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kamreadsandrecs · 1 year ago

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I can list a hundred things David Foster Wallace should have written before he wrote a book about tax accountants. One, and the most obvious, is a novel about Irish dancers on tour with a Michael Flatley figure whose influence grows more sinister over time. Pounds of verbal oil will be poured into his perm; his bulge will almost rupture his trousers. His backstory – but surely you can picture it. One dancer is addicted to weed, another feels like he doesn’t belong, and eventually Michael Flatley’s head, which has been seeming to grow on a parallel track with his sinister influence, gets microwaved successfully against all known laws of physics, and we have a moment where we hear all his thoughts as Death clogs his failing body through space and time. There. Done. The Pale King never needed to happen, nor all the rest of it.

Though there is one thing we wouldn’t want to lose: a character named Mr Bussy.

That’s how I felt before I read it, anyway. Criticism of the book at the time, less uneasy in its knowledge of Wallace (in fact performed at the peak of his sainthood), mostly centred on one question: Why did he choose to do it? As in, why would you choose to swim the Channel? Why would you lie on a bed of narrative nails? Why would you slip into the bodies of the men in grey flannel, the opaque fathers, the personified footnotes, the data mystics, the codes and by-laws among men? (We’ll get to the women later. If the male IRS worker’s backstory is that he carried a briefcase as an eight-year-old and had hyperhidrosis, the female IRS worker’s backstory is that she was diddled.)

Tax agents. Oh, I feared them. As far back as I can remember, my mother was always being stretched on the rack of something she called ‘an extension’. She saved every receipt she was ever given in a shoebox. Despite her efforts, we were always being audited for priest reasons, and every other year or so I found myself parked in a suffocating van, for hours on end, outside offices just like these. What was happening, was she being interrogated under hot lights? I had a sense of dark-suited agents walking among us, eyes on our daily business – on me, in the minivan, as I waited for my mother. I was a fearful child, as he was. I was also raised in Tornado Alley, with noticeably different results.

The Pale King was found by Wallace’s widow, Karen Green, and his agent, Bonnie Nadell: a chaos of paper, floppy disks, notebooks, three-ring-binders; words, some typed, some in his tiny handwriting, all adding up to hundreds of pages. There was no direction for its organisation, so they enlisted the help of Michael Pietsch, who ‘had the enormous honour of working with David as his editor on Infinite Jest, and had seen the worlds he’d conjured out of a tennis academy and a rehab centre’. In other words, a saint of 20 lb bond paper, who must have worked in a state of enthralled and transcendent boredom, of the type that Wallace had made it his mission to describe.

Pietsch assures us that had Wallace been in charge of the final product it would not have contained so many instances of the phrase ‘titty-pinching’. Judging by Infinite Jest, it would have contained more. He also offers the wistful hope that it would have contained fewer Doberman hand puppets. Dream on, I fear. But here’s the thing about The Pale King: it was going to be good. It was on its way to being good – in a Mister Squishee truck, on a rural highway, with a long fertile streak out the window. Wallace might have ruined it with his visions of what he called its ‘tornadic structure’. He might have ruined it with its women: the Toni Ware chapter in particular sounds like Cormac McCarthy breaking his hymen on horseback. (RIP.) He might have ruined it with his doubt, which caused him to turn somersaults like a cracked-out fairground child. (‘Is it showing off if you hate it?’ Hal Incandenza asks in Infinite Jest.) But it is there. The version we have stays largely in the personalities, and chapter after chapter, it is the impersonation of someone boring that allows him to rest.

It begins with the flannel plains of Illinois. The year is 1985, and the place is the IRS Regional Examination Centre in Peoria. Something to Do with Paying Attention first appeared as a long monologue in The Pale King – it comes about a quarter of the way through the book as Pietsch placed it – though Wallace had toyed with the idea of publishing it as a stand-alone novella. It is enthralling. ‘From what I understand,’ Chris Fogle says, at the beginning of his video interview, ‘I’m supposed to explain how I arrived at this career. Where I came from, so to speak, and what the Service means to me.’ He is trapped in the present, he disclaims. The work has had that effect on his mind, so that, ‘If I drank, for instance, some Tang, it wouldn’t remind me of anything – I’d just taste the Tang.’ Then he begins, beginning with his father, beginning with his ‘fairly long hair’, to remember.

‘Anyhow, all this was in the Chicagoland area in the 1970s, a period that now seems as abstract and unfocused as I was myself.’ He remembers his peace-sign pendant and his parents’ divorce and ‘everyone despising Gerald Ford, not so much for pardoning Nixon but for constantly falling down’. He remembers smoking pot with his mother and her new partner, Joyce, and watching them cry and stroke each other’s hair as they talked about their childhoods. He remembers thinking his father was one of a generation of men who were born to fill out a suit – but he himself was a ‘wastoid’, a nihilist; cycling in and out of three different colleges, marking time by the rotating neon foot he could see through his dorm-room window; feeling that he owned himself only in a pharmaceutical state he called ‘Obetrolling’.

My affinity for Obetrol had to do with self-awareness, which I used to privately call ‘doubling’. It’s hard to explain. I’m still not entirely sure what I meant by this, nor why it seemed so profound and cool to not only be in a room but be totally aware that I was in the room, seated in a certain easy chair in a certain position listening to a certain specific track of an album whose cover was a certain specific combination of colours and designs – being in a state of heightened enough awareness to be able to consciously say to myself, ‘I am in this room right now.’

I knew exactly what he was talking about, because I had once taken one of my brother’s Adderall and then gone to see Django Unchained. (Obetrol was later reformulated as Adderall. It was Andy Warhol’s drug of choice, and it literally does make you want to sell a soup label to someone for a million dollars.)

What makes a wastoid change his life? What could effect such a decision? In Something to Do with Paying Attention, it is a Jesuit who persuades Fogle to it, though it goes without saying that the Jesuit has long since been persuaded to something else. One day in late December 1977, just weeks before his father will be killed in a public transit accident, Fogle stumbles into Advance Tax by mistake and finds himself ‘particularly,uniquely addressed’. He remembers that the Jesuit was wearing a slightly racy watch (as in my experience they will). He lets slip the insider terminology that reveals his secret: he was once a probable ‘IRS wiggler’, who lived in the secular world. ‘Gentlemen, you are called to account,’ he tells them, and Fogle goes out, gets a haircut, and buys a grey wool suit. As in Infinite Jest, the death of Fogle’s father is technically impossible. It is a thing that cannot happen. But to step into your father’s shoes and become him requires just such an event; it requires a conversion experience.

The thing about the ‘I remember’ model is it’s inexhaustible, it can just go on. Recollection engenders recollection. Test it. Remember your local news anchors from when you were a child (mine were Rob Braun and Kit Andrews), describe their hair and cheekbones and your sense that they would never die, and go from there. Sing the jingle for the local pizza place. He is referred to as ‘“Irrelevant” Chris Fogle’ by the character known as David Wallace, who also says: ‘Given the way the human mind works, it does tend to be small, sensuously specific details that get remembered over time – and unlike some so-called memoirists, I refuse to pretend that the mind works any other way than it really does.’

The cast that surrounds Fogle is large, cartoonish and alive. All of them carry, as if in briefcases, their own small, sensuously specific details. There is the hyperhidrotic David Cusk, a kind of incarnation of the author’s own sweatband. There is the boy contortionist whose project is to put his lips to every part of himself – who ‘did not yet know how, but he believed, as he approached pubescence, that his head would be his. He would find a way to access all of himself. He possessed nothing that anyone could ever call doubt, inside.’ There is Merrill Errol Lehrl; I’ll allow it. There is the data mystic, the fact psychic who ‘tastes a Hostess cupcake. Knows where it was made; knows who ran the machine that sprayed a light coating of chocolate frosting on top; knows that person’s weight, shoe size, bowling average, American Legion career batting average; he knows the dimensions of the room that person is in right now. Overwhelming.’ There is Shane Drinion, the asexual tax monk who might actually be happy, who sits across the table from the ultra-fox Meredith Rand and levitates listening to her talk about her time on a psychiatric ward and her prettiness. And there are multiple David Wallaces. One David Wallace, wet behind the ears, with so notable a skin condition that he has catalogued the different kinds of attention people pay to it, might arrive at the office one morning and be taken for another.

As I read, I thought Wallace must have been taken by something very simple, the smallest sensual fact: that as an IRS worker you are issued a new social security number, in essence a new identity, a chance to start over. The old number, the old life, ‘simply disappeared, from an identification standpoint’. A whole novel could take flesh from that fact, one about the idea of bureaucratic identity as opposed to individual identity: memories, mothers, sideburn phases, the way we see ourselves. That we are, at our core, a person; in the bed of our family, a name; and out in the world, a number. Of course, as so often with Wallace, on actual investigation this turns out not to be true. The fact withdraws itself, and only the epiphany remains.

Why did he turn to it? Because it was impossible, probably – just as Infinite Jest had been to him fifteen years earlier. And when he took on the impossible book, something sometimes happened to him: a run, a state of flow, a pure streak. As those who are prone to them know, these simulate real living, which we are somehow barred from otherwise. ‘I’m deep into something long,’ he wrote to Pietsch in 2006, ‘and it’s hard for me to get back into it when I’m pulled away.’ He developed a habit of not leaving the house, in case he might write that day. ‘Once when I pressed him,’ Pietsch said, ‘he described working on the new novel as like wrestling sheets of balsa wood in a high wind.’ As he writes in one of his most typically tall-tale essays, ‘Derivative Sport in Tornado Alley’, he was, as a ‘near-great’ junior tennis player, at his very best in bad conditions. In fiction, he creates them; he serves himself sleet, hail, sun in the eye, all for the chance to play through them. Weather, from the beginning, was his best and most beautiful dimension; he trusted in The Pale King’s tornadic structure to finally lift him up. ‘Derivative Sport’ ends famously with a day on the court, hitting balls with Gil Antitoi. ‘A kind of fugue-state opens up inside you where your concentration telescopes toward a still point and you lose awareness of your limbs and the soft shush of your shoe’s slide.’ His life in tennis was spent chasing this moment, he tells us; he has been talking about fiction, too, this whole time. ‘We were young, we didn’t know when to stop. Maybe I was mad at my body and wanted to hurt it, wear it down.’ This funnel of concentration, this tunnel of play between people, rips somehow into the world and becomes force.

Ihave a tender partiality for the work in progress, and have always been electrified by the unfinished novel. My first was a copy of Juneteenth, which I insisted on buying instead of Invisible Man. Invisible Man was finished. The guy was invisible. Next. But Juneteenth held the secret, maybe. It was unbound. It bulged in the hand like a sheaf of papers, and Ellison was still alive in it, the process was ongoing.

David Foster Wallace – man, that name looked great. That’s part of it, right? – David Foster Wallace, colloquially known as DFW, died by suicide in 2008, after years of suffering, sobriety, intractable depression, Nardil and its discontinuation, shock treatment as a last resort; and throughout it all hand-to-the-plough hard work. The Pale King was released in 2011, was a finalist for the 2012 Pulitzer Prize. The lack of an award that year seemed to reproach the others on the list (Karen Russell and Denis Johnson) for still being alive. He didn’t get to finish.

In the ‘Notes and Asides’ at the end of The Pale King, Wallace is alive too; you can hear his voice tilting up with the question marks:

‘Film interview’ a sham? Point is to extract from Chris Fogle the formula of numbers that permits total concentration? Point is he can’t remember – he wasn’t paying attention when he happened to read the series of documents that added up to the string of numbers that, when held in serial in his head, allows him to maintain interest and concentration at will? Has to be sort of tricked into it? Numbers have downside of incredible headache.

His monologue unspools as my mother’s might have, under the hypnosis of hot lights. If ‘“Irrelevant” Chris Fogle’ tells us everything, everything he thinks and feels and remembers, won’t we eventually arrive at the string of numbers that does not bind but sets us free?

I was sceptical of Sarah McNally’s claim, in her brief and somewhat subdued introduction to Something to Do with Paying Attention, that it is ‘not just a complete story, but the best complete example we have of Wallace’s late style’, but that’s exactly what I found it to be. It is the first time his nostalgia sounded adult to me, looking back at childhood not just as the site of personal formation but as the primal experience of bureaucracy: queues, signs, your own name on the line, textures of waiting-room chairs. Waiting to become what, a person. It was not his childhood, perhaps, but it had some of the same surfaces, colours, engineered fabrics. Time to care about JFK again, or still. A kind of cinematic obsession with the sound of joints sucked in and breath held and the textural impact of gold-orange-green couches, invariably described in his work as ‘nubbly’. Posters and dropped needles and a vacancy in teenage faces, and finally he was far enough away.

Wallace’s idea of publishing it as a stand-alone text must have been born of desperation: he could not get the thing done. ‘But how to get this idea sold?’ he asks in the notes. ‘Is this a plausible plotline?’ He had the who, what, when, where; but the same thing that led these characters to the IRS left them motionless at their desks, what were they there to do, and where could they go from here? ‘Supervisors at the IRS’s regional complex in Lake James township are trying to determine why no one noticed that one of their employees had been sitting dead at his desk for four days before anyone asked if he was feeling all right.’

