#p: trice forgotten

[ryutarotakedown]

ALESTES: Let me in this minute or I’ll shoot this hatch to pieces! ANH: (calling) It opens upwards, Alestes, you can let yourself in. ALESTES: Ah. Yes.

ANH: You can take the boy – in fact, I’d be grateful if he never darkened my brig again. ALESTES: But? ANH: (singsong) There’s a priiiice. ALESTES: Spit it out, then. (as an afterthought) This isn’t menacing, by the way. You’re not… successfully menacing me. I barely had to maim anyone to get down here. ANH: Are you done? ALESTES: Mhm. ANH: I want something from you. ALESTES: Well, you're only human.

they are the funniest people alive. this is all just from the 2nd episode by the way

[ryutarotakedown]

i'm personally convinced that lin yu-yin is still alive and will appear in season 2 (if we Had News Of a season 2! insert empty award stand meme here), because not only does the official transcript say "stabbed" rather than "killed," but lin yu-yin also gets a name, and the other extras generally don't. she is my personal agnes montague

to get back to the original point though: you are correct. why the fuck did she do that.

remember when alestes committed an on-audio premeditated murder. my good captain, I'm sure you could have stolen that plate without the killing.

[genderfluidcrowley]

Yesterday I joked about creating tumblr bots to make trice forgotten trending

Today I opened the trice forgotten tag to find it full of p*rnbots posts

[sallinger-dramaturgie]

L’utilisation de l’anglais par le personnage du Rouquin dans la scène finale

Le passage du texte en anglais à la scène finale rappelle l’univers littéraire et américain duquel s’est inspiré Koltès pour écrire Sallinger. Ce monologue du Rouquin semble très proche du personnage de Holden Caulfield dans L’attrape-cœurs, ainsi que du personnage de Seymour Glass, particulièrement dans la nouvelle Hapworth 16, 1924 (lettre que Seymour, âgé de sept ans, écrit à ses parents). 

Les personnages du Rouquin et de Seymour Glass partagent tous deux une fascination pour les oiseaux. D’ailleurs, dans la nouvelle Seymour : an introduction (1959), Buddy tente de décrire son frère bien aimé et désormais mort. En s’adressant au défunt, Buddy mentionne la fascination de Seymour pour les oiseaux : 

« ...you're someone who took up birds in the first place because they fired your imagination; they fascinated you because 'they seemed of all created beings the nearest to pure spirit--those little creatures with a normal temperature of 125° » (Salinger, 1959).

À son interlocuteur-trice au bout du fil, le Rouquin évoque une anecdote métaphorique :

« LE ROUQUIN : And here I am now like an heliotrope in the glasshouse of a laboratory. Vous connaissez pas ce phénomène? Un savant musicien fait de la musique près d’un champ de tournesols. Il se met du côté opposé au soleil, par un jour de beau temps, et il joue de son violon, patiemment. Eh bien, on voit au bout de quelque temps les fleurs se détourner, une à une, du soleil, pour ouvrir leurs pétales vers là d’où vient la musique » (Koltès, 1995).

Ce passage semble se raccrocher explicitement à la littérature américaine et à l’univers de la Beat Generation, plus particulièrement au poème The sunflower sutra d’Allen Ginsberg (1955) :

« I walked on the banks of the tincan banana dock and sat down under the huge shade of a Southern Pacific locomotive to look at the sunset over the box house hills and cry.

Jack Kerouac sat beside me on a busted rusty iron pole, companion, we thought the same thoughts of the soul, bleak and blue and sad-eyed, surrounded by the gnarled steel roots of trees of machinery.

The oily water on the river mirrored the red sky, sun sank on top of final Frisco peaks, no fish in that stream, no hermit in those mounts, just ourselves rheumy-eyed and hung-over like old bums on the riverbank, tired and wily.

Look at the Sunflower, he said, there was a dead gray shadow against the sky, big as a man, sitting dry on top of a pile of ancient sawdust—

—I rushed up enchanted—it was my first sunflower, memories of Blake—my visions—Harlem and Hells of the Eastern rivers, bridges clanking Joes Greasy Sandwiches, dead baby carriages, black treadless tires forgotten and unretreaded, the poem of the riverbank, condoms & pots, steel knives, nothing stainless, only the dank muck and the razor-sharp artifacts passing into the past—

and the gray Sunflower poised against the sunset, crackly bleak and dusty with the smut and smog and smoke of olden locomotives in its eye—

corolla of bleary spikes pushed down and broken like a battered crown, seeds fallen out of its face, soon-to-be-toothless mouth of sunny air, sunrays obliterated on its hairy head like a dried wire spiderweb,

leaves stuck out like arms out of the stem, gestures from the sawdust root, broke pieces of plaster fallen out of the black twigs, a dead fly in its ear,

Unholy battered old thing you were, my sunflower O my soul, I loved you then!

