks back on the mistake that changed everything.

It was funny, all things considered. He had spent six years of his life running from his past, and now he suddenly knew the truth. Six years of his life had been clouded by the shadow of his greatest error, and it was all unravelled in a space beyond time. It was only natural for the dreams to return, then. He had been putting off sleep since they had set up camp. Even after Merle called it a night, he lingered just outside of his tent. When Magnus appeared, he had gone over to ask his opinion on everything. And then they had said good night, and he had realised that he could avoid sleep no longer. He was exhausted.

The scene began almost as soon as Taako’s eyes closed. He was back on the road, exploring new towns frequently as he toured with Sazed. They held sold out shows wherever they went - or so he chose to dream. His name was in lights, and his brand was easily recognisable. ‘Sizzle It Up with Taako’ was everything he could have dreamed of and more. He was certain that he would go far.

His dreams set him down close to the moment of his greatest disaster. He was preparing backstage for one of their biggest shows ever at Glamor Springs. He had all of his ingredients lined up and ready. His chef’s hat was just slightly off kilter - precisely how he liked it. Sazed was checking all of the equipment on stage one last time. Through the lens of hindsight, Taako knew now that his closest companion’s actions were less than benevolent.

Still, these things were behind him, and without the Temporal Chalice he could do nothing to stop the flow of time. He took to the stage to start his show, beaming widely at the large crowd assembled to see him cook. He thanked them all for coming before he began talking about his planned meal. He motioned to Sazed to bring out the ingredients as he listed them all. He tried to keep track of Sazed to see when he slipped in the poison, but his earlier self had no hint of suspicion that anything could go wrong.

He watched himself performing basic magic to spice up the show and the cooking itself. He internally cringed at his lack of finesse and the incredible simplicity of all the work. After training, it looked amature and tasteless. He watched the elderberries spring up from the bowl and scatter themselves around the chicken as garnish. Later, he would think back on that spell with an anguished feeling in his gut. It had been the only thing he could think of when considering what went so dreadfully wrong.

“Now that we’ve got everything prepared, who would like to taste some of Taako’s tasty chicken?” he said as he looked around at the audience and gestured to the meal he had prepared.

The crowd all cheered, and he smiled at their adoration even as he knew what cruel fate was soon to come. He began to divide up the multiple chickens into single portions on plates set out by Sazed. The people all waited patiently until the food was served, and then proceeded to tuck in to the professionally cooked meal.

The memory froze and Taako took a breath, pulled from his body to survey the scene as a whole. Outside of himself, he could see the looks Sazed was shooting him and the audience. He could see behind the stage to the prep area. He could grasp the entirety of the situation with hindsight’s perfect vision. He wondered now if there was something he could have done - or more accurately if there was something he should have done. Perhaps none of this would have happened if he had just allowed Sazed to participate more in the show. Perhaps keeping Sazed from learning how to cook would have stopped his betrayal. But it was too late now.

He could still hear the cup-woman’s voice in his head, though. He could see her trying to tempt him into altering the past. In the moment, he had managed to brush it all off as if he had nothing he could even want to change. There was so much he could change.

He could have properly learned magic, could have known that there was no way he had faltered in making the food. He could have brought Sazed into the onstage show, or he could have just never brought him onboard in the first place. He could have tasted the food first himself, and realised there was trouble. In just that one day, there were so many other paths he could have gone down. He could have still been cooking, still been famous if only he had taken a different route.

But Fate was immutable. Even the Temporal Chalice seemed to know that. Perhaps it had not been the most obvious, but it had been there underlying all the promises. If any one of them had chosen to take the chalice, they would have to swear to walk different paths. They would have to keep far from the actions of this timeline, or else all would collapse. Choosing a different fate could not negate the true course. There was a superior timeline, and it was the one they were currently in.

The dream faded away and Taako was left to wake up alone in his tent. He sighed and pulled out his diary, a small and worn thing kept in his innermost pocket. He had carefree and ever-joking appearances to maintain that could have been sullied by keeping a journal. He flipped backward through the pages until he found the one he was looking for. There it was - the day six years ago when his life changed irrevocably.

‘Today we have a show in Glamor Springs again. Sazed has been saying for weeks that he wants to join me onstage, but that’s bad for branding! It’s not called Sizzle It Up with Sazed; it’s called Sizzle It Up with Taako! People want me, Taako. I told him that, and he seemed to understand. Well he said he understands. It shouldn’t be a problem. He seems excited about today’s show at least. -Taako’

He had written the first entry while they were still travelling. He often wrote in his diary when they were on the road. It was the time when he was least likely to be caught, since Sazed was always busy getting them to their destination. Plus he always felt like he could think more clearly when they were in motion. It was easy to get caught up in things when you were stationary.

‘It was a disaster. I’ll never be able to show my face in Glamor Springs again. I don’t know if I can ever even cook again. Sazed ran off as soon as he could. I can’t blame him, not after what happened. The food was bad - poisoned I think by a stupid mistake. I used magic on the elderberries, and they must have turned into nightshade. How else could it have happened? The audience...they’re dead. We only just made it out of town before the news got out. How could this happen? I’ll have to find a new job, and move far away. No one else can know what happened - and I can’t ever put people at risk like that. I guess magic is all I have now. I can’t be a chef. Not anymore. -Taako’

He set the journal down for a moment as he closed his eyes. He could still remember vividly the ache in his chest as he had written those words. He could still see himself, hiding out on the outskirts of town trying to figure out his next move. He was alone for the first time in ages, no friend to pull him out of the darkness and help him plan for the future. Everything he had worked so hard for was gone, never again to be seen. He opened his eyes with a sigh and picked the diary back up. He flipped to the next blank page after his last entry.

‘I didn’t poison those people in Glamor Springs. I did nothing wrong at all. It wasn’t my cooking. It was him - Sazed. I thought I knew him. I thought we were friends. But I guess I was wrong. He was jealous of me. I thought he understood why I wanted to do the show alone, but he didn’t. He poisoned them. And maybe he was trying to poison me too. He didn’t say anything to stop me from trying a bite - even though I didn’t in the end. Would he have stopped me if I did try? Magnus thinks we did the right thing though. Not taking the chalice I mean. Things would be...different if we changed the past. Maybe he’s right. I don’t think I’m the same as before. If I was still doing the show, I wouldn’t be with the guys now. And I wouldn’t be a wizard probably. And like what’s the point if I’m not a wizard right? That’s what I’ve got to think. I didn’t kill those people. Sazed did. I’m still the best chef ever. -Taako’

He set his journal down with an air of finality. Maybe now that he had thought about it all thoroughly it would at last be left in the past. Maybe he could forget the accident that had shaped his life for so long. He had doubts, of course, but it was foolish to focus on them too much. There would always be doubts, after all, and half of his life was just ignoring those and all the warning signs too. It kept him sane and moving forward with a smile. What more could he want?

He nodded to himself and put away the diary and his pen. He poked his head outside of his tent for a moment just to make sure it was still night. There was plenty of time to worry about things later. With the moon still high overhead, now was the time for more sleep. All of those repetitive loops through time really exhausted an elf. He tucked himself back in, snuggling beneath his favourite blanket.

“Goodnight, Sazed, you piece of shit,” he said with a faint smile. “Your macaroons were awful and you could have never been a professional chef anyway.”

[felicezhukov]

:: Dear Nicolas Jaar ::

Summer is hot and potent and its reach moves through my soul in ecstasy and infatuation and ultimately in pain. The last few weeks have brought more pain than I’ve experienced, new kinds of pain, different to the walled garden and different to the initial descent.

Firstly there was physical pain, something unaccounted for and untimely, something I’ve been dealing with badly for years which climaxed about 2 ½ weeks ago. It’s hard now to describe that I don’t feel it as much, but moments within this scheme of time were excruciating, I’m going to extract them from my sketchbook because despite my relative silence on the internet I have still been writing to you, but in an entirely abstract sense, because unless we do ever meet you will never read them.

This is the entry I wrote at 4am when I couldn’t sleep from agony and unrest:

Its as if my entire world has come crashing down around me in a matter of days and right now I am sitting at the apex of this cacophonous crash, itching and stinging and crying in the early hours of the morning.

I went to A&E from work in a taxi, the driver was kind, he advised me to rest as I opened the door to leave, his tone was genuine and I felt safe with him.

Over the last few days I’ve had extended moments where I forget my pain, because of the depth of it these times are euphoric, it’s as if if I’ve never lived before. Tash Sultana briefly rescued my soul, the bass that reverberated from the speakers as she played filled me with understanding and also led me to some long overdue realisations about my life.

I am screaming internally, violently sobbing externally and now in the throes of utter anguish  the only person I am turning to for salvation is the moon, even in this newfound independent state I cannot absolutely find footing enough to walk down to the landscape below me. I am now on top of the hill but the new phase, which requires me descending into to a new landscape, is not without its adversity, that’s what’s key here perhaps, adversity will never truly diminish or ebb away, we will always have to face ourselves whatever path we choose to walk down, however we attempt to subvert trauma in our lives. But within this we cannot fall into victimhood, we must be aligned with the strength within ourselves and work to find the way.

I, in this incapacitated moment, think of my brother, and his chronic pain, which will never diminish or fade, his journey will never be without the ghost of pain, something he cannot overcome but can only reduce in bouts. He gives me strength because he is not only alive but engaged with his life and is fervently seeking ways to circumvent what has been assigned to him by fate.

The doctor at A&E called me a hero the first time I saw her, for even managing to function at all, I’m not sure I think of myself as a hero right now even after these accolades, but I do feel afflicted. Whereas it’s usually exhaustion or mental unnerving, it’s fully, wholly, present. She gave me prescriptions, I believed that would be the last of it, but it continued, it progressed, it graduated.

I was squeezing limes at work earlier when it became so emphatic that it couldn’t be ignored anymore, nausea overtaking, that’s when the moon’s light shone on me and despite us casting ourselves asunder he saved me, he paid for my taxi to the hospital, he paid for my prescriptions, if we are searching for salvation, time and again, the moon has been mine.   

Because I have no money, and I am now starting to acclimatise myself to the understanding that I am not the creative class, I a m  p o o r.

Right in the throes of preparing for my mermaid prom my body has started to aggressively attack me, as soon as I am free, with my own bed, to meet new people and embark on a new path, I am encumbered by things I can not describe. My body has been quietly rebelling for some time, the parts of me, my immune system, those bodies inside me intended to protect, have been working against me, much like what my brother suffers with, I don’t know how to appease them.

I feel like I am at war with my own skin.

And whilst all this takes place my sister lie’s pregnant, miles away, bearing witness to her unborn child discovering its body within her. Feeling bereft in her altered carcass, not her own, and heavy.

I lay with Anne Frank tonight, just before the apex, witnessing her incarceration, her journey to adulthood in a reduced domicile. Again it gave me strength, perspective, like her diary must have done for so many others before me I realise that my suffering is on a spectrum and that I am not watching the world I live in crumble in such a literal sense, or have to share a bed pan with a dozen people or be afraid to walk inside my home. And she also voices this belief that victimhood is not the answer, that you must rise above the troubles and try to remember that your life is held by you alone, irrelevant of what trials and tribulations you face.

My eyes got heavy enough for me to feel like I could sleep.

I turned off my light.

I lay Anne Frank down adjacent to my bed.

I then came face to face with my pain again.

I clutched my pillow fiercely, and screamed an internal, complete scream, twisted, coiled, i even started to beg a god I don’t belive in to save me, forgive me, let me go. This feels like punishment, like I am in an arc of hell, in a traditional sense I know why I would be punished but intrinsically I don’t believe it’s called for or deserved, I do not deserve to suffer.

So I thought, in an unusual turn, I’d calm myself down by watching something and having a late night snack, a kind of typical kindness I rarely give myself, I got myself a medley of goats cheese, gerkins, beans, pesto and climbed back into bed, switched on my laptop. It loaded, but the dreaded mackintosh rainbow appeared, spun around, that unforgiving tech entity we all dread. I gave it a hot minute, I gave it 2 hot minutes, I gave it 3 hot minutes, after 5 I thought I’d give it a hard reset. When it came back on, a loading bar appeared, but it only got a small distance before the entire system just relented. I turned it back on, it happened again, I turned it back on, it happened again, I turned it back on, it happened again.

All the documentation of my end of world sale only exists on this laptop, I haven’t backed it up, it’s not on any sort of external hardrive, its localised to this hardware only. If I can’t recover it then it’s like this entire sale didn’t exist, hours of filming myself, the act of reducing my entire life to a suitcase has suddenly become obsolete, it’s like it never existed, it’s like all this stress and pain which I intended to make public, to some how make it less painful, is now only nestled in the depths of my soul. I documented it to expose it, but I also documented it to remember it, I threw away so much history, so much detritus, so much love and enquiry and deep depths of emotion, my wedding dress, my stan smiths, I filmed it to preserve it. That was in vain, now it is truly nothing. Now I am truly nothing. Now I am in pain, alone, with nothing.

I cried, and I cried, and I cried.

I felt again this fervent emotion had somehow led to this point, demolished my attempts at self preservation, I am not necessarily the type to believe that emotion somehow could affect the technology that enters our daily lives, but this charge of agony really felt like it engendered this moment. My despair created this failure, much like the moment when I short circuited the caravan I shared with the moon. Is it possible that an emotional charge could affect a physical vessel, could I in my failing state have somehow affected my laptop?

But my eyes are heavy from tears and pain and emotion, the birds are singing, I am somehow feeling cushioned again, this chorus is giving me perspective. Despite the tribulations I am facing I hope I can sleep tonight.

And that was my night of pain.

Now I will describe my mermaid prom, because the moon did save me, he rescued all my footage, he gave me back a laptop that works much faster and backed up the hours of turmoil I experienced.

And the mermaid prom was entirely unprepared for. I did not document it,  I forced myself to show it to the people that I love, I didn’t make a big fuss about it, I didn’t reach out to the entire world for validation because the mermaid prom wasn’t about validation, the mermaid prom was also about pain, deep seeded emotional pain.

And what's been most apparent is despite it being about my descent from the moon, without the moon I cannot functionally do what I need to to do. The moon is still my backbone, emotionally, physically, our cycles of abuse, and love, are so deep seeded and encompassing. Initially I begged him to be involved, because he’s like you Nicolas, he makes music because he truly loves the form, because it rests deep within his soul and he understands when I give him a series of songs, how to interpret them, and he understands what I’m trying to do, and I feel safe doing it with him, because the partner I envisage for myself, is someone who can fill the gaps technically and audibly that I can not.

I put the prom on in the bar that I work in, with a mermaid who has been suffering but gave me the full reign to do whatever I want despite the fact that it seemingly caused her pain to do so. 

I went through strains of unrest and for the first time I invited the people I love to be part of the process, during this 2 of my closest friends, who are coincidentally related, became a major part of the work. Because other than the moon I have never let anyone help me, all my projects thus far to a certain degree have been a solo venture. For the Unicorn funeral the support came from those who were also documenting it, whereas this time it was more about the people that helped me lay the groundwork, that dressed the tables and provided mental support.

This time there are a handful of photographs and it’s only in people’s memory that this moment exists, I had to fish the evidence from the bin today in order to feel like it did really happen, because other than masks and lamps and a few other pieces, there is nothing which could suggest it was real. Despite months of work.

At first I spent hours on top of a disconcertingly high ladder gaffer taping bin bags to the ceiling whilst friends blew up balloons that were disturbingly tarnished with a chemical residue, between me and my enshrined sisters we worked till 4 in the morning together creating a heavy set, draped in bin bags and balloons. Then I went home with my angel sister and we got some much needed for rest.

On Friday when we got to the venue, strung out, I had a partial breakdown in the space, Months of work does not mean it’s absolutely done and I have been rolling around with the prom in a strangely laissez faire way, it’s not been like the unicorn funeral, it’s been simpler but also more complicated. I plied my friends with coffee and we kept on keeping on, I restuck the bin bags to the ceiling which had fallen down overnight, and were actually far more complicated to rectify because the gaffer tape that had help them had stuck to different incongruous parts of the other bags and I had to fight with them up this ladder in order to re engineer the entire space. Whilst I did this my sisters dressed tables beautifully, painted boards and bravely dealt with the relatively disgusting element of flour mixture for my pinatas.

Then we relaxed for a hot minute, we got sandwiches, we had naps, some went to westfield, I spent this portion bouncing films and making sure the technical aspect was ok, this is when the moon and his adjacent planet arrived, which I have not yet worked out a true name for but was also an incredibly important entity in the entire process. They were present but also aloof initially and it's only when I went to them with direct guidance that they knew their place within the scheme and felt married to the event. 

Then I was dressed by my mermaid and angel sister so I could take to the stage and undress myself verbally. 

My moon left, I sat underneath a screen which featured me screaming and crying and masturbating whilst I spoke from the heart about these facets of my life in front of an audience of the most dear people in my life.

I was naked and I was absolute but I wasn’t an object because I was with a group of people that I dearly love, it’s not a huge group, but when I look out into them I feel safe in their eyes. I feel safe to do whatever I want because I trust that they understand me. I believe that might be a major difference between being a small fry creative entity and someone like you who has at points, like at field day, an audience of thousands, who might be with you in spirit, but are not aware of the intricacies that move the form that you are creating.

So the film played out, it broke at one point but was fixed, then we moved on to the games portion.

I’d set up all the elements before hand, pinatas, masking tape, I already initially knew there was no point in attempting to keep a set schedule to the event, because the kind of righteous joy I always intend to incite has to have freedom to grow, and time is essentially a definitive quantity that will suppress that. But games and their counterpart breaks did occur, firstly we played pass the moon, musical statues referencing descent, progressively it got deeper and darker and throughout the process I felt more and more bonded with the moon and his star (my temporary name for him). I incited already willing people to tie each other up and to enact sex scene charades. In the intermissions we talked outside and smoked cigarettes and I hope, like I always do, that any facets of my life unconnected with each other, found ties within the structure of the event.

By the time we got to sex scene charades the energy was so palpable that there was no obstacle in getting people to enact hi res moments of fornication with each other, in fact the frenzy I was hoping to whip up, was present and inexplicable, I’m not sure what this hinges on but I do know I love having a microphone in my  hand, a glass of something in the other and a room full of people who are friends to entertain. This is dictatorial, this is not necessarily complicit, but what I’m finding as my work continues to march forward is a core of people who share this desire to be part of the unleashed moment, perhaps because they themselves probably enshrine that looseness and ultimate desire for freedom.

I’d divided the room into teams and after the last games, the team that won was meat. Originally I’d wanted to shower them in party poppers but with a limited budget what they received was applause. Whats most important in terms of the symbology of this is that there were 4 teams, meat, moon, virgin, and bee. Which were all features within the film that I showed, moon is moon, bee is something that as a kindness I shouldn’t explain, the virgin is a dear friend.

Meat is me.

Therefore I won, I won this display, somehow this should be the major takeaway, despite it being a totally random dispersal of teams amongst all my favourite people, in the grand tournament that defines the photic layer of descent, the victimhood aspect. Meat was the winner, meat fell in to the ocean, crashed into a walled garden, experienced a mermaid orgy, and won against all odds. Meat can now walk into the next layer as a hero, absolutely.

It’s strange because what happened that night has clouded this victory, after the applause was given, I had a breakdown. And instead of it being insular like it usually is, the entire gear of the night made it a spectacle, like my life has become, I have become the character in everything I do and this will be another conversation later down the line because it does need to be addressed. But at the mermaid prom, having the moonlight shining on me, encouraging and filling me, led to me eventually realising that the moonlight has been shining on me for years. Through cycles of abuse, pain, misunderstanding and self hate, the moonlight has been ever present, the moonlight has been what has been feeding me, it's almost as if there is no sunlight, I have been nocturnal for a great spell of my life. And when it was finally all laid to rest and the winners were applauded, and I was somehow more alone with the  moon, my guts spewed forth in great tides. I sat on a bench with my moon and I cried, and I cried, and I cried, and he cried, and he cried, and he cried, great powerful waves of emotion gushed forth in a way that has not happened for years.

I left him once, shame on him.

I left him twice, shame on me.

I left his thrice, shame on us.

I believe in cycles of 3, this is the last one, this is the ultimate breakage, but we both sat on that bench together in great waves of pain, because what had just occurred, this melding of souls, was what we are both built for, what we excel at. In all honesty I don’t know why we don’t work because I know that still, despite the bravado, I love him in every part of me and on nights like the mermaid prom it becomes dramatically apparent how interlinked our souls are, I guess this is why I direct these letters at you Nicolas Jaar, because in all my life there is no other musician that I have felt such an intrinsic link with despite our utter lack of contact. I wonder if the moon had experienced your level of success but we had never met whether I would be writing him letters.

All I know is I achieved exactly what I set out to do, despite adversity, and that I enjoyed the night in such a full sense, even though there is no real evidence of it taking place, it exists in the hearts of the people that came. I’m still at a crossroads with performance and film, I’m not sure if documenting everything is the right thing to do and I think I might ask participants to provide their own interpretations, because perhaps a film doesn’t go to the heart of what really occurred. Much like when I read David Hockney go into depth about how he felt his photographic collages were more accurate than a panoramic image of a scene because we do not live in a 2 dimensional world, perhaps the experience interpreted by the viewer is actually the most truthful.  Film is detailed but I’m not sure it fits here, which is why I didn’t look for my camera charger, or ask someone else to come and interpret the event. I wanted it to be pure, momentary and absolute.

I’m still wrestling with myself about how relevant I actually am, but I am absolutely sure that what I’m doing is the right thing, by getting naked and baring myself to friends, I am releasing myself and trying to come to terms with my own humanity. These cycles of pain are not solitary, they are international, they exist in the grandest scheme of life, I don’t want them to be crops of data used against me to sell me shit I don’t need, I want them to be the inspiration that makes people brave enough to admit to their own downfalls and ask for help. I want my audience to mirror me, assuage me, ultimately to be free in ways that would exacerbate my own freedom.

I believe I am an artist because I believe in what I do and I love everyone that wants to join me in this.

[nofomoartworld]

Hyperallergic: Listen to a Rare Recording of an Eyewitness Account of Lincoln’s Assassination

Phonograph record of Joseph H. Hazelton’s account of Abraham Lincoln’s assassination from 1933 (image courtesy The Huntington Library, Art Collections, and Botanical Gardens)

Conspiracy theories surrounding Abraham Lincoln’s death abound to this day, just as hearsay filled newspapers the morning after the 16th president’s assassination on April 14, 1865. Among those in Ford’s Theater who actually saw the chaos unfold was one Joseph H. Hazelton, a stage and film actor who was working as a program boy. In 1933, by which time he was the only living witness to the event, Hazelton gave a detailed account of what he had seen at the May Company’s Exposition Hall in Los Angeles. The only remaining recording of his speech — and likely the only eyewitness account of that night — is preserved at the Huntington Library, which, 152 years later to the day, has highlighted the rare treasure in an engaging video, in which you can hear a portion of Hazelton’s dramatic report and watch it come to life.

Created by the institution’s video producer Aric Allen, the eight-minute clip highlights the history of the 16-inch phonograph record. It’s made of shellac, as were many transcription discs from the late 1920s to the early 1930s, and is incredibly fragile — so it resides in the library’s most secure, atomic bomb–proof vault. What’s particularly fascinating about the history preserved on the disc, as curator Olga Tsapina says in the video, is how it relates to the mythology and memory of the assassination and is an early example of the circulation of conspiracy theories.

As Allen notes in the video, “[Hazelton’s] retelling is marred by his insistence on a conspiracy theory that John Wilkes Booth not only escaped but lived into the twentieth century.” Those who attended the free lecture in 1933 would have heard Hazelton talk about watching Booth shoot Lincoln, leap over the railing of the box, and making a dramatic exit to mount his waiting horse and ride away.

Many eyewitness accounts of that evening survive in the form of letters, diary entries, affidavits, and other documents, but listening to one, with vocal inflections just as telling as its content, brings to mind a much more vivid scene. You can hear a sample from the recording (which is available in its entirety here) around the 4:13 mark of the Library’s appropriately lively clip. Considering that Hazelton was an actor, it’s unsurprisingly that he delivered his account as if reading a theatrical script, saying of Booth, “I shall never forget to my dying day the look of anguish and despair on that man’s face as he half dragged and half limped to the center of the stage with a wild maniacal stare, brandished the knife above his head and cried out, ‘Sic semper tyrannis!'”

The post Listen to a Rare Recording of an Eyewitness Account of Lincoln’s Assassination appeared first on Hyperallergic.

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