Perhaps Wallace was writing toward paradise, where the forms are also motionless. ‘Pay close attention to the most tedious thing you can find (tax returns, televised golf), and, in waves, a boredom like you’ve never known will wash over you and just about kill you. Ride these out, and it’s like stepping from black and white into colour. Like water after days in the desert. Constant bliss in every atom.’ He did not feel that, maybe, but he could make a man who did.

‘I don’t remember what I did with all my real attention, what-all it was going towards,’ Fogle says. It is always underlined in Wallace’s work, it is believed in without qualification or irony: your real attention. What is it, as a substance? An ichor that flows; a kind of beam that illuminates? Is it corrupted to look on the wrong thing? No, it is not corrupted. I would recommend that you read The Pale King in its entirety – it says something about how novels work, and how they don’t work, and how, if you are avoiding life, it is easier sometimes to exist in the very long middle of them. Something to Do with Paying Attention has the spirit of his best non-fiction, that of the set-apart morning, with a ray shining on the page. It both demonstrates his greatest gift and represents the desire to have this part of him set alone from the rest.

Experiment: use my brain damage to travel back to a time when we did not know this about him.

The memory wipe I experienced after Covid in 2020 extended backwards to 2018. Many who had died became alive again. David Bowie went on again for quite a while, a star painted over his eye. Certain things were very clear: people, places. But many things I had read online were just curiously gone. Betty White was either dead or a landlord. It all merged into a single uneasy datum, like a button under a desk or a composite face.

When I thought of Wallace, I saw two black and white author photos set side by side: one in a trench coat, another turned in profile. I remembered the phrase ‘moving car’, but only because it was something I had written. As for the rest, it was as if it had never happened, or had gone back into that original inch of secrecy between people. All this to say that when I picked up Something to Do with Paying Attention almost at random one morning, I could not have told you with any certainty what it was that he had done.

I did not think, here is the opportunity for a fresh encounter, a chance to read him as he was read back then. I simply picked it up and went on with it, absorbed. Poured out that peculiar quantum, my readerly goodwill. I thought, what is it exactly? He makes people feel they are in real possession of the word ‘volute’, that their vast untapped icebergs of vocabulary and perceptual detritus are readily available to them. His entire personality is present in the word ‘supposedly’ – it is actually frightening. How can the book be separate from the person. What are we reading when we are reading a book. What are we learning when we discover that someone was not good.

We knew he was not benevolent exactly (well, some of us knew) but there was the sense that he was suffering on the same side as us. Why we believed we were reading him for moral instruction in the first place I have no idea, but it did prefigure the primary way we construct morality now: to be paying attention. To everything. That means you. To read him freshly in a time of failure: his, to be loved; mine, to hold all the facts, to have paid enough attention to sit for the test.

As for whether we were foolish to love him, to emulate him, to rise to his challenge – there is an odd scene in a Joy Williams story called ‘The Blue Men’. (Do NOT read Joy Williams at the same time as DFW. It will give you a very bad opinion of him.) Two boys, maybe brothers, are playing catch with a tennis ball on a pier. ‘The younger one sidled back and forth close to the pier’s edge, catching in both hands the high, lobbed throws the other boy threw.’ One of Williams’s strange, terminal teenagers looks on. ‘That’s nice, isn’t it?’ Edith said. ‘That little kid is so trusting it’s kind of holy, but if his trust were misplaced it would really be holy.’ Trust in what, she does not specify. His brother, the ball, the boards, his body, the water, the world? ‘Like, you know, if he fell in,’ Edith said.

Infinite Jest – man, I don’t know. Perhaps I would have enjoyed it more had the rhetorical move not so often been ‘and then this little kid had a claw.’ It’s like watching someone undergo the latest possible puberty. It genuinely reads like he has not had sex. You feel not only that he shouldn’t be allowed to take drugs, but that he shouldn’t be allowed to drink Diet Pepsi. The highlights remain highlights: the weed addict Ken Erdedy pacing back and forth while reciting ‘where was the woman who said she’d come,’ the game of Eschaton, the passages where Mario is almost the protagonist, the beatified ex-thug Don Gately being slowly swept out to sea over the course of a hundred pages. Every so often Wallace offers you a set piece that’s as fully articulated as a Body Worlds exhibit – laminated muscles pinwheeling through the air, beads of plasticine sweat flying – or pauses the action to deliver a weather bulletin that approaches the sublime. The rest is Don DeLillo played at chipmunk speed. You feel it in your hands: too heavy and too light, too much and not enough. In the end, it is a book about the infiltration of our attention that was also at the mercy of itself, helpless not to watch itself, hopelessly entertained.

What were the noughties? A time when everyone went to see the Blue Man Group for a while. Men read David Foster Wallace. Men also put hot sauce on their balls. Tom Bissell’s intro to the 20th-anniversary edition of Infinite Jest, which is good both on its own merits and on the question of why someone would love the book, makes the pertinent disclosure that he read it as a 22-year-old in Uzbekistan. ‘As I read Infinite Jest in the dark early mornings before my Uzbek language class, I could hear my host mother talking to the chickens in the barn on the other side of my bedroom wall as she flung scatters of feed before them.’ He also acknowledges that ‘for the first few hundred pages of my initial reading, I will confess that I greatly disliked Infinite Jest.’ So did everyone, it would seem. There is a kind of bookmark in the space-time continuum, at the precise intersection of the year 1996 and page 150, where everyone simultaneously stopped reading. Possibly for all time. Beyond that point lay fraternity, the secret society, Stockholm Syndrome. ‘David, where be your jibes now?’ is the sort of thing you get to say if you made it through. You also get to write two paragraphs about where you were when you read it.

Stuart, Florida, where I had bought a copy from the Dead People’s Book Stall, a permanent stall in the flea market that inherited the collections of the recently deceased. I lugged it home along with a Hawaiian cookbook that suggested stirring chopped canned clams into a brick of softened neufchatel. I cannot remember whether he was alive or dead at that point; if he was alive, I was not his acolyte, but I liked the fact that he was there. If he was dead, I felt a brief stay in my own execution.

There was a certain freedom in admitting I was not the intended reader – one of my signature talents, then as now, is for never knowing when something is based on Hamlet. Still I began. James O. Incandenza’s head took up residence in my microwave. At times I was high on cough syrup; that helped. Occasionally I lifted my eyes to rest them on a canal with actual gators in it. My main sense memory is of it digging into my pussy when I propped it on my lap; one can only think this was by design. And maybe it wasn’t good for obsessive thinkers, or people prone to go into trance states while lip-biting. All of this is a roundabout way of saying that possibly it drove me crazy. You see, one corner of the back cover of my copy was torn, and I thought I could just even it out with an X-Acto knife – Lucky Jim’s sheet-snipping logic – and when my husband came home from work one afternoon he found me sitting in a pile of confetti, with a look like a dog that had just exploded all his friends in the henhouse, and he took the X-Acto knife from me without a word and hid it where I could never find it again. But there was something in me that saw this – correctly – as the only possible way to approach it: with a weapon.

For a long time Infinite Jest was one of those novels where, anytime you said anything about it, a little guy would pop up on the sidelines waving his arms and yelling, ‘That’s the point!’ ‘The original title was A Failed Entertainment! That’s the point!’ Sometimes, maybe. But the point not being, as Wallace well knew, any sort of apex of art. Even those who love it have trouble saying quite what it is. (People are always trying to make it the Ulysses of Boston. No one wants a Ulysses of Boston!) So what – is the serious, even the respectful question – what is this thing? Expanded far beyond its natural size, like a rat that has eaten insulation. One of its eyes hanging out on a red string. Raw with adolescence and early sobriety: like why would you make a rat be sober?

A modern reader will not find in it the book they read ten, fifteen, twenty years ago. They may find themselves lingering over those background touches that now seem to weave the majority: and then the stillborn baby was the colour of TEA, and then the cross-dressing undercover agent’s breast MIGRATED, and then a guy got together with a Swiss hand model who was a MAN, and then there was an IT in a Raquel Welch MASK who got diddled by her father into a state of carnal BLISS. But all these are carnival distractions. We recognise it as grotesque because it is grotesque: a book that will not let you read it.

I’m not speaking of the length, or the timelines that Wallace himself couldn’t untangle, or the footnotes that he somehow made famous although the footnote was a very famous thing already. At some point, you will find yourself in a state of pure nystagmus, moving your eyes back and forth across the page without conscious will. Almost the second you find yourself really reading he plucks it from you again. The game is not tennis, or chess-on-the-run, or Eschaton. It is keepaway. The Pale King, put together by note and hint, keeps us in the realm of the readable, whereas Wallace might have imposed a superstructure that made it impossible. I did deconstruct the physical act of reading while Infinite Jest was propped on my lap. Even perhaps read differently afterwards, as if I had been working with a loaded bat or training with ankle weights. In that sense it was valuable. But, and correct me if I’m wrong here, what Wallace wanted was to be read – the moment when we were really with him. It might have been a thrill to feel himself taller, and our reaching and yearning and outrage radiating to him from the ground, but time passes, and we’re older now. We can look him in the eye. What he wanted was the moment in Infinite Jest when LaMont Chu is visiting the guru who lives on the sweat of the young tennis-players; he notes that his power is in listening, in making you recognise that ‘He’s thinking as hard as you. It’s like he’s you in the top of a clean pond. It’s part of the attention.’

What Infinite Jest is creating is a future in which it exists. What it fears most is one in which it is not read. All throughout you can feel him, like, worrying about his seed. Whether he’s living up to his potential, to his regional titles, bending and trimming himself like a boy bonsai, sleeping at night with his talent in a pair of vaselined gloves. There is something grinding and awful and wrong in this, the same thing he observes in his essay about the young tennis phenom Tracy Austin: that there is something unnatural in watching a human being shape their mind and body so completely to a task. But then there’s the moment where he does – live up to it, I mean. ‘Here is how to avoid thinking about any of this by practising and playing until everything runs on autopilot and talent’s unconscious exercise becomes a way to escape yourself, a long waking dream of pure play.’ I am saying this as much to myself: to really be read you have to admit that you’re playing an even match. And he could have really had it, so why all the rest?

Time will tell who is an inventor and who is a tech disruptor. There was ambient pressure, for a while, to say that Wallace created a new kind of fiction. I’m not sure that’s true – the new style is always the last gasp of an old teacher, and Infinite Jest in particular is like a house party to which he’s invited all of his professors. Thomas Pynchon is in the kitchen, opening a can of expired tuna with his teeth. William Gaddis is in the den, reading ticker-tape off a version of C-Span that watches the senators go to the bathroom. Don DeLillo is three houses down, having sex with his wife. I’m not going to begrudge him a wish that the world was full of these wonderful windy oddballs, who were all entrusted with the same task: to encompass, reflect, refract. But David, some of these guys had the competitive advantage of having been personally experimented on by the US military. You’re not going to catch them. Calm down.

No, it was the essayists who were left to cope with an almost radioactive influence. He produced a great deal of excellent writing, the majority of it not his own. If he made mutants of the next generation, it was largely to their benefit: they were a little bit taller, with bigger eyes and a voice that was piped in directly.

‘I Really Didn’t Want to Go’, Lauren Oyler’s recent essay for Harper’s, is a rollicking, even Obetrolling critique of this. Aboard Gwyneth Paltrow’s Goop cruise, she thinks through Wallace’s ‘A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again’ and writes that ‘during the years-long squabble over which of us lady writers would become the next Joan Didion, no one had tried to claim the title of David Foster Wallace for girls’ – why? The answer is obvious: too sweaty. Wallace perspires freely in the foreground, while Paltrow perches mauve-and-beigely on her stool on a far stage. He is dead and she is very very very very very very well; he’s still kind of more interesting.

If his non-fiction is almost amniotically soothing, it is because we consent for the duration to let him do the thinking for us. He is the cruise ship, deciding where to dock, when we should retire to our quarters, whether to offer us an afternoon of skeet-shooting or ping-pong or chess with a nine-year-old prodigy. He issues the dress code (a tuxedo T-shirt), manages the seating arrangements, and decides on the menu. Above all he presents multi-level opportunities to gorge.

In non-fiction the game is to really think something through. That was his task and he did it with joy, simultaneously obedient to that editor floating with his desk in mid-air, and performatively pushing its limits. The thing about an essay is it’s going to be read now. You’re not so much worrying about it being a touchstone for the future. So he relaxes, plays restful microtennis, lets us read.

And something else, too: it is a break from the book. An assignment comes as a kind of relief: not just you in your own mind. It takes you out into the world, even to the state fair, to see the clog dancers. The book is the thing that will not let you leave the house, because it might let you write it that day.

There was always something suspect about Wallace as a guru, the same thing that is suspect about anyone who applies for the position. It is hard to imagine William T. Vollmann, say, getting secondarily famous for a commencement speech that was basically like, ‘You know how sometimes you want to scream at a fat person in your mind?’ [Everyone cheers] ‘Well don’t!’ He warned us about MTV, porn, Walkmen, BlackBerries, music in public places and ALF. ‘The commercials for ALF’s Boston debut in a syndicated package feature the fat, cynical, gloriously decadent puppet (so much like Snoopy, like Garfield, like Bart, like Butt-Head) advising me to “Eat a whole lot of food and stare at the TV.”’ In one sentence he would offer a penetrating insight about our fractured attention span, in the next he would make it clear that he was legitimately afraid of David Letterman. Remember his dire warning in ‘Big Red Son’ that late 1990s porn would lead directly to snuff films? I mean, I guess it did, but really? One can imagine him a grown-up version of the awful little Heinrich from White Noise, who was also right, but who, moreover, was the new kind of person – and who, after the Airborne Toxic Event, gathered the rest of the refugees around him, suddenly eloquent, seeming to glow.

He did see a future (or shaped it) when all of us simultaneously forgot how to read. It is hard to mark a moment. In the US, it might have been when Go Set a Watchman came out, and so much criticism seemed to proceed from the consensus that Atticus Finch was a real guy and we just found out something bad he had done. Whole books seemed to blink in and out with the cursor of some highlighted line. We seemed less a collective intelligence than a guy holding a mosquito clicker, and what we were doing had less to do with reading than a kind of quick, scanning surveillance – for what, what danger? Not to have seen it coming.

There is a countenance in art. This is the thing that cannot be killed. There is an eye in the painting that looks back at you. But perhaps we now felt ourselves part of the composite – scanning with other eyes, reading with other minds. I mean who cares if he pre-invented Instagram filters? What now seems most prescient is that he anticipated a time when reading would be accomplished more by a kind of hive-like activity rather than individual effort. This benefited him for a while, as he was the Great Group Read. But what he created, more than the Enfield Tennis Academy or Ennet House, more than any of the people or ghosts that moved through them, was a reality in which Infinite Jest could live only so long as it stood as a challenge.

That’s what it was. In 2018 the poet and memoirist Mary Karr, who had been briefly involved with Wallace in the early 1990s, took to Twitter and accused D.T. Max of understating Wallace’s abusive behaviour towards her in his biography Every Love Story Is a Ghost Story. The mode suddenly switched from ‘lovely, peak-lipped mouth that was his best feature’ into a kind of embarrassed silence or I saw it all along or He was never important to me anyway. We had first thought of him in terms of his genius, and then in terms of his suffering – how to hold these things in the same hand as his threat?

I had read an earlier account of the relationship in Karr’s memoir Lit (on the Kindle, multiple times; also wiped) but the picture she presented now was more extreme. Karr wrote that Wallace had been obsessed with her: ‘tried to buy a gun. kicked me. climbed up the side of my house at night. followed my son aged five home from school. had to change my number twice, and he still got it. months and months it went on.’ The facts – he threw a coffee table at her? he followed her five-year-old son home from school? he pushed her out of a moving car? – seemed almost unassimilable with the figure. You expect Norman Mailer to stab someone. You don’t expect the author of ‘This Is Water’ to stalk someone for years.

He often made light of his obsessions in interviews: Alanis Morissette. Melanie Griffith. Margaret Thatcher, leaning forward to cover his hand. These anecdotes must have gone over queasily even at the time; being obsessed with Margaret Thatcher in college is not within the typical range of human behaviour. He had imported Karr wholesale into Infinite Jest as the PGOAT (‘Prettiest Girl Of All Time’), he had reproduced her Texas idiom to the point of impersonation, with the farcical claim that the character was from Kentucky. He had even written the novel, he claimed, to impress her, ‘a means to her end (as it were)’. That was one kind of offence; this was another. ‘But that’s insane,’ my husband said simply, when I took him through it. ‘Who does something like that? What kind of person?’

Between my first reading of The Pale King and the second, I found myself dwelling on the tête-à-tête in the novel between Shane Drinion and Meredith Rand – a very funny name for an ultra-fox, by the way, and which follows the same basic syllabic pattern as some of Wallace’s other ultra-foxes. She confesses that in high school she was a ‘cutter’ – someone who turned her obsession inward, rather than out. (Wallace once showed up at Karr’s house with bandages on his arm; she thought perhaps he’d cut himself, but instead it was a tattoo of her name.) The section is a disappointment: a hundred-plus pages, a psychiatric ward, and why is this conversation still about prettiness? It was the wall he hit in fiction; the thing he could not think his way beyond. But I kept thinking of Drinion: the man with no apparent desire, who was happy; who claimed to not get lonely; who listened; who levitated as the ultra-fox droned on.

I could step into her place. When I was on the ward, there was a boy who got obsessed with people. In group therapy, I remember him saying, of his neighbour, ‘I just know that she and I will always be in each other’s lives.’ I found this fascinating. He was unthinkable to me: you get obsessed with people? I was unthinkable to him: you tried to kill yourself? He turned his attention to me that day, directed his speech towards me, curled up on the couch when I left. Fascinating. He was a child, he was basically wearing a striped Ernie shirt. He was doing it, and it was also something happening to him. He was a fellow sufferer, I thought. He was. And then, get out before it happens to you.

The most anyone would say is that after Infinite Jest, Wallace’s fiction ‘grew darker’. This was in reference to Brief Interviews with Hideous Men, a collection of 23 short stories published in 1999 that seemed designed to test his own maxim that ‘Fiction’s about what it is to be a fucking human being.’ Its subject matter ranges from rubbed raw red thingies to diving board reveries to child mortality. Some professed to prefer it, or considered it the apex of his achievement. I refreshed my knowledge of him just before reading it, and that must have had an effect: probably we would feel differently about David Lynch’s darkness if actual ears kept turning up in his backyard.

Zadie Smith wrote an indispensable, somewhat tortured essay about this collection, begun when he was alive and published after his death. It’s an example of the generosity, the lavishness of mind, the almost rabbinical close reading he inspired at his peak. Smith really sees him in her brackets: ‘There are times when reading Wallace feels unbearable, and the weight of things stacked against the reader insurmountable: missing context, rhetorical complication, awful people, grotesque or absurd subject matter, language that is – at the same time! – childishly scatological and annoyingly obscure.’ But – there was always a but – it was almost a holy belief at that time: stick with him, it’ll be worth it.

I had a copy from early on that I never read past ‘The Depressed Person’. It seemed to me then, and it seems to me now, a sick book – not in the puppy sense, but actually ill. The language appears to be genuinely infected, not one of his vernacular performances. It is variously trapping you in its methamphetamine armpit and chasing you around with a worm, but it doesn’t appear able to do anything else. Was it at this time that he lurked in Barnes and Nobles, lingering near the self-help shelf? ‘Don’t think I can’t speak your language,’ Hideous Man #20 tells the interviewer, whom he refers to somewhat pleasingly as a short-haired catamenial braburner; he does, but completely, it has taken him over. ‘It’s a little perverse, in fact,’ Smith observes, ‘how profoundly he was attracted, as a fiction writer, to exactly those forms of linguistic specialisation he philosophically abhorred.’ But that was the thing about TV, too. It’s not that he didn’t have insights about it. It’s that the blue ongoing light of it, the Entertainment, kind of did seem to have melted his brain.

Jonathan Franzen is correct to emphasise his rhetorical gift; sometimes just when you’re hating it most, you are being won over. Did he want ‘faithful readers’, as Smith asserts, or did he want the moment he knew that he had them? ‘The record indicates that this sort of sudden reversal of thrust happens right when I have the sense that I’ve got them,’ Hideous Man #2 confesses. Or Orin, in Infinite Jest, with his ‘need to be assured that for a moment he has her,’ ‘that her sense of humour is gone, her petty griefs, triumphs, memories, hands, career, betrayals, the deaths of pets – that there is now inside her a vividness vacuumed of all but his name: O., O. That he is the One.’ The answers that anchor the collection, delivered by hideous men in response to blank questions, take it in their turn to pursue, repulse, and finally persuade us: but to what?

I have always appreciated Wallace most in his monologues and I can, like my father, hear confessions all day; Hideous Men ought to be my book. Instead, I found myself generally standing opposite to Smith’s assessments: I think ‘Forever Overhead’ is juvenilia, I find ‘Church Not Made with Hands’ to be rank fraud, and I would like to put ‘Octet’ in my ass and turn it into a diamond. Attempts to operate in the register of the profound fail; poetry deserts him, having once been insulted; and I did not laugh once, and then for a different reason, until I got to the line, ‘That’s right, the psychopath is also a mulatto.’

The truth about Brief Interviews is this: it only gets good when we’re about to be raped. We are, for the purposes of this encounter, a daffy granola hippie whose hot body is momentarily shed of her poncho, as Hideous Man #20 tells the interviewer the story of the night she unwisely got into a stranger’s car: ‘I did not fall in love with her until she had related the story of the unbelievably horrifying incident in which she was brutally accosted and held captive and very nearly killed ... By this time she was focus itself, she had merged with connection itself.’ He lets the grass sharpen for her. Only at this point will he let go of prettiness, let it be gone. The prettiness goes into the world, into the grass and the phlox and the gravel, and becomes what he will never grant her: actual beauty. ‘Can you see why ... it didn’t matter if she was fluffy or not terribly bright? Nothing else mattered. She had all my attention.’

The book, at this moment, seems unfinished too. You think, if he can really set down everything he finds in the girl’s face, he’ll get there. Don’t miss the reflection in her eye, that’s you. Our desire puts the pen back in his hand; his breath hasn’t stopped, we are holding it for him. We’re thinking, it’s not over, he could still get there.

It can still be ours, is the thing. There is a great deal of handwringing about whether we can still enjoy the work of hideous men. The question is not typically how to root out influence. It is whether we can still enjoy, but we are reaching for another word beyond it. What we are asking is whether we can still experience it without becoming these men.

Of course we become them. That is the exercise of fiction. That the passage about the hippie wakes for me is a kind of rueful proof. If they were powerful, we become powerful. If they had the words, we have the words. ‘Judge me, you chilly cunt. You dyke, you bitch, cooze, cunt, slut, gash. Happy now?’ Yes, David. Thanks for the grass.

You open the text and it wakes. This is the thing that cannot be killed. ‘Since we all breathe, all the time,’ he writes at the end of The Pale King, ‘it is amazing what happens when someone else directs you how and when to breathe.’ The novel does this, as much as any hypnotist. The rhythms of another person’s sentences do this, wind across the grid, Illinois, their attempts to keep their mother alive for all time by reproducing her idiom down to the letter. It’s in your mind now: levitation. It’s in your mouth now: Obetrolling. ‘And how vividly someone with no imagination whatsoever can see what he’s told is right there, complete with banister and rubber runners, curving down and rightward into a darkness that recedes before you.’ You open a text and it wakes. What is alive in it passes to the living. His attention becomes our attention. It can still be ours, sure. Do with it what you will.

#books #writing #david foster wallace

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kammartinez · 1 year ago

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Though there is one thing we wouldn’t want to lose: a character named Mr Bussy.

In the ‘Notes and Asides’ at the end of The Pale King, Wallace is alive too; you can hear his voice tilting up with the question marks:

Experiment: use my brain damage to travel back to a time when we did not know this about him.

#writing #books #david foster wallace

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whatiwillsay · 4 years ago

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off topic - let’s talk about gaylena 👀

selena gomez is one of taylor’s oldest and bestest friends and given that she is in the 22 liner notes, a huge part of taylor’s life, and maybe fruity herself it seems like possibly we don’t talk about her here at the blog enough!

i don’t want to do a timeline of selena and taylor’s friendship - you can read more about that here, but they met back in the day when they were both dating jonas brothers and to me this idea of finding a real friendship in the midst of these contrived promances is pretty adorable.

ofc most of y’all think taylor is a fruit basket but i think there’s a good chance that selena is too! i’m not saying she is for sure but y’all know me. i’’m here to make a compelling case that everyone and their dog is gay so let’s gooooo!

Part I - At least one fake rs!

Selena “dated” Taylor Lautner in 2009 and he’s definitely gay. Of course, that doesn’t mean she is, it could just be PR, but y’all know I gotta note everything! We stan our fruity bffs dating the same gays 😍

Part II - Selena x cara delevingne

i feel like there’s a chance they met through taylor but everyone in that squad adjacent circle knows one another. cara dated michelle rodriguez for the first half of 2014 and then got with annie clark in March 2015 but it feels like it’s possible something has gone on between her and Selena from summer 2014 - early 2015? ...maybe something casual on and off a bit?

August 2014 - Steamy pics surface in Saint-Tropez, France

Selena and and a freshly single Cara vacation together in part to celebrate Selena’s 22nd birthday.

They party together and look cozy!

Pictures such as this surface and spark rumors around the two:

Selena apparently loves the rumors and gushes about being shipped with Cara.

Quote:

You say Selena drag queens were the true measure of success for you. But isn’t it true that you’re not truly famous until you’ve been the subject of a gay rumor? And last year, the tabloids had a field day with photos of you and Cara Delevingne. I’ve made it!

How did you react to those rumors? Honestly, I loved it. I didn’t mind it. Especially because they weren’t talking about other people in my life for once, which was wonderful. Honestly, though, she’s incredible and very open and she just makes me open. She’s so fun and she’s just extremely adventurous, and sometimes I just want that in my life, so I didn’t mind it. I loved it.