The grime was no man’s grime but death and human locomotives,

all that dress of dust, that veil of darkened railroad skin, that smog of cheek, that eyelid of black mis’ry, that sooty hand or phallus or protuberance of artificial worse-than-dirt—industrial—modern—all that civilization spotting your crazy golden crown—

and those blear thoughts of death and dusty loveless eyes and ends and withered roots below, in the home-pile of sand and sawdust, rubber dollar bills, skin of machinery, the guts and innards of the weeping coughing car, the empty lonely tincans with their rusty tongues alack, what more could I name, the smoked ashes of some cock cigar, the cunts of wheelbarrows and the milky breasts of cars, wornout asses out of chairs & sphincters of dynamos—all these

entangled in your mummied roots—and you there standing before me in the sunset, all your glory in your form!

A perfect beauty of a sunflower! a perfect excellent lovely sunflower existence! a sweet natural eye to the new hip moon, woke up alive and excited grasping in the sunset shadow sunrise golden monthly breeze!

How many flies buzzed round you innocent of your grime, while you cursed the heavens of the railroad and your flower soul?

Poor dead flower? when did you forget you were a flower? when did you look at your skin and decide you were an impotent dirty old locomotive? the ghost of a locomotive? the specter and shade of a once powerful mad American locomotive?

You were never no locomotive, Sunflower, you were a sunflower!   

And you Locomotive, you are a locomotive, forget me not!

So I grabbed up the skeleton thick sunflower and stuck it at my side like a scepter,

and deliver my sermon to my soul, and Jack’s soul too, and anyone who’ll listen,

—We’re not our skin of grime, we’re not dread bleak dusty imageless locomotives, we’re golden sunflowers inside, blessed by our own seed & hairy naked accomplishment-bodies growing into mad black formal sunflowers in the sunset, spied on by our own eyes under the shadow of the mad locomotive riverbank sunset Frisco hilly tincan evening sitdown vision » (Ginsberg, 1955).

Pour en apprendre d’avantage sur le phénomène d’héliotropisme, cliquez ici.

Finalement, dans sa thèse de doctorat Bernard-Marie Koltès: (1977-1989) le pacte « ironique»?[1], Carine Rousselot explique un peu l’utilisation de langues étrangères dans l’écriture de Koltès :

« Les voix – le partage des voix – koltésiennes en même temps que l’idiolecte saisissant de leur auteur portent aussi le ‘’pittoresque’’ de la vie, son ‘’idiotie’’, la part qui semble rendue d’autant plus irréductible chez le personnage koltésien, qu’elle se fonde sur l’expérience (du désir) de l’auteur, le personnage comme ‘’l’unique de son espèce’’. Un réel qui n'est que le réel, et rien d'autre, est insignifiant, absurde, ‘’idiot’’, comme le dit Macbeth. Macbeth a d'ailleurs raison, sur ce point du moins : la réalité est effectivement idiote. Car, avant de signifier imbécile, idiot signifie simple, particulier, unique de son espèce. Telle est bien la réalité, et l'ensemble des évènements qui la composent : simple, particulière, unique – idiotès –, ‘’idiote’’. Cette idiotie de la réalité est d'ailleurs un fait reconnu depuis toujours par les métaphysiciens, qui répètent que le ‘’sens’’ du réel ne saurait se trouver ici, mais bien ailleurs. Les exemples les plus suggestifs de ‘’l’idiotie’’ des personnages du théâtre de Koltès se révèlent dans toutes les apparitions de leurs langues maternelles. L’anglais du Rouquin (Sallinger), la langue ouolof d’Alboury, l’allemand de Léone, qui dans les premières versions s’exprimait en alsacien (Combat), l’espagnol de Cécile qui meurt en quetchua, la langue d’Abad silencieux que seul Charles entend (Quai Ouest), l’arabe de Mathilde, d’Aziz et de Saïfi (Le Retour au désert), l’italien de Roberto Zucco, jusqu’au talent polyglotte du Commissaire (Roberto Zucco) » (Rousselot, 2017, p.263).

 [1] Sous la direction de France Marchal-Ninosque et de Christophe Bident.

[ryutarotakedown]

[ID: Art of Alestes from Trice Forgotten. She’s sitting at a table, cheeks flushed from drink, little bubbles floating around her. Alestes holds up a finger smugly as she says, “Buy a man eat fish, He day, Teach a fish man To a lifetime.” She then collapses onto the table with a “thunk,” already asleep. End ID]

This was nemo's idea

[mackearl]

DO YOU KNOW THE STORY OF JACK TRICE?? HE WAS STOMPED ON THE FIELD..AND DIED FROM HIS INJURIES. Long before Emmett Till, Medgar Evers, and Johnny Bright, Jack Trice became a skilled martyr. His legacy was soon forgotten and name practically erased from history. Trice was a young man with a promising football career, but something horribly went wrong, and his life was abruptly ended. Trice became the first African-American athlete at Iowa Statehttps://theundefeated.com/features/jack-trice-life-and-football-career-were-tragically-cut-short/ (at Northwest Oklahoma City, Oklahoma City, Oklