#ode-to-joie

[edencantstopfallininlove]

🍋 if you're still taking them!

- @ode-to-joie

Of course! Throw lemons at me whenever you like.

send me a 🍋 and I'll tell you a character I crushed on that never became an f/o

When I first binged Aggretsuko circa 2018, one of two characters I was interested in was Fenneko!

gifs you can hear

[dudeshusband]

hi mike! Are you still doing 📝? Have a nice day!

[aristocrating]

I wish you would write...

an au in which neither Jack nor Parse get drafted and tho the od still happens, Jack doesn't cut-off Kent and they go to samwell together (with a pb&j outcome......?)

idk if Samwell is ready for TWO traumatized little shits. samwell isn't ready for the joint slay of kent parson going there

you know how holster and ransom are one step away from being joined at the hip? imagine that but, uhm, worse?

Shitty has to deal with TWO jaded assholes now, but i think it would be easier since he doesn't have to deal with the pimms angst of it all

Kent at one-in-four Samwell having actual queer community? and counseling? to work through his trauma? girl i'm crying

Jack and Kent co-captaining and whipping the team into shape to go to the frozen four for four years straight

Kent and Lardo, partners in crime

Jack and Kent adopt Dex as their protégé, who goes to the NHL in their place.

Jack retaining his joie de vivre and doing photography and art and poetry, and karaoke. jack and kent doing the "you were working as a waitress in a cocktail bar" bit is canon to me in every timeline

"Ollie, ask Kent what his childhood was like" "Kent, what was your childhood like?" "OH MAMA, IT WAS TERRIBLE, MY BEST FRIEND TRIED TO OVERDOSE ON BENZODIAZEPINES"

kent sits bitty down and has a whole talk with him about how fame really ain't all that and that he needs to stop putting all of his private thoughts on youtube, then drags him to a queer student union meeting and that's where you get the canon divergence that could get you your pb&j ending

they end up not playing in the NHL, Jack stays for his history phd and kent goes into finances (he's good with numbers)

[mahoshonensuicidehotline]

Ode à la joie

[thunder-threnodies]

🌹 OK so. Jamie. my guy. um. I have a full write up of them in my bio but the basic jist of the boisterous author is they are the current poet laureate, loves talking about themself, literary references, very loud and cheerful, and extremely chatty. big fan of parties and wine/champagne, and little snacks.

they enjoy flirting with anyone and everyone, but its never really meant as anything serious. they like to have fun.

The Singing Mandrake had set up its main salon so it could host a decent number of participants to the ball organised for the Feast of the Rose.

The Captain is waiting by the bar, vaguely smiling, bright Cosmogone Spectacles on Peligin eyes.

As Jamie approaches, dressed up in a manner that sent clearly the message "yes. I'm that author", thou in a very non-aggressive way. And yet they shine.

Captain Dargor smiles warmingly, and invites Jamie to join them at the bar. "First few rounds are on me, tonight. Tell me more about your latest work, would you?"

As the drinks go down and the alcohol level goes up, the discussion shifts to books and writings: the Captain is a huge fan of the most talked Poet Laureate of the moment and quickly they begin discussing poetry, prose, novels and storytelling.

When the false-night goes on, the music gets more frantic, more cheerful. They laugh loudly, they exchange scandalous snippets from their respective works, safe from intrusive ears from the dances and music. The Captain almost always makes eye contact, flatters and jests with their whole body language, getting closer and going back, as if Jamie was gently pulled by the Zee herself. Francis Dargor themselves is mesmerized: there's something in Jamie that makes them feel alive.

The Captain bows in a way that comes through as both ironical and elegant, estending their hand out to Jamie: a slight glint in their eyes and looking into them Jamie can almost feel the excitement and joie de vivre that they sparked in the Captain's heart, tonight.

They reach for Dargor's hand, and they pull them close, not letting their bodies touch but close and winks. They spend the next few hours dancing and stealing the spotlights from everyone, untill exhausted, they both sit laughing at a table, full off little, tasty morsels of various Neathly food.

"What's your favourite book? The work of yours your most proud of? I cannot belive you told this story at the court! Oh god and they said what?"

Light chat, loud laugh and the heat left form the (not) coincidential and occasional touch of Dargor's hand, always respectful, always light as a breeze and yet present. The plenty of food and booze, the music and everything else makes Jamie feel dizzy, euphoric and like they could just dance till the 7th city fall.

With a weird look in their eyes, the Captain asks Jamie if they'd like to try something. They reach for a small case and takes out a fiddle or perhaps a small violin.

They officially end the night at the Singing Mandrake with Jamie declaring, almost singing, some of their pieces, and the Captain playing the violin in the salon, lit by the low burning candles: many couples swing gently on the dance floor and many more are entwined in the shadows: kissing, hugging, and... much more in some cases.

The Captain takes Jamie for a stroll around the Bazaar sidestreets, up to a secret rooftop; silver sigils light the streets below. They tell thems stories, stories of love lost and found again, of irrigo eyes and peligin tears. Of the blood running hot and wild, of the cold of the Zee. They take Jamies hands in theirs and composes a quick ode to them and this unexpectedly wonderful night.

"I must thank you, Poet Laureate. This nigh is a night I will remember and your company, your voice and your warmth will be my beacon."

They smile and a single tear rolls down Jamie's cheek. Probably, they'll never see this Pirate again.

The next morning, Jamie finds a single Violant rose on their door step and a letter smelling of salt, of lonliness and the wood of a loved and old violin.

"Keep on writing Poet Laureate, for a Poet Pirate always needs more stories to tell. May the Storm be with you."

[dustedmagazine]

Being Dead — EELS (Bayonet)

Photo by Athan Smith

Coming at you like a cow punk Mamas and Papas from space, Being Dead sound confidently themselves on EELS. Core duo Falcon Bitch and Shmoofy (the artist FKA Gumball) are joined by bassist/vocalist Nicole Roman-Johnston on another exuberant excursion along the backroads of popular music. Building on their debut When Horses Would Run, the trio have tightened their harmonies without losing the chaotic energy that makes their albums such fun. Combining elements of punk, Americana, exotica and pre-rock popular music within and between songs, the trio manage to corral their catholic tastes into an alternative mythology of the American Dream. It’s a vision that embraces and subverts the fairytales and epics we tell ourselves about who we are and how we celebrate it. From odes to Godzilla to nuanced reflections about life, love, and work, Being Dead’s lyrics embrace the paradoxes and complexity of their music to present a worldview that mirrors the confusion of the times. They also skewer the monolithic self-belief of the convinced with humor and a refreshing candor about their own contradictions. 

Opening with the chugging guitars and drums of “Godzilla Rises,” Shmoofy and Falcon exchange then share lines, building from slightly off-key before aligning into three-part harmonies with Johnston. “Van Goes” follows a similar pattern as the they dissect the absurdity of the 9 to 5 routine. So far so good. Things start getting interesting with “Blanket of my Bone” on which they intersperse twangy shouting with angelic verses that sound like Rosemary Clooney fronting The Jayhawks before casually throwing in a wavering mellotron into the outro. There’s rough acoustic balladry on “Dragons II” which wittily destroys the Prince Charming fantasy, before regretfully observing “There’s no one to rely on/There’s no map left to guide us.” The B-52’s like romp of “Ballerina” ends with a hoe-down worthy but ironic shout out to Texas. “Rock n’ Roll Hurts” is the Dadaist center of EELS. Echoing “We Are Being Dead” from their first album, the trio chant the title but can’t help but break the fourth wall, dissolving into giggles at the absurdity of it all.

Being Dead are very much alive. Messy, expansive, full of contradictions, sharp turns, and a joie de vivre that wants to experience and express everything at once. They are also endlessly inventive and engaging, their effortless melding of styles held together by glorious harmony and complete assurance.

Andrew Forell

[g0atmama]

It's so funny to me that when I see my friends' f/os or have these days of digging into their lore and stuff I'm fully away that they're not even on the table as Romantic f/os. Like with Rohan I'm fully having a "must watch all his scenes and dig deep into info about him" but like. No, he's not a potential boyfriend. He is Joie's ( @ode-to-joie ) boyfriend, off the table. He is very in love with them, off the table.

Which extends also to mutuals and certain f/os they have like. If I know someone f/os a character there's a barrier there to me. Even if it's a character that people are comfortable sharing.

[rexscanonwife]

Hello! This is Joie from @ode-to-joie ! Sorry for the random ask but I was just super excited seeing you ship with Sportacus!! LT holds a v special place in my heart and your love for him and the show is so amazing to see!! He'd take such good care of you!!

P.S. Besides this message, I was also hoping to ask & suggest if you would be interested in watching the old stageplays of Lazy Town. Mostly because the yellow/orange Sportacus from Glanni Glaepur i Latabae reminds me of you and your aesthetic, not to mention how may enjoy him travelling on a Hot Air Balloon!

In any case, I hope you have a wonderful day!!

Hello!! 💖💖 I hope you're having a wonderful day today and AAUGGHH THANK YOU SO MUCH!!! 😭😭

I really got sidelined by all of this to be honest! I didn't have a particular STRONG pull to any f/o and I was kinda throwing spaghetti at the wall for a bit. I thought eventually I'd settle on one and revisit an old hyperfixation...I NEVER thought this would be my NEW one! 😳 I've been enjoying the show so much, it's lighthearted cheeriness has been making me so happy and ofc so has Sportacus >///< 💖💖💖 I was talking about it with my irl partner last night and they said that I fell into him and he caught me cause he's so strong!!!

Wah but rambling aside, I did hear about this! I definitely wanna watch it soon, probably after I finish the TV series so thank you so much for sending me a link!! 😁🫶🫶 I bookmarked it for later so I'll definitely let you know what I think of it. Orange Sportie is so interesting to see, maybe I'll end up really liking it tho

[gecko1011010]

Tagged by: @krakenguard :)

no bingo for me

Blank:

@featheredcritter @forencu @ode-to-joie @bernkastel11 @pk4n

[edencantstopfallininlove]

Imagine Zenyatta and Genji gushing about every little thing the love to bits about you, both to each other, and even in defense of you when someone like Ramattra gets a slip of tongue once. Genji, of course, will not at all hesitate, his genuine words spouting like a fountain, while Zen calmly reinforces those praises with strings of words that calmly flow like a river... cosiderably different ways of expression but all out of love for you! [For the Fluster asks!] [@ode-to-joie]

Mission accomplished-

The thought of them taking turns to gush to each other like they're at a sleepover is adorable ngl...

This ask really made me appreciate how their styles of affection complement each other. And the water metaphors are gorgeous! I love duality in my polyships 🥺

Also we have to keep the evil brother-in-law in check somehow lol

[bibliobouc]

Ode à l'imperfection

Aux grains de beauté

Aux rides apparentes

Aux poignées d’amour

Aux dégaines mal fagotées

Aux chaussettes dépareillées

Aux visages rougissants

Aux dix-neuf et demi sur vingt

Aux seconds de la classe

Aux médailles en chocolat

Aux ratures sur la page

Aux fotes d’orthographe

Aux histoires sans dénouement

Aux indécisions

Aux erreurs de jugement

Aux renoncements

Aux grains de sable

Aux cailloux dans la chaussure

Aux nuages dans le ciel immaculé

Aux robinets qui gouttent

Aux portes qui claquent

Aux réveils qui ne sonnent pas

Pour l’espoir à venir

Pour la joie de vivre

Pour la futilité si essentielle

[isauriedejuin]

Bonne nuit jolie Ève

va-t-en là-haut bien sereine

tu as le droit au rêve

même si tu as de la peine

bonne nuit jolie Ève

que ce beau voyage apporte

à ton cœur de fille forte

cette joie qui élève

bonne nuit jolie Ève

que ton chagrin se lève

comme le soleil sur l'océan

qu'il fasse briller tes jolies dents

bonne nuit jolie Ève

toi ma douce coccinelle

que ta foi te soulève

et allège sans appel

toutes ces chaînes en sommeil

c'est une ode à l'éveil

[poetesse-verte]

Nuit du dimanche 5 mai 2024

Combien de temps mon cœur va-t-il encore s'épuiser ? C'est une question qui tourne en boucle dans mon esprit, comme un refrain lancinant. Mes larmes, elles, semblent être devenues une compagne quotidienne, érodant lentement la résilience de mes yeux. Parfois, elles coulent avec la fureur d'une rivière de lave en fusion, brûlantes et implacables, emportant avec elles toute forme de sérénité. Depuis une semaine, je porte comme un fardeau une teinte insolite, un mélange improbable de vert et de rouge sang sur ce qui me reste de globe oculaire. Une nuance que je n'aurais jamais imaginée sur mon âme tourmentée, mais qui s'impose désormais comme une marque indélébile de ma douleur intérieure. Et pourtant, étrangement, je ne peux m'empêcher d'admirer ce contraste saisissant, comme un tableau abstrait peint par la souffrance elle-même. Mais c'est surtout à l'intérieur, là où réside mon cœur, que la tempête fait rage. À la place de la chaleur réconfortante d'un cœur palpitant, je sens comme un poignard froid et rouillé, pesant sur mes émotions les plus vives. Il semble vouloir arracher chaque parcelle de bonheur, chaque once de joie, laissant à la place un vide béant, un gouffre abyssal que je tente en vain de combler. Il fut un temps où je trouvais refuge dans de petites pilules, cherchant à étouffer mes émotions sous leur voile apaisant. J'espérais naïvement qu'elles pourraient éteindre le feu qui dévorait mon âme. Mais aujourd'hui, même leur douce promesse de paix semble lointaine, perdue dans les méandres de mon désespoir croissant, car je n'ai plus recours à elles. En surface, je me présente comme une femme forte et intrépide, une guerrière façonnée par les épreuves de la vie. Je porte le masque de la résilience avec fierté, bravant les tempêtes avec une détermination inébranlable. Mais lorsque les ténèbres envahissent mon univers, tout bascule. Les murs que j'ai érigés autour de moi s'effondrent, et je me retrouve seule face à mes démons, prisonnière de ma propre mélancolie. C'est alors que je m'évade ici, dans ces mots, cherchant un exutoire à ma douleur, un échappatoire à ma solitude. Mais même dans ma détresse, je ne peux m'empêcher de m'inquiéter pour vous, cher lecteur. Mes confessions ne vous plongent elles pas trop dans l'abîme de la tristesse ? Peut-être que vous aussi, vous êtes en quête de reconstruction, cherchant à recoller les morceaux d'un cœur brisé par les tourments de l'existence. Si tel est le cas, peut-être pourrions-nous marcher côte à côte sur le chemin escarpé de la guérison ? Mais pour l'instant, les questions demeurent. Comment remplir un cœur vide ? Comment apaiser des yeux brûlants de larmes et de désespoir ? Cette nuit, alourdie par un épais brouillard, semble suspendue dans le temps, figée dans une immobilité oppressante. J'aspire à voir l'aube, à contempler les premiers rayons du soleil qui chassent les ombres. En attendant, je me plonge dans ma lecture, cherchant refuge dans les mots réconfortants de "Ressac" de Diglee. Une ode à la solitude et à la lenteur, un miroir de mon propre état d'âme. Comme cela tombe à pic, comme une bouée de sauvetage jetée à une naufragée en pleine tempête.

[icariebzh]

BESTIAIRE ÉROTIQUE

"Des caps pris en beauté malgré les déferlantes, Larguée, un peu cramée, quarantaines rugissantes, Se laisser glisser pour ressurgir en grande orque, Une ode au punk à l’aube des cinquantièmes hurlantes.

Envie folle d’un bestiaire érotique et braque, D’alexandrins stylés qui déchirent et qui claquent. D’un poème utérin sur fond de ménopause, De plombs fondus, fantasmes, et de métamorphoses.

Loin des mines compassées, de la pondération, Des salons trop feutrés, de la mort des saisons. Le délire situé d’une nature ni douce, ni con.

Y fourrer l’illusion de complétude visuelle, Qui défait le réel et oxyde la raison. Un brin de rêves mystiques et de cauchemars séquelles, Raptus anxieux passé sous les démangeaisons.

Canines vulpines, cauchemars, corps de chiens mutilés, Avenir radieux fuyant à vives et grandes foulées.

L’hystérie née d’esprits tordus de mâles pétés, Imagine les fureurs viscérales d’un loir, Bestiole en quête de sang, s’agitant tard le soir De la tête à la vulve de la femme infertile, Fou de manque, vomissant l’aménorrhée, fébrile. Vives bouffées de chaleur, subite mélancolie, Bûchers, internements, vapeurs et insomnies.

Musculosité crasse et flambées d’urticaire, Herbacées maléfiques et vipérine vulgaire, Hermaphrodite velue, érigée, narcotique, Mucosités visqueuses et rêv(es) fous de mastic.

Là, des licornes en joie chient des paillettes dorées, De petites chattes bourgeoises suc(ent) des cadavr(es) rongés, Une foule de galériens accrochée à leurs pieds.

La glande supra-caudale de renardes violettes, La danse d’animalcules sur une peau offerte, Créatures de ténèbres, de chimères, de nuées - Noms féminins pluriel aux racines emmêlées.

Les flashs lubriques de mille lucioles dévergondées, Leur désir débridé, palpitant et veiné Luminescences fiévreuses pleines de luciférine Diaboliques femelles déguisées en ballerines.

La flamboyance de nos crises clastiques et cosmiques, L’endurance inouïe de la manie psychotique. Imperturbablement. « Le jour, le soir, la nuit ».

Orques ménopausées au mitan de leur vie, Lourdes globicéphales, bélugas aquatiques, Libérées des contraintes et rapports domestiques, Menant leur espèce en cheffes claniques respectées. Elles arborent au melon, comme un grand vit dressé, Une palanquée d’humaines pleurant leur puits séché.

Un troupeau de mille poulpes, cerveau tentaculaire, Et des pieuvres mourantes qui ne seront qu’une fois mères. Des castors résistant à la binarité, Munis d’un habile trou polyactivités, L’œuvre d’un dieu foutraque, nommée pseudo cloaque.

Le moine d’Alexandra David-Neel au Tibet, Enfanté de rêves zen et de méditation, Le Morel de Gary et sa Mademoiselle Repeuplant les bloks d’un camp de concentration. Les mésanges de Rosa, le lierre de Cyrano, Les mouches de Jack London et de son vagabond, Des tulpa, des chenils, des égrégores, des vifs, Notre insatiable besoin d’une consolation..."

Corrine Morel Darleux-Masto

[kulturalnylunatyk]

studio 54 Trwało niewiele ponad trzy lata, od 1977 do 1980 roku, ale Studio 54 wciąż pozostaje punktem odniesienia dla pewnej formy luzu, błyszczącego hedonizmu i joie-de-vivre. Współzałożyciel klubu Ian Shrager posunął się do stwierdzenia, że były to "narodziny celebrytów", jakich znamy dzisiaj. Shrager i jego partner Steve Rubell byli odpowiedzialni za zamknięcie Studia 54 (dzięki uchylaniu się od płacenia podatków), ale stali się nieoficjalnymi królami Nowego Jorku - goszcząc polityków i gwiazdy na swoich wielkich przyjęciach i nadzorując największe skandale swoich czasów. To było miejsce, gdzie bogaci i sławni przychodzili, aby źle się zachowywać. Ale było to również miejsce, gdzie udawali się, aby ogłosić się na scenie. Truman Capote i Tennessee Williams lubili prywatne imprezy, a Andy Warhol, Liza Minelli, Michael Jackson, David Bowie i kompozytor Leonard Bernstein znaleźli się na liście gości, na którą trudniej było się dostać niż do Białego Domu. To było zgromadzenie inteligentnych, fajnych i seksownych gigantów kultury, tańczących do muzyki disco, ubranych jak do tej pory w krzykliwe kanciaste garnitury i biorących udział w psychodelicznym hedonizmie, który zdefiniował tę erę. Nie dziwi więc fakt, że w Studio 54 odbywały się najwspanialsze imprezy sylwestrowe wszech czasów, choć doczekało się tylko dwóch z nich. Na jedną z imprez sylwestrowych legendarny organizator imprez Robert Isabell postanowił rozjaśnić sytuację, wysypując na podłogę klubu cztery tony brokatu. "To było jak stanie na gwiezdnym pyle", powiedział Schrager, "a ludzie wciąż znajdowali go w swoich ubraniach i domach miesiące później". Celem tych imprez było umożliwienie gościom pozostawienia swoich zahamowań za drzwiami - i rzeczywiście, człowiek odpowiedzialny za wejście, Marc Benecke, miał dość nietypowe i surowe kryteria. Trzeba było mieć "wielką osobowość, która wnosiła coś do imprezy". Po wejściu do środka wkraczało się w świat, w którym wszystko było możliwe i gdzie najbardziej ekscentryczne sceny rozgrywały się przy groove'owym zestawie muzycznym DJ Toma Savarese. Przy jednej okazji projektant Valentino wcielił się w rolę szefa cyrku - z prawdziwymi żywymi zwierzętami. W innym przypadku Grace Jones wykonała swoje przeboje, owinięta w świąteczny szal z choinki, usiany małymi kwiatkami. Lionel Ritchie, Diana Ross, Mick i Bianca Jagger oraz Andy Warhol mogli tej nocy wybrać dowolne miejsce na świecie, ale wszyscy zdecydowali się na Studio 54. Kiedy w 1980 roku FBI dokonało nalotu na klub, symbolizowało to koniec ery dekadencji, której od tamtej pory już nie widziano. Ale dla tych, którzy mieli szczęście uczestniczyć w imprezach sylwestrowych, Studio 54 pozostaje najbardziej olśniewającym, bajecznym i rakuskim miejscem, w którym można było być - wspaniałym, niepowtarzalnym momentem na powitanie nowego roku.

[curseofpower]

Yet another fantastic tag addition in my notifs. @ode-to-joie