Notice she doesn’t deny them? Now of course she could just be being cool, if she freaked out about it that might be even weirder but hey, it’s still kind of interesting.

Then she admits to questioning her sexuality???

Have you ever questioned your sexuality? Oh, I think everybody does, no matter who they are. I do, yeah, of course. Absolutely. I think it’s healthy to gain a perspective on who you are deep down, question yourself and challenge yourself; it’s important to do that.

(Selena btw, this is cool and all, but not everybody questions their sexuality, maybe you’re just gay 👀)

November 1 - LACMA Art + Film Gala

they even left the event together 👀

and they hung out earlier that day as well:

They were seen the next day partying for Kendall Jenner’s bday singing to her:

a few weeks later Cara tweets Selena’s lyrics!

In December 2014 they are travelling together in texas:

in january 2015 they get cozy at the golden globes together!

and they leave together again:

January 19th/20th a bunch of gay nonsense happens

They post this gay shit with matching shoes and linked fingers:

then they say this to one another:

Enty says they were hooking up!

then we don’t get any more content that i can find for about six months! perhaps they had a fling from summer 2014-jan 2015 and then it ends, Cara gets with Annie in March? Then after half a year apart Selena and Cara resume a friendly relationship? Perhaps! Selena is seen with Justin a bit off and on during this time but this was in their Style/Heat Death Era imo (tbh i probably shouldn’t give a hetty pairing including Justin that designation 🤢but y’all get what I’m saying - it’s fully possible Selena was hooking up with both of them!

Now I’m not super familiar with Selena’s discography so y’all lmk if I’m missing anything major - lyric wise that point to her not being straight.

Selena’s album Revival that comes out after this relationship has a few songs with some vibes, even though I get the feeling a lot of it is probably about Justin, allow me to reach. The title track could be translated as someone coming to terms with their sexuality (among other things):

I feel like I've awakened lately The chains around me are finally breaking I've been under self-restoration I've become my own salvation Showing up, no more hiding, hiding The light inside me is bursting, shining It's my, my, my time to butterfly

Good for you, imo, is too sexy to be about a man even if it’s not super queer lyrically it’s a vibe ok?

Me & My Girls might be a bestie anthem a la 22 (oh wait, no 22 was gay too) but I mean...could be about a girl gang of lesbians too!

And if we want it, we take it If we need money, we make it Nobody knows if we fake it You like to watch while we shake it I know we're making you thirsty You want us all in the worst way But you don't understand I don't need a man

Quinn Fabray indeed!

Nobody feels probably like a retrospective on Justin 🙄but...there is a hint of sapphic craving in there! Saying this particular lover loves them differently than everyone is a bit 👀 plus this stanza:

No oxygen, can barely breathe My darkest sin, you've raised release And it's all because of you, all because of you And I don't know what it is, but you've pulled me in No one compares, could ever begin To love me like you do And I wouldn't want them to

Is Perfect about some bitch Justin started dating? Probably but bear with me here this song is actually pretty fucking gay. Gay enough that I’m gonna add it to one of my gay playlists. Could this song actually be about Cara moving on to Annie?

Ooh, and I bet she has it all Bet she's beautiful like you, like you And I bet she's got that touch Makes you fall in love, like you, like you

I can taste her lipstick and see her laying across your chest I can feel the distance every time you remember her fingertips Maybe I should be more like her Maybe I should be more like her I can taste her lipstick, it's like I'm kissing her, too And she's perfect And she's perfect

Part III - Selena x Julia Michaels

Julia Michaels is a singer/songwriter known for her song Issues. I don’t know her sexuality but she at the least has gay vibes! It seems they met around this time perhaps because Julia wrote on Revival.

They have a friendly enough friendship for a few years, liking one another’s posts on IG from time to time, posing for a photo a time or two and then they seem to get swept up into this very intense friendship in 2019. They write some music together and Julia goes whole hog in promoting the shoe brand Selena is hawking this time 😭

2019 - The Superior Sapphic Jelena Timeline:

It starts, for some reason with a lot of shoe promotion:

chill, chill

more shoes

but more gayness?

this homo shit

ok...

Then we go into the REALLY GAY NOVEMBER OF 2019:

Then they perform together:

And...actually kiss...on the mouth on stage???

Sure it’s just a peck but still...if that were a guy people would say they were dating.

Somehow kissing on the mouth isn’t the gayest thing these girls do over this period because these fucking dykes got matching tattoos. I’ve read enough Larry blogs to know this actually means they’re secretly married. All jokes aside this is fruity behavior.

From their IG stories:

Selena gets Julia a very nice christmas gift:

Covid sets in and content drops off but god damn! It’s possible they just had an intense friendship but if a man and a woman collabed on music together, kissed in public, and got matching tattoos everyone would say they were dating!

Selena, as far as I can find, didn’t have any public boyfriends around this time so who are some of these love songs about?

Rare comes out in January 2020 and perhaps has some gayish songs?

Don’t tell me why but boyfriend lowkey, has a gay vibe. Don’t ask me to explain it but it’s just the musicality of it.

Crowded Room could be a love song for Julia? (or by Julia for Selena, since they’re collaborators?)

Baby, it's just me and you Baby, it's just me and you Just us two Even in a crowded room Baby, it's just me and you, yeah

These are general gay vibes, our secret moments in a crowded room tease

It started polite, out on thin ice 'Til you came over to break it I threw you a line and you were mine

It would have started out polite between them, since they worked together for years before whatever 2019 was happened. And throwing someone a line first of all makes Selena sound like the aggressor but also “throwing someone a line” could be a reference to writing songs together.

Yeah, I was afraid, but you made it safe I guess that is our combination Said you feel lost, well, so do I So won't you call me in the morning? I think that you should call me in the morning If you feel the same, 'cause

Lots of people are afraid at the beginning of a gay rs. Treacherous tease 👀

In summation!

Selena does gay stuff like fantasizing ab kissing other women in her music, getting very touchy with famous dykes on vacay, hangs out with Taylor Swift, has chronic mental health issues, dated a jonas brother and a twilight gay, has admitted to questioning her sexuality, and loves being shipped with women. Is she gay? I don’t know! But all she’s missing from her celesbian bingo card is a suspiciously intense friendship with a Glee Cast member! What do you guys think? Selena fruity or just weird?

Edit to add: so apparently I missed an entire ship and Selena supposedly acted really gay all the time with her backup dancer Charity Baroni. Exposing SMG has posted a lot about all that.

Also Selena has been cast in a gay role! edit to add: @bisluthq went and found this for me - julia is indeed a fruit queen

#selena gomez #gaylena #taylena #gossip #cara delevingne #julia michaels #lesbian #sapphic #of interest #taylor's fruity friends

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extremelyblackandwhite · 4 years ago

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handmaid - 29

PAIRING: mob!sebastian stan x ingenue!reader

WARNINGS: age gap

A/N: when you quote west side story you do know things are not about to get any better *nervous laughter* hope you enjoy this chapter x

NEXT CHAPTER

The environment was calm with baby blue and white walls. The only sounds existing in the room being that of the machines beeping and the small breathing sounds coming from the two people in the bedroom. It was quiet, very quiet, but the quietness only contributed to the peaceful nature of the hospital bedroom.

The slight beeping of the door being opened caused the attention of the French woman to leave from her newborn daughter to the man who had just came in holding a bouquet of white lilies.

- I didn’t know what type of flowers would be suitable for someone who just gave birth. - he smiled, taking a seat on the cushioned chair by her bed. - How are my girls?

- I am alright. Ella’s just been sleeping, I think that’s all she does. - the baby sleep peacefully against her chest, lightly suckling on her mother’s pinkie finger without a single care in the world. - Do you know when we can go home? It’s becoming a bit tiring to be in here.

- Robin. - the man sighed. - It’s safer for you to be here than to be home. We cannot return home until we’re certain that no harm can come to you or to Ella.

- But we got extra security besides ... I sense something bad is coming.

- That is just your “momma bear” coming out. You’re safe here, there’s staff and security everywhere.

- I hope you’re right. - she sighed, looking at the baby. - I really hope you’re right.

Y/N stared at him with the sort of curiosity one does whenever confronted with a hard choice. She could just end it, she could just put a stop to it and spare Gwen the pain and shame of being cheated on before she even got married, spare Sebastian and her the childish illusions that everything would be okay. She could just end it, she could just run away and start somewhere new but something always stopped it. Turns out, she couldn’t just end it, she couldn’t just stop falling more and more in love with him, she couldn’t just pretend she could just leave and things would be alright. So once again, she’d rather pretend that everything is alright, everything’s fine.

She took a step towards him, her shoe front hitting his ever so slightly before she wrapped her arms around him, hiding her head in the space between his shoulder and neck, inhaling his cologne. Sebastian relished and relaxed in her embrace, kissing the crown of her head in means to comfort her.

- Stay. - he mumbled through her hair, holding her tightly in his arms as if she would fade into air if his grip loosened. Y/N on the other hand was again trying to convince herself that there was a place for them, somewhere in time a place where there could be together without any other external factors. Nevertheless, that place filled with quiet and open air seemed to be nowhere near as breaking through those thoughts were the distant sounding laughter and chatting of people inside the dinning hall celebrating his engagement. Her gaze moved from the room to his face, to his beautiful eyes who stared into her with a look of pure naive hope. - Angel, I ...

- Mr. Stan? - the two of them left the embrace as someone got closer to the balcony, calling out for him. Her gaze left his to stare at her shoes, shifting her weight from side to side as one of his lesser associates came into the balcony, giving the handmaid a dirty look. - There are some people inside trying to congratulate you.

- I’ll be right with you, I just need t ...

- No, it’s alright. Go. - Y/N interrupted him, giving him a simple characteristic smile. She didn’t want to be the reason why he got himself in trouble and she also didn’t want to make it seem like they were intimate to the rest of the world. Sebastian, however, took a double take, wondering if he should stay and finish his sentence but the associate keeping on calling made him leave her there in the balcony.

The handmaid just sighed, leaning against the railing of the balcony, head heavy with various concerns that probably should’ve weight on her decision back when she decided to get together with him. Before she could decide what else to do, Mr. Dubois had joined her in the balcony, offering her one of the champagne flutes that seemed to float around the party. Despite not being in the mood to drink, she decided to accept it anyway.

- So, a handmaid? Pardon my curiosity, I have never met one in my whole life. What does it entail?

- It’s the same thing as medieval time handmaids. You’re by the heiress’ side making sure she’s happy. - it was an over-explanation of what her job truly entailed but Y/N didn’t have enough time to completely go through what being a handmaid truly was like. - You mentioned the Deschamps. Excuse me asking but I’ve been in this environment since I was younger and I never heard about that mob family.

- Oh they’re not a mob family. The Deschamps aren’t part of the mob however they are rich, they had money even after the French Revolution. They own more New York real state than the Stans so they normally make an appearance at every single event.

- I thought the Stans owned all of the Upper East Side.

- They wished. - he scoffed. - I remember a time when one of the mob families tried to get an engagement with a Deschamps. Can’t remember her name, though. Rosemarie, maybe.

- Never heard of it. - Y/N shrugged. - Enjoying the party so far?

- I didn’t expect Genevieve Forrest to be that frivolous. It’s nothing like her father.

- She’s young.

- You can only blame so much on age, Miss Y/N.

The talk was mostly void of interest, just a polite dance she used to do with anyone and everyone who spoke to her. Once the part became too much for her to handle, she took back to her bedroom sitting down in her bed with various questions going through her mind. Her eyes quickly gazed over her laptop laying on top of her suitcase. She shouldn’t, this was just putting herself deeper and deeper down a hole that kept bringing her more sleepless nights. Yet, as per usual, Y/N did not stop herself and soon enough she found herself with her laptop on her lap, Google on as she typed that very spoke about name. Deschamps. As she finished typing that name and pressed enter several pictures showed up along with a bit of information. Turns out Mr. Dubois was right, they were rich, filthy rich and by the look of it, mostly based in Saint-Nom-La-Bretèch. As she went through the pictures, one of them caught her attention as in the picture stood quite a big crowd of people but one woman in particular standing at the front shared a significant resemblance to the Robin woman that had kept showing on Sebastian’s and Mr. Forrest’s attic. However, the golden necklace that now laid in the middle of Y/N’s collarbones was missing from the woman’s neck in the picture.

Curiously, Y/N clicked the link connected to the photo which led to an article about the acquisition of the Metropolitan Opera House in New York. The picture on the article had a legend and as she went through, she reached the name of the only woman in the figure; Rosemarie Deschamps, the eldest daughter of Michael Deschamps. Surprised, Y/N closed her laptop forcefully, hiding behind her duvet like a scared child. It was just in her mind, it was just in her mind, she didn’t need to know, why did she need to know. Even if she was related to the Deschamps she was probably a bastard child whom the Forrests took pity on.

With those thoughts, she dozed off to sleep. Between all of this and her relationship with Sebastian she didn’t exactly know how she could sleep peacefully and throughout the night she kept somehow waking up in cold sweats. When she finally managed to have more than just a few minutes of sleep around sunrise, a loud knock followed by her name being screamed in a high pitched female voice took her right off her sleeping state. Great. Through her sleepiness, she mumbled for however it was at the door to come in. In came Gwen dressed like a Givenchy model in a harsh shade of green and white.

- Y/N, I need a favour. - she sat on the edge of her bed. - I have my wedding dress fitting today but I really can’t be asked besides Christian and I were thinking about going for brunch.

- We’re not the same size. - Y/N mumbled against her pillow, sleep trying to fight through her awareness.

- Just check if the dress is okay. C’mon Y/N. - Gwen pulled the duvet away from her. - Please, I covered for you.

- Okay.

Gwen clapped in excitement before pulling the handmaid up to her bedroom which was filled to the brim with people carrying needles and threads along with various swatches of fabric. Before Y/N could question what was happening, she was brought by one of the woman to stand in front of the mirror while another one opened a white box pulling out Gwen’s wedding dress. Gwen was nowhere to be seen, probably already left and before Y/N could even check for that, the dress was being pushed down her, sitting a bit too loose. Her eyes glued to the mirror as she saw herself in the wedding dress, the white fabric almost glistening with the light. It was a beautiful dress, mostly made out of fabric.

- Genevieve, we need to spe ... - Y/N turned around at the different voice that came from the door. Sebastian was leaning against it, almost sure his eyes were playing tricks on him as he observed Y/N dressed in bridal fashion. - Angel, what are you doing here?

- Gwen asked me to cover for her. - she didn’t even lie anymore, instead facing him with the truth that he would probably hear from everyone else. - Is it important?

- PR bullshit, if you ask me. - he took a step towards her, fully inspecting the gown wrapped around the handmaid. - You look stunning.

- It’s not my dress. - she forcefully smiled, not sure if she should cry or not. It wasn’t everyday that you get dressed in the wedding dress belonging to the woman who’s about to get married to the man she was hopelessly in love with.

Yet again, she kept digging herself a hole which she wasn’t sure she could ever come out from.

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binniedeactivated · 4 years ago

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saint. || soobin (2.5)🌪

a/n: ya’ll if falling in love with this man was a sport---I’d win the world championship.

🖤┊𝔰𝔞𝔦𝔫𝔱 . ೄྀ࿐ 𝖕��𝖎𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖌: 𝖘𝖔𝖔𝖇𝖎𝖓 𝖝 𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖉𝖊𝖗 𝖌𝖊𝖓𝖗𝖊: 𝖘𝖒𝖚𝖙/𝖆𝖚 𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖉 𝖈𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖙; 2789

“he didn’t throw the first punch I saw it all from the bathroom. the guys were threatening to kill him i swear”. the principal pushes his lips into a thin line. yeonjun is just drumming his fingers on his lap hoping he’d believe him and soobin was sitting aside, still trying to fix his uniform and look presentable while michael was in the nurse’s office. he was surprised yeonjun was even in there defending his name like that.

“are you sure choi yeonjun?”. the principal asked skeptically. he wanted to believe soobin was in the wrong here, for some stupid sick reason. but yeonjun didn’t let that happen. he nodded confidently. the principal huffs his breath.

“fine, I’ll believe you since you’re a trustworthy student. choi soobin I’m not going to suspend you since you were defending yourself against a group. however I will have to notify your parents”. he informed. and soobin had no problem with that considering the fact that he blocked the school’s number from his parent’s phones. soobin nodded gratefully, his parents would’ve tried to beat him until he couldn’t breathe anymore if they found out he got suspend from school.

“thank you”. the boys both bowed before exiting out of his office and the principal was set to call the other boys involved them and notify them about their suspension. it was weird walking in the halls with someone he wasn’t that fond of instead of his boys. well, his ex-boys. soobin pushes his hands in his pockets trying to figure out how to speak.

“you know um- thank you. you didn’t have to do that for me”. he finally said after a moment of awkward silence.

“don’t thank me that’s weird. I still hate you”. yeonjun pronounces with a small grin. soobin laughs.

“that’s how it’s gonna be?”.

“hell yeah. I still don’t forgive you for pushing me on the floor of your house when you first met me”. yeonjun admitted. soobin laughs again.

“I didn’t know you. barely even knew you were a fucking choi”.

“I’m convinced that even if you knew you’d still try to beat my ass because that’s who you are”.

“touché”. soobin agrees. they both were just following one another, going nowhere in particular.

“so um--have you told her yet?”. yeonjun asks. soobin shakes his head.

“not yet”.

“why not?”.

“you know why”.

yeonjun breathes hard. “you’re just digging a deeper hole for yourself soobin”.

“I can’t do it man..”. soobin trails off.

“how is she doing anyways? mia?”.

soobin shrugs.

“I went to apologize to her the other day she looked... like a zombie but I don’t want to get too involved with her because I don’t want to get blamed for shit else”.

yeonjun shakes his head laughing, “you’re crazy for doing it in the first place”.

“you want to know whose crazy? olivia”.

“how?”.

“she’s been trying to get with me ever since mia stopped appearing so much at school. what the fuck type of best friend is that?”.

“that’s pretty fucked up. but that’s how girls are. well, except for your little girlfriend”. yeonjun teases and soobin shoves him to the side to keep from blushing.

“shut the fuck up”. was all soobin could say before he waited outside your classroom door for you. yeonjun knew what he was up to so he didn’t bother hanging around for long. he hated being around couples anyway, they were annoying.

making the absolute wrong decision soobin decides to scare you while you’re walking out of the classroom and you jump back with your heart at the pit of your stomach. once you noticed it was him he decided to run down the hallway and you weren’t afraid to chase him since you both shared the next class. turning down 2 corners and 2 more more hallways later you finally catch him in the cut of two lockers. “why would you do that you scared me!”. you playfully yell and he holds his hands up in surrender.

“alright i’m sorry I’m sorry. I just thought it would be funny”. soobin stares trying to look serious but you knew a laugh was coming. you roll your eyes and walk the other way back to class. soobin follows after you and grips your waist from behind.

“are you really mad? I said I was sorry”. he begs. you thought the way he was acting was kind of cute so you furthered your agenda and kept ignoring him. he noticed you weren’t speaking so he steps in front of you. you cross your arms and glare up at him. “forgive me”. he pleads again and this time you step to the other side and continue walking to class. “mama”. he calls out. you ignore him again and arrive in your classroom grabbing the assignment sister helena had laid out for you both. you got a head start with writing your name on the paper and getting settled before soobin slid next to you. he turned to speak but sister helena decided to lay down the rules for today’s video, as if you all didn’t know what to do each day. you had to say though, class was so much better without kevin and his obnoxious antics. you didn’t know where he was but you hoped he stayed there for the rest of his life.

anyway, sister helena turns off the lights and turns on the tv instead. half of your classmates were already ready to go to sleep including you. you decided to stay up a little more last night to study. but it was hard to go to sleep with soobin landing his hand on your thigh. you jump up a bit with shock. you glance at sister helena to make sure she wasn’t looking.

“what are you doing?”.

“oh now you want to speak to me?”. you swat his hand away.

“yes because you’re touching me. move”. you demand. but you knew deep inside your heart you didn’t mean it. you found yourself wanting soobin more and more each day. you kind of thought being horny was like some sort of drug now. it was a thrill you couldn’t resist.

soobin smirks and leans your ear, letting his veiny hand wrap around your thigh even tighter. “who do you think you’re talking to hm?”. you shuddered even harder than you did the day before. you had to give yourself a pep talk to stay strong. you lay your hand on his.

“ssoobin we can’t do this here”.

“we’re in the back of the classroom no one even notices us”. he whispers. he moves his hand closer and closer to your heat.

“soobin I said mmove”. you shakily respond. and he does nothing but chuckles in your ear. he make sure sister helena is occupied before he continued. he lets his tongue drag from your neck to the back of your ear and tongue kisses it softly. “listen to me. you? don’t give orders. only I do that. and if I want to play with your pussy I will. do you understand me?”.

you sit calm feeling moisture pool into your panties. his voice was darker than you ever heard it. it made you kind of scared and suddenly you forgot all possible ways to regulate your breathing. “say yes daddy”. he orders. your heart races faster at his fingers brushing against your clit through your panties. “say it”. he demands again through clenched teeth. you did as you were told and you could feel him smile prior to kissing you on your cheek. “ good girl”. he snatches his hand away from you pretending to be focused on the tv screen.

you were going crazy on the inside. you wanted to be touched, you wanted to be yelled at, you wanted to be punished. maybe you did have a daddy kink. you’ll admit that. but you couldn’t admit how horny soobin made you. you were trapped in a daze and soobin knew it. he was filling out the answers on the paper smoothly. you sat uncomfortably in your seat until class over. he shouldn’t have left you wet like that.

“I told my mother you were tutoring me again today. not that she gave a fuck anyways”. soobin mentions while you grab your things out of your locker. “who said I wanted to tutor you today? what if my parents don’t like you?”. soobin scoffs. “yeah right. and you know you want to tutor me you just don’t like being nice to me for some reason”. you laugh a little. “I have to see if my parents are home”. soobin shrugs. “so what if they are? we’re just studying right?”.

you give soobin a glance almost as if to say, “yeah right”. he laughs in exchange. the both of you head towards his car. “I promise I won’t touch you this time. I really need to pass these exams. maybe i’ll prove to my parents that I’m a good kid after all”. you slide into the passenger seat, “you are a good kid. you just have bad kid tendencies”. soobin thinks about it for a moment until you decide to change the subject. “I have to call mia today to see how she’s doing”. you mention slipping out your phone. you dialed her number and it rang a few times before going straight to voicemail. you decided to call again getting a little worried. after the third ring the phone was answered but you could tell it wasn’t mia.

“hello? whose this?”. the voice asked.

“hey it’s me. the girl that brought mia to your car. I wanted to ask how she was doing?”.

“oh hey, this is mia’s mom and she’s doing okay. we took her to the hospital and the doctors prescribed her medication that has a bit of a side effect on her so we don’t know how much longer she’ll be out of school”.

“aw, well. I hope she get’s better soon. school is boring so she’s missing out on nothing”.

her mom chuckles lightly, “I’ll tell her you called for her okay?”.

“okay. see you soon”.

“okay, bye”.

you pressed the button and slide your phone back in your pocket.

“i missed you”. soobin muttered. you suck your teeth and laugh. “oh shut up soobin”.

“do you want to get something to eat before we go to your house?”.

“no we can eat there. I don’t want you to keep spending money”.

“money grows on trees you know”.

“says one of the richest guys in town”. soobin laughs this time. he never minded spending money when it came to you but he didn’t want to sound cheesy so he kept quiet.

❉ ╤╤╤╤ ✿ ╤╤╤╤ ❉

you tell soobin to keep quiet just in case one of your parents were home. your house was weird, the parking spots were at the back so you couldn’t exactly tell if your parents were home unless you went back there. you open the door with your key and spot absolutely no one. But you couldn’t make assumptions so you snuck soobin to your room as fast as you could and locked the door behind you.

You figured you were pretty safe but you still requested the soobin keep his voice low. you kick your shoes off and sit your textbooks out. soobin does the same on your bed, making himself at home. you thought he looked rather cuter when he looked nerdy. “do you remember what I taught you?”. you asked now moving your textbooks and notebooks to the bed. soobin nods. “internalize more than you memorize right?”. you pinch his cheeks and smile. “good job! do you want a sticker?”. it sounded like you were mocking him, but you actually did have a sheet of stickers in your drawer. soobin creates a pout with his lips, “yes please!”. he says like a child. you roll your eyes and smile, going to your drawer to fetch them. you held the sheet and peeled off a gold star sticking it to his forehead. he looked so pleased with himself it was adorable.

you open your textbook and you instruct soobin to open his and start from the first chapter review and take notes. he nods and does as he were told. while the both of you studied you watch him steadily making sure he was writing down things that were relevant to the chapter. so far so good, his notes looked pretty neat and organized. you decided to catch yourself up on your own notes. you were practicing math, the subject you hated most. the good part about this was that you were already prepared to not do well on the exam so it wouldn’t be much of a shock if you didn’t.

time progresses and the both of you filled your notebooks with notes. soobin now writing down important information from the chapter 3 review and you, going through several steps just to solve another math equation. you had to admit soobin was doing really well and he was paying good enough attention. you smirk. “how come you couldn’t do this in school?”.

“everyone thought i was stupid so i didn’t care enough”.

“that’s all it was?”.

“well sometimes it takes the right person to believe in you for you to do well. especially when you can’t believe in yourself”.

“if you keep studying like that you can pass any exam in that school I’ll tell you that. you have good focus”.

“yeah well, thank you for believing in me if so”. you blush, pushing his shoulder playfully.

“stop being cheesy soobin”.

“hey since i’ve been studying well do I get something else?”.

you slide a strand of your hair back putting your pencil back to your paper. “what do you want? another sticker?”. you were halfway through the equation when you realized soobin was still quiet. you glimpse at him for an answer and he was just staring at you. he waited until your eyes gave him permission to speak. and they did.

“when initiating sex theres the kissing, theres the hickeys, the touching and the feeling. but the most important thing you should do before you have sex is perform oral sex. do you know about it?”.

your heart started to race.

“was it in the video we watched?”. you question. soobin nods. his face was so unreadable it became scary. “so what are you saying soobin?”.

he positions your body on the edge of the bed before he gets on the floor in front of you setting a hand on your knee. you glare down at him in shock, you were nervous beyond words.

“would you like to see what that feels like?”. you fixed your mouth to answer but soobin was already planting sloppy tongue kisses along your thighs and inner thigh. you panted softly, “ssooobin we can’t make noise”. you stuttered. soobin flips your skirt up giving himself more access to you. “you better keep quiet then”. he mumbles. you were about to say something else but soobin thought it was best to lick your pussy through your panties. you felt yourself growing weak and you were growing hotter at the feeling of his mouth. you started panting even heavier agreeing that if this wasn’t the best feeling in the world you didn’t know what was.

with lustful eyes he glances up at you and slides down your panties with ease, putting a finger to his lips signaling for you to be quiet. but it was hard to do that when soobin immediately wraps his lips around your clit sucking it softly. you let out a high pitched moan by accident, slapping a hand over your mouth shortly after. his lips were so delicate on you and he looked so invested in making sure you felt good. he could feel your legs trembling as he licked around your folds. so he made it his duty to intertwine his hands with yours so you’d have something to grasp onto when you couldn’t handle it. as his tongue traveled you you squeezed his hands harder.

you were whining and squirming on his tongue and that didn’t make things any better. you bit your lips and cried, “ssoobin i don’t knnow if I can stayy quiet for this long”. you moan and he’s ignoring you, tongue kissing your clit over and over as if it were your tongue. you open your mouth and exhale trying to keep yourself in order but you couldn’t help your small cries. you were throbbing harshly and beyond wet at this point.

that was, until you heard your dad calling your name and walking up the staircase.

#choi soobin #choi yeonjun #choi soobin au #choi beomgyu #txt #txt au

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youngandanactress · 4 years ago

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To clarify some thoughts/opinions I thought I’d post a few random things about myself?

I’m 18, and a sophomore in college (this is because I graduated High School a year early. I’m currently an online student because of Covid obvi 🙄)

I’m double-majoring in Political Science and Drama.

I was born and raised in the Pacific Northwest.

I’m planning on pursuing acting post-graduation. I was signed to an acting agency prior to college, but college students aren’t usually able to work professionally because of school schedules.

I’m cisgender, bisexual and my pronouns are she/her.

Alongside acting, I model because I’m needlessly tall (5’10) and I’m both ethnically and religiously (Reform) Jewish. My ethnicity means that I (according to some industry professionals, most of which being white men) apparently appear “somewhat ethnically ambiguous” or “exotic.” (I have 3b/3c natural/curly hair and a wide nose/nose bridge so I’m fairly obviously not “WASPy” in appearance. But my eyes aren’t brown and I’m tall so I apparently don’t fit the idea of what a Jewish woman “looks like.” Honestly, to most Jews I appear Jewish/Semitic. The label of “exotic” feels like poorly veiled antisemitism.)

I’m an intersectional feminist and a member of the ‘Democratic Socialists of America.’

I’m a fan of: Taylor Swift, Megan Thee Stallion and Kacey Musgraves. (I love Kacey and Taylor but hate, hate, hate almost all country music.)

I’m neurodivergent (I have fairly intense ADHD and ADD.)

I’m impatient, to my own self detriment, (and often unfortunately the detriment of others.)

Some of my Bridgerton-related favorites:

My favorite books:

#1: TVWLM (by far. It’s not even fucking close.)

#2: RMB and TSPWL tie (I wish TSPWL was longer and I dislike the allusions to domestic violence in RMB.)

#3: WHWW (I think it’s one of the best written books, but I feel like certain parts are longer than necessary.)

My favorite couples:

#1: Kathony and Polin “duke it out” ;), but I’m currently in a Kathony mood because of S2. I somehow actually prefer show-Polin to book-Polin thus far. Probably because Nicola and Luke N are adorable.

#2: Franchael and Philoise tie. As morose as it sounds, I love the whole “sunshine after the rain” theme. (Another reason I’m drawn to Kathony.) There’s added complexity given the sanctuary-like environment aforementioned relationships provide to the characters in them.

#3: Hyacinth/Gareth. I love them. Truly, deeply, loudly. However IIHK is lacking to me because the narration feels incomplete.

My favorite characters:

#1. Anthony and Kate tie. I never thought I could love Kate Sharma/Sheffield more and then Simone Ashley was cast. I feel that oftentimes Romance authors allocate too little time to developing complex individual characters, and instead choose to simply focus on developing the relationship between them. Kate and Anthony are independently gorgeous and vivid characters, which is why their relationship is so poetic and legendary.

#2. Michael Sterling. If Dev Patel isn’t at least considered for the role, I’m going to cry. Michael pines for Francesca for such a long time, and yet it’s never creepy or manipulative. The standards for men are on the fucking ground, but Michael’s extraordinary and I love him deeply.

#3. In no particular order: Hyacinth, Penelope and Francesca. I love all three of these women, and hope to god that Frannie gets more screen time in S2. I also hope that we see Penelope recognize the power she wields, and the ramifications of her actions. It feels slightly difficult to reconcile S1 Penelope with book-Penelope, and I hope we see her mature in S2.

#4. Colin and (show) Benedict tie. I love book AND show Colin. However, somehow the show depiction of Benedict is even more enchanting than the book version. This is likely due to the innate talent and acting ability of Luke T.

#5. Mary Sharma/Sheffield. I’m a Jew so my opinion regarding the topic of sainthood is irrelevant but, the woman’s a SAINT. I want show Mary to be slightly more ‘mama bear’ than mentioned in the books. I would like for her to maternally chastise/contradict Kate (regarding some of Kate’s more denigrating/insecure comments about herself.)

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pamphletstoinspire · 4 years ago

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Doing Justice to St. Joseph - Part 1

As we’re beginning the Year of St. Joseph, and Christmas is near, consider with me the role of St. Joseph in the Annunciation. This verse in particular: “Joseph her husband, since he was a righteous man, yet unwilling to expose her to shame, decided to divorce her quietly.” (Matt. 1:19) If you attended Mass last Friday, you heard this verse in the Gospel. And perhaps like me, you heard a homily that gave a common interpretation of this verse.

That common interpretation begins by assuming that Joseph believed Mary had relations with another man. It’s natural to assume this. But is it really true? This is the premise I wish to challenge.

The common interpretation continues as follows: A betrothal was a formal contract similar to marriage. Infidelity during betrothal was equivalent to adultery. As Joseph was a “righteous man,” he did not wish to take into his home an adulterer – an unrepentant adulterer, since Mary had in no way admitted her infidelity. Or asked his forgiveness.

As he was the merciful sort of righteous man, he did not want to see her punished or humiliated or even possibly stoned. Therefore, he decided to divorce her discreetly, rather than make a big public display of it, as was his option.

This common interpretation was favored by St. John Chrysostom and appears in the notes to the New American Bible. But is it true?

If so, first, why would Matthew have taken care to stipulate that “Mary was found with child through the Holy Spirit”? If he’s telling the story from Joseph’s point of view, why wouldn’t he tell this crucial detail, too, from Joseph’s point of view, say, “Joseph was downcast to find that she was with child”?

Second, why would the angel have begun, “Do not be afraid to take Mary your wife into your home”? Fear had nothing to do with Joseph’s decision, on the common interpretation. Moreover, on that interpretation, please note, Joseph would not be “suspecting” or “fearing that” Mary had committed adultery – he would be absolutely certain of it!

Third, Joseph had moral certainty of Mary’s virtue, and there were no grounds to believe that infidelity was possible. Even decent Christians today, wholesome, good-intentioned, sometimes find that they know each other’s character so well as to be certain that infidelity is excluded. Joseph and Mary were like this always. Then, Mary had no faults, which in an innocent person are necessary preparations or preconditions of adultery. She didn’t drink to excess or flirt. She wasn’t susceptible to seduction from need of affirmation or praise.

She wouldn’t even be alone with another man. Her relationship to Joseph itself had no “drives” toward sexual immorality. They had compacted not even to have relations after marriage. Add that Nazareth was a small town of dozen tiny stone houses on a hill. (I’ve seen the excavation). Few things happen in such a place unobserved.

Fourth, to the extent that we love, we trust, and we are obliged to trust. It can be a serious sin to suspect sin in someone whom we have come to love over time on good grounds. If a husband out of jealousy reads something disreputable into his wife’s innocent behavior, he sins against her. If Joseph had believed Mary guilty of gross infidelity, he would have sinned against her and needed to ask her forgiveness before taking her as his wife.

“But she was with child!” – you will say – “surely that’s evidence.” Not necessarily: Innocent people do not think of sex and pregnancy in this way. Joseph was shown no anatomical charts in health class. He had no “experience with women.” To an innocent person, there is no necessary connection between pregnancy and sex; it was possible for him to hold these apart.

Fifth, surely St. Joseph had at least as much faith as other saints. God told Abraham to sacrifice Isaac, while he also told Abraham that through Isaac he would be the father of many nations. St. Paul praises Abraham’s faith precisely in holding these two truths together. Abraham’s faith is even a paradigm for Christians. “Mary is innocent. Mary is with child.” Can we credit Joseph with at least as much faith as Abraham? Would God have passed over the opportunity to give Joseph this particular test? Surely this was the “contradiction” that was troubling Joseph, not “Mary was innocent. Mary is no longer innocent.”

Then, too, St. Paul praises Abraham for how he resolved the contradiction, reasoning that God must be planning to raise Isaac from the dead (Heb. 11:19) – as it were, discovering the doctrine of the Resurrection.

Which leads to the sixth consideration: Joseph surely knew Scripture at least as well as others, and the prophecy that (in the interpretation of the Septuagint), “A virgin will conceive and bear a son.” (Isaiah 7:14) In a time of widespread expectation of the Messiah, would Joseph be unfamiliar with this prophecy? Is it an accident that the angel’s words to Joseph track this prophecy exactly? Would it have been incredible for him to suppose that Mary – Mary! – was that virgin?

If he had reached that conclusion, as he was a righteous man and therefore humble, would he not have been afraid, out of humility, to presume to join himself to her as husband, absent divine warrant?

St. Jerome adopts this other interpretation: “This may be considered a testimony to Mary, that Joseph, confident in her purity, and wondering at what had happened, covered in silence that mystery which he could not explain.” Also Rabanus: “He beheld her to be with child, whom he knew to be chaste; and because he had read, ‘Behold, a virgin shall conceive,’ he did not doubt that this prophecy should be fulfilled in her.” “He sought to put her away,” says Origen, “because he saw in her a great sacrament, to approach which he thought himself unworthy.”

Michael Pakaluk

#st joseph

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theholycovenantrpg · 4 years ago

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In the beginning was GADRIEL, an ANGEL loyal to the cause of the ANGELS. She is said to be IMMORTAL and uses SHE/HER pronouns. In this New Testament she serves as a MEMBER of the VIRTUES. Blessed be her name.

THE INDELIBLE MARK.

When she was named the Virtue of Temperance she thought that surely it was another means of punishment under the guise of an honorific title. But the subjects of the kingdom of Caelum trusted her to use her zeal to protect them, to ensure the sanctity of their people. As the Virtue of Temperance she also serves the seer of the Hundred-Eyed God, utilizing her abilities as a means for her protection. Gadriel has the unique ability to manipulate the gravity of the different kingdoms, allowing her to make one feel as though the earth itself is dragging one to its center, or completely untethering them if she so desires. There are those who say that, when they are close to her, they feel lighter -- as though they might very well dance among the stars. But the victims she has vanquished have felt the air crushed from their lungs before being smote by her sword. Her ability to manipulate gravity so flagrantly is mitigated when she is unable to concentrate or finds her emotions to be overwhelming. It’s rather difficult to make one feel as though they carry the weight of the world when she, herself, is the one that seemingly holds it on her own shoulders.

THE HISTORY.

It is as though these memories are echoes -- fast fading and pale in their colors. She knows that they reside within her, though, because she can still taste the blood upon her lips and still can recall the pain that she had endured before wings had sprouted from her back like branches from a tree. Gadriel is one of the few mortals that has ever had the rare blessing of being rebirthed into an angel -- but she was favored, like few others had been, and in her favor God had sought to place her in a position of veneration. She had, after all, suffered and died in His holy name. It had been a terrible death, one that was retold time and time again in hushed whispered and tearful gazes as they recalled her renowned devotion to a God that did not hear His people until long after their blood had sunk into the earth. The ones who had thrown her to the lions were the same ones who had once regarded her as a coveted woman -- they had longed for her, lusted after her, and for years she had denied them, invoking the name of God as her one true beloved. Day after day she would kneel before her shoddy altar, face upturned to the God that she could not see, beseeching Him to reveal His will unto her and take protect the souls of those who laid their lives before Him. Such devotion was what few would have deemed as saint-like, but the many sneered at and called utter delusion.

Again, the memories are fast-fading and pale in their colors. No longer can she recall the pain that seared through the entirety of her being as she was dragged along the streets of Rome, the onlookers jeering and spitting on her dust-covered skin. No longer can she remember the faces that had looked on as the hungry lions roared their discontent, nor can she remember the agony of the claws sinking into her skin. Instead, all she can remember is the metallic taste of blood on her lips. How she had seen the face of the angel just as eternal night encroached on her vision -- how their wings had wrapped around her, a sanctuary from the horror that had been her martyrdom. Gadriel ascended and found herself rebirthed as a member of the kingdom of heaven -- God’s own visage turning towards her in utter benevolence and love. Among the choir of angels, she was still deemed a saint, her steadfast faith and adoration of the Father of all of creation dwarfing any others in comparison. Upon her lips, one was always likely to find litanies of praise, in her eyes the beatific love for her Father seemed all-consuming. She paid no mind to the earth that she had once come from, nor did she care much for the mortals that continued to suffer and bemoan the hardships that God allotted to them. Why should she? She was in heaven -- favored, venerated, and at peace.

Perhaps it was her once-mortal folly that led her to believe such an existence would have extended on to the horizon of eternity. She had mistakenly thought that such bliss would have been as immortal as she was. She was a Cherubim that was regarded by many of her brethren in high esteem -- not once, though, did they think that her loyalty and devotion would waver from God. So, when the revolution was under way, she was carried in its tide and drowning in the undertow, one treacherous angel after the other throwing themself in her way to keep her from clinging to their Father’s side. Gadriel had never been one to wield her sword, but it cleaved through the air, indiscriminate of who might be smote upon its blunt edge, all in the name of her zealous faith in a God who was being overthrown. The tears in her eyes could have drowned whole mountains in their grief, not even the ocean could hope to mimic the fury and grief that teemed within them. And once more, she was dragged before onlookers to suffer the consequences of such blind, steadfast piety. And once more, Gadriel was forced to endure the agony, pain, and grief that had consumed the last few moments of her mortality. Just as before -- Gadriel conquested over it, but no longer because of a celestial savior, no, she liberated herself.

Before the haphazard court of Caelum she raised her chin and declared her own innocence, beseeching her brethren of the court to consider mercy and forgiveness, temperance and compassion. So moved were they by her impassioned call for compassion that Michael thought of something befitting for an angel governed by her zeal. They clipped her wings and she took it with tight lips and gritted teeth, for there were far worse things in her existence that she had endured. Her wings could regrow, just as the warmth within in heart could for the angels that had persecuted her. In the new world, she found that her untethering from God had served as a means of complete and utter transformation of her being -- the Hundred-Eyed God was a far more benign than the one she had once devoted herself to, the world that awaited her was no longer a harrowing thing that might trample her underfoot. The world that was remade at the cost of her idol was one that was ripe for shaping into her own vision of beauty. For so long she has given, and Fate, in turn, has taken from her. But her hands have grown weary from their charity and her spirit has grown vicious in the abuse that it has endured. What is a creature like her to do, when her wounds remain raw and aching, while her heart has grown serrated teeth?

THE CONNECTIONS.

ASMODEUS: Breath. She does not know where his fascination stems from -- why his gaze always seems to linger on her, as though he seems short of breath and needs a moment of her attention before regaining it. In truth, the attention that he gives her fascinates her, the ability to undo him with nothing more than a single glance is a point of utter intrigue. Though she holds no warmth in her heart for demons, this one, at the very least, is deserving of her pity. What sadness could he have endured to look at her and be enthralled? She knows the woe that hangs heavy on her shoulders, how the stain of her martyrdom remains with her, still. There is none that could find beauty in it, unless they longed for such melancholy to stain their fingertips whenever they dared to touch her. Asmodeus, still, skirts around her like he fears her touch might burn. She wonders if it will. Secretly, she hopes it might.

ISOLDE WICKEN: Ward. She thought that being placed as the guardian of the seer might be a means of humbling her haughtiness, of serving as an additional punishment for her foolish loyalty to God. As such, she has remained rather formal when interacting with Isolde -- ensuring that there is a certain amount of aloofness to complement her professionalism. But the Gifted mortal has a particular penchant for wearing away at the mountainous walls that Gadriel has put in place. She finds herself smiling whenever they share a glance, biting down on laughter when the seer barely manages to hide a well-deserved scoff when regarding matters of the Holy Land. There is an ease to their relationship -- like a breeze sifting through the flowers of a meadow, caressing every petal gently before dissipating. She fears that if she clings to it too tightly, it might crumble to dust before she is able to recapture her heart.

ARAEL: Heartbeat. There are few among the angels that have taken the time to build something lasting with Gadriel -- Arael serving as the exception that proves the rule. The Virtues, of course, are her brother-in-arms, but Arael is far more than that. She is her touchstone and her north star. In the throes of Arael’s grief, Gadriel has ensured that she has remained a constant. Only she can truly remember how potently it can poison one’s heart, how it can overwhelm until one knows nothing but the dark fog that follows in its wake. Gadriel sought to serve as a sanctuary to the other angel, a ward against the onslaught of despair that haunted Arael’s every step. And from such determination birthed a kinship between the two that others would covet, the intimacy that has come forth almost blinding in its purity. The reasons for Gadriel to shed blood is a short list -- Arael’s name, though, is undoubtedly on it.

MAMMON: Trophy. She is never quick to raise her sword or the first to join a battle -- having seen so much violence in the span of her existence, she loathes the thought of contributing to it. But when she has, it is as though the world holds its breath when she draws her blade. Mammon is the only survivor of such an onslaught, blow after blow she rained upon them, watching as the vicious look of victory began to give way to confusion, to utter fury at their defeat. In truth, she declared it a draw, amused at the thought of them living on to ruminate on the fact that she had exercised mercy when she could have buried her blood in them to the hilt. There has never been a victory that has tasted as sweet as this, and as the sun rises and it sets, she finds that it grows sweeter still. And when Mammon’s gaze meets her own? It seems completely and utterly delectable.

Gadriel is portrayed by Leyna Bloom and was written by ROSEY. She is currently OPEN.

#fantasy rp #lsrpg #lsrp #new rp #biblical rp #w #a #gadriel #ow #o

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9ofspades · 5 years ago

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The biggest problem in the Hole Problem Discourse TM is the paradigm of moral absolutism on tumblr. Anyone trying to label or pigeonhole Simone as a “good” or “bad” person is missing the point of the entire show.

We’ve seen in the past few episodes that no character on this entire show is fully incapable of changing. Eleanor changed to be a better person. Jason grew as a person and learned restraint. Michael had been torturing people for thousands of years and got to the point where he was willing to sacrifice himself to save the four humans. Hell, even Eleanor’s mom changed and became a decent parent.

The Judge’s tests showed that Chidi was still indecisive, Tahani was still focused on what people thought of her, and Jason was still way too impulsive towards the end of season 2. Michael’s argument, which the Judge and the entire show support, was that a one-time test to see how good a person any given human is at the time, based on the choices they made, was a terrible way of evaluating a human’s moral worth given how complicated and ever-evolving humans are.

Deciding to abandon Brent in the hole is one decision, much like the Judge’s tests. The show has established time and time again that humans are not “good” or “bad” based on one decision they make in their lives, no matter how important.

Admittedly, some people in the Discourse aren’t arguing that Simone is a good or bad person, but rather that she didn’t actually change or confront her character flaws during the experiment, which would absolutely negatively affect her point total based on The Good Place’s moral system. That’s a fair point.

There is a lot of blue sky, to use Marc Evan Jackson’s phrase, between being a “good” person and a “bad” person. Eleanor spends the entire first season arguing this: The idea that you have to be one-in-a-million levels of good or else you spend eternity being tortured is fundamentally flawed. (Even though pre-redemption Eleanor was kind of an objectively bad person, the point stands) In the Hole Problem, Chidi’s choice sets him apart by making him one of the one-in-a-million people who would actually have risked his soul to help a... toilet full of broccoli. That doesn’t mean that anyone who didn’t choose the same thing is automatically a bad person. The world isn’t divided into “saints” and “bad people”; there is absolutely a universe of grey in-between. If you wouldn’t run into a burning building to save a child, you aren’t necessarily a “bad person”; you are just a person who didn’t make the most selfless moral choice in that particular moment. It’s what you choose to do or become throughout your entire life that might maybe come close to determining where you fall on the good/bad spectrum.

Simone is operating by a different moral system than Chidi and the people who are saying she’s a “bad person”, and while Chidi is mature enough as a philosopher to recognize and respect that, most of the naysayers on tumblr are not.

By his own particular moral standards, Chidi was absolutely doing the right thing in that particular moment.

However, from a utilitarian perspective, all Chidi actually accomplished was to hurt both Simone and himself, a negative net effect. He made a good choice with the absolute best of intentions. I would personally argue that this is a reason why Chidi deserves to be in the Real Good Place. But the perspective that Chidi made the wrong decision is also valid: While the sentiment was nice, Chidi didn’t actually help Brent out of the hole. He accomplished nothing on that front. Moreover, he landed himself in the hole and inconvenienced Michael & Co, who then had to save him; and his rigid moral philosophy caused him to break up with Simone, who likely thought she would never see him again and that he would end up being tortured for eternity. The net impact of his actions could easily have done more harm than good, even if most of us adopt him as a sweet being too good and pure for this world. (Luckily this was all an experiment, Simone’s probably going to see Chidi again at some point, and Chidi might have actually saved all of humanity from being tortured.)

Simone, by contrast, was running with the high probability of saving both herself and John, as opposed to the mere possibility of saving Brent, which, even if it had been successful, might have doomed all four of them in the process. From a rational choice perspective, if they had actually been in hell, her choice might have led to more net good -- Brent was probably doomed anyway, so the main difference was just whether she was tortured along with him. This might not have been her actual rationale, but from that perspective she was making the only rational choice available to her.

It can easily be argued based on what we saw of the accounting office in Season 3 that Simone’s actions ended in net good, since they directly resulted in Chidi being able to speak to Brent alone about what a terrible person he was, and Brent finally having the time and space to process that and feel remorse. So from that perspective, Simone technically did a good deed as well by leaving Brent in the hole.

(There are numerous possibilities for what Simone was thinking, and there are multiple systems under which she could have been making an ethical decision. The point is not to argue for which one, or to try to ascribe motives to her, but rather to point out that Chidi’s and Michael’s brands of ethics are not the only brands of ethics in this world, even if they are in the world of The Good Place, so it’s entirely premature to try to classify even just Simone’s decision as objectively, inarguably “good” or “bad” based on those ethical frameworks, let alone Simone herself as a person.)

Another possible key distinction here is between preventative and retributive justice.

Some people are arguing that the only possible moral decision would have been to save Brent, because he couldn’t have actually harmed any of them without systematic privilege on his side; the worst he could do was to try to fight them or say terrible things to them. That’s coming from the perspective that the only valid form of justice is to prevent bad things from happening in the future. Which kind of goes against the whole premise of a Bad Place. But regardless of whether that’s wrong or right according to the show, that is only one possible perspective on morality, justice, and punishment.

An alternative perspective is that it is one’s moral duty to leave Brent in the hole so that he can be punished for his actions. We’ve seen throughout the season that Brent has not done a single good deed either on earth or during his year in the afterlife, with some exceptions (picking up a fork for a waiter, holding a door for someone, both of which were for the purpose of getting into the “Best Place”). He didn’t have Eleanor’s excuse of having to fend for himself his entire childhood, having grown up in a place of wealth and privilege, and he also actively hurt people through gross negligence and apathy and a fundamental lack of self-awareness. If you’re coming at it from a retributive perspective, he absolutely deserves to be punished for the life - and year-long experimental afterlife - that he lived, and trying to save him from that violates principles of justice and is the wrong thing to do.

Admittedly, John has also done terrible things in his life, and it’s possible that Simone feels she has a few skeletons in her closet; the moral duty in those cases might be for both of them to stay so they can be punished as well. In this case, they’re still choosing to make the selfish decision to save themselves even if it goes against principles of justice, but, hey, pobody’s nerfect. No absolute philosophical framework can be followed exactly, which is why they’re more like guiding principles you strive for than actual laws you have to follow 24/7. Simone might be making a mistake here even according to that philosophical framework, but it isn’t an irredeemable one.

While Chidi disagrees as much as humanly possible with Simone’s decision, he ultimately doesn’t tell her off, try to explain ethics to her, or tell her that she’s a bad person. Instead, he just says, “I respect your position”. This isn’t him being passive or polite. He genuinely recognizes that Simone holds a different philosophical position from him, and that while his particular brand of ethics would say that Simone is being wrong and bad, his ethical viewpoint is not universal and it isn’t his place to judge all other people in the world by it. He recognizes that different brands of ethics exist, that it’s possible to lead a good or ethical life doing something a Kantian would morally forbid, and that he is not the sole judge of morality. Simone isn’t a “bad person” because she did something that Chidi and the Soul Squad disagreed with. She’s simply operating under a different moral perspective.

It’s fairly safe to say that people saying Simone is a bad person for abandoning Brent would believe Chidi is doing the right thing and being a good person. And that most of us want to be more like Chidi in that particular instance. To do that, though, we all have to have the humility and philosophical understanding that ours is not the only valid viewpoint, and that things that oppose our tenets of morality are not objectively “good” or “bad”. This nuance is the entire point of The Good Place, after all. Let’s do what the show wanted us to do all along, and come at these messy philosophical quandaries from a place of questioning and empathy instead of knee-jerk judgment and condemnation.

#the good place #season four #the good place spoilers #season four spoilers #The Hole problem #simone #discourse #Chidi #absolutism #categorical imperative #kant #Brent #the Simone discourse #philosophy #moral philosophy #ethics

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teamhook · 5 years ago

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A Chapter Day... Savage Heart CS AU

This story will be finished by the end of the month. :)

A love story between a pirate and his savior. An innocent, beautiful, selfless woman meets a man with no manners, no formal education and not even a last name. Will Emma fall in love with Killian once she discovers that beneath his tough exterior lies a heart-wild, but a heart of gold? This is a Captain Swan AU

Beta-ed by the awesome @ilovemesomekillianjones

Cover by @xhookswenchx who is the sweetest!

|AO3| |FFN| previous chapter

|AO3| |FFN| current chapter

Chapter 12: Everything We Need Is Right In Front Of Us

The next morning Killian walked confidently towards the dining room for breakfast. He isn't surprised to see Emma already sitting at the table. He wonders if he should mention to Emma his conversation with Cora. He notices the way she is looking at him. The mistrust seems to be back in her beautiful emerald eyes.

"Good morning, lass. Sleep well?" He tries to act as if things are the same as yesterday.

"Good morning," she answers, refusing to hold his gaze. No smile or emotion, so unlike the day before.

Killian sighs and shakes his head. "I see we are back to me being the villain in this story. I thought I was starting to win you over," Killian says with a bit of hurt in his features.

"Why are you really here?" Emma asks.

"I thought we had gone over my intentions yesterday? Let me guess, the lovely lady of the house, Cora paid you a visit after she left my room and tainted our new found friendship?" Killian sits down in the closest chair to her and studies her lovely face for a reaction to his inquiries.

"Yes, she did," Emma sighs, she has a feeling he will be able to tell if she is lying.

"You know what your problem is, Saint Emma? You have the soul of a martyr, you are willing to face off with anyone to protect August. You have put up with my insults and my presence just to prevent August the shame of knowing that his wife is a whore. Don't you notice that the others take advantage of you?"

"Are you taking advantage of me?" Emma asks.

"No, I'm trying to open your eyes," Killian tells her, and Emma can tell he is sincere. "What did Cora tell you of our conversation?"

"Nothing. She just insists that you are not a good person."

Killian stands up from the table defeatedly. "It seems she has convinced you." He begins to walk away and suddenly stops, he doesn't even turn to look at her when he adds, "Emma, I thought we had reached a new level in our relationship but I see that I was a fool. It only took a single conversation with Cora to make you question me. I have lost my appetite. I will go check on the patient."

She wonders if she should go looking for him as a sadness seeps into her. She's lost in thought and misses Cora walk in.

"Good morning," Cora tells her with a tight smile, then calls for Enith to serve them.

"It seems I missed Mr. Jones. Such a pity."

"He seems very fond of you. I can't help wonder though, with such an unlikely friendship we may have an advantage. I'm not judging, dear. Do you by chance happen to know why he accepted the position here?" Cora asks.

"He says he wants to become an honorable man and perhaps even someday find a woman to marry. I think he is sincere."

"Oh. Do you know if he may have set his sights on anyone? Perhaps with my support, we can help him move along faster in his quest. I just want him to leave before he can do any real damage to this family."

Emma studies Cora carefully. There is something she is not telling her, but she knows better than to push for answers. "I don't believe there is anyone in particular. "Please excuse me. I must go check on the injured man we came across yesterday."

"Of course, dear," Cora answers and doesn't even bother asking how the poor man is doing.

Emma gets up and quickly finds her way out of the dining room, she feels she can breathe once she is out of the house. She knows there is something that she is not being told. Walking absentmindedly around the property, she suddenly collides with a very solid wall. She looks up and is met with stormy blue eyes.

"Oh, I'm sorry; I should have been paying attention to where I was going." Emma apologizes profusely once the shock of being in his arms wears off.

"So how was he?" Emma asks as she pulls herself away from the warmth of his body. "I was on my way to catch up with you."

"His name is Michael Thomas. I bet no one here, including you, love, has even bothered to learn that poor man's bloody name. He is so beneath the lot of you." Killian walks past Emma and keeps his strides long and purposeful to put distance between them.

Emma stands there trying to process what just happened between them. Wait did he just call her love?

She finally starts to move and heads back to the house. She is dazed and confused about her own feelings. Why does it bother her so… if he is upset or how he sees her? Sure she was raised in a sheltered environment, but she does care for others. In her education, she was never taught that women could make a difference. Sure there was an exception to the rule like Cora Booth, but she inherited her position with the death of her husband. At least until August, the man of the house would take over.

Killian is furious as he enters the house, he heads to his room. He's inexplicably angry that she assumes the worst of him just because she had a bloody conversation with Mrs. Booth. He should tell her exactly what that horrible woman offered him. Money and a bloody wife. Yet she assumes he is the scoundrel in the story. He knows his reputation is not the best but he had enjoyed their conversations and he thought the feeling was mutual. He shared with her some of his innermost thoughts. Thoughts that he had not shared with anyone, insecurities he has not revealed to anyone. He will not even entertain the real reason her opinion matters to him. He is about to reach for his door and suddenly hears his name.

"Mr. Jones. Have you decided to accept my offer? I can sweeten the deal for you. I'm sure I can guarantee a wedding with Emma," Cora says.

Killian freezes as he listens to the woman. Did she really just offer him, Emma? Does this mean Emma mentioned an interest in him? He turns around to face the older woman. "Excuse me?"

"Oh, you heard me perfectly, Captain. I'm offering money and Emma. I know Emma well; I know she will make an excellent wife. Sadly my son did not see the value in her he seems to see in her cousin but I have a feeling you might see her worth."

"Since when do you address me as Captain? I thought you only saw me as a rogue. And as far as Emma is concerned, only her feelings matter not mine."

"Isn't that how you are so well known in town? A scoundrel and a womanizer who just happens to have a soft spot for a very specific blonde. You chose her. If you want her, all you have to do is accept my offer."

"You are so eager for me to take the same woman you had invested so much in to become your son's wife. Me, a lowly pirate. Does she even know that you are offering her like she is a commoner? Why are you so eager to be rid of me?" Killian asks as he steps closer to Cora.

Cora stands proud and simply replies, "You have not turned down the offer. Hmm. You like the possibility, the thought that someone of her class could be yours for the taking." Cora smiles and turns to go, leaving him standing in front of his room.

He sighs as he enters his room. Could he be so selfish to accept? The problem is that he wouldn't be so tempted if it was just any other high-class woman but the idea of it being her, Emma. No, he wants her to want him. That thought scares him and confuses him. No, he is here for Milah. He knows Emma loves August, but just the idea of having someone love you in that capacity makes him curious. He envies August; he has Milah and Emma's devotion.

Archie knocks upon the door to the Booth estate and greets Enith who answers the door. "Good day, could you please let Mr. Jones know that I'm here?" He had decided this morning was a good chance to see how the adjustment has gone, but he is also there to check up on Killian after hearing that Dr. Whale had been to the residence to treat an injured man. He hopes it is not something Killian did, he knows the man has a temper.

After wandering for a bit longer, Emma finds her way to the house after her disconcerting encounter with Killian. She knows it wouldn't be proper for her to go to his room and attempt a friendly conversation with him, but she feels so guilty. She sees Archie arrive and enter the house just before her. This will give her an excuse to go look for Killian and start a new dialogue with him, hopefully avoiding the whole disaster of the topic of their last conversation. She smiles and rushes in and is just in time to hear Archie asking Enith to retrieve Killian.

"Enith, I will retrieve Mr. Jones for Mr. Hopper. You can go back to the kitchen and get Mr. Hopper something to drink," Emma tells Enith as she smiles to Archie.

"Emma I don't want to impose. Enith can go get him," Archie says softly.

"It is no trouble and besides there are a few things I need to discuss with him. Please make yourself comfortable. We will be with you shortly," Emma says as she hurries to go looking for Killian.

Emma finally arrives at Killian's door and knocks. There is some scuffling and then the door opens.

Killian is surprised to see Emma standing in front of him. "How may I be of assistance Saint Emma?" Killian asks.

"Mr. Hopper is here to see you. But before you go to see him, I just wanted to apologize for my behavior earlier. I just cannot seem to stop myself from offending you," Emma says to him and gives him a hopeful smile

"Thank you," Killian says and tries not to read too much into her apology. He swiftly walks past her to find Archie. He knows that when it comes to Emma he is in trouble. He had a simple plan, gain trust and access to the Booth fortune. He's got that, but somehow it has lost its appeal. The moment he arrived at the estate and found out that Milah had left on her honeymoon he was angry and upset, but somehow or perhaps it was because of someone, he had forgotten of Milah and the plan. He needs to keep his distance from Emma to keep a clear mind.

Emma just stares at his back as he gets further away from her. Racing, to catch up to him, she swiftly reaches for his arm.

Killian is startled at the contact as he turns to face her.

"Killian, I just apologized for my behavior from earlier and you just walk past me? I know I made an error in judgment, But this is me telling you I want to try to see the best in you. Seriously, what is wrong with you?" Emma asks frustratedly.

Did she really call him by his first name? Killian had stopped walking as soon as he had felt her touch.

Emma realizes why Killian is gaping at her."Oh, I'm sorry. I just... I didn't mean to overstep. I know we have never been properly introduced. My name is Emma Nolan. I just want to start over, go back to before the whole misunderstanding. Mr. Hopper and Tink seem to care for you a lot. I think maybe we can be friends," Emma says looking at him so hopefully.

She is truly making an effort. Could it be so bad? He couldn't avoid her forever. They would be living in the same place for the foreseeable future.

"Killian Jones at your service, my lady." Killian bows slightly and grabs her hand to bring it to his lips without losing eye contact. He hears her breath hitch and smiles softly at her and adds, "I accept your proposition." He can't help wondering about the other offer that concerns the blonde in front of him.

Killian and Emma are walking side by side when Archie sees them approaching, and he knows he has never seen Killian with that glow.

"It was nice seeing you, Mr. Hopper. I will leave you two," Emma says and walks away.

"Killian, if I remember correctly when we were at the convent I recall asking you if you two knew each other and you answered no. There seemed to be a familiarity between you two. I really think this could be a good thing," Archie adds.

"Archie, you know her parents. Do you really think they would approve anything between Emma and me? Let us not forget the fact that she is a novice. Even I have some respect for the habit." Killian says to his old friend. Sure he has made an improper comment here and there but he is not a complete scoundrel. But if she were to change her mind... he really needs to stop thinking this way. It must be all those insinuations and comments that Cora Booth has made.

Archie smiles and says, "I will drop that subject for now. I just stopped by to see how things were going. I heard Dr. Whale stopped by."

"Aw, so that's what this little visit is about. You are here to check up on me." Killian can't help feeling a little hurt. "To satisfy your curiosity, I will answer. First, Emma is here being my host, per se. While on tour of the grounds we found and injured man. If you would like, Emma could confirm my story. The good Doctor was not needed because of my actions."

Archie looks fondly at his friend and says, "Emma? You two are on a first name base? Killian, is it Emma, the one you are trying to be a better man for? I'll gladly offer you my last name and you can marry her. Her parents would not object. We are good friends an-"

Killian rolls his eyes. Didn't Archie just say he would drop the subject of Emma and he has just started again? Killian interrupts before he can finish what he was going to say, simply stating, "I have realized that all I want is for the woman I choose to want me for me. I want her to accept me as I am, simply as Killian Jones." He ignores and chooses not to correct his longtime friend's assumption about his feelings toward Emma.

"I was wondering if you could help me with something. I want to legitimize my business. Could you help me with that process? Perhaps my employment with August Booth can help with the transition. The man we found, when he gets better, I would like to offer him a job. I believe I can provide him with a better work environment."

"Killian, do you really think that he will regain his health?" Archie asks. The man had pneumonia and was badly injured maybe he shouldn't be so hopeful about his recovery.

"Emma was taking care of him. She has hope he will mend and that is enough to get me to believe as well," Killian says.

Archie looks intently at Killian. Does he not see what it is so obvious? He will not keep mentioning Emma because he notices how Killian tries to deflect his comments and questions. Yet Killian keeps talking about her like she is a savior. For now, he will stop pushing. "I will take care of setting up the business for you. Just remember, if you need any help here just get the word out to me and I will be over as soon as possible," Archie offers. "Have you had any issues with Cora?"

"Nothing I can't handle," Killian says.

"Good to hear. I should leave now. You have given me much to do. Please say goodbye to Emma for me. And, Killian? Emma is special, please never discard the idea."

With those final words, Archie Hopper leaves Killian Jones pondering if his future will involve a young, beautiful, blonde woman. One that he knows he will certainly never be good enough for.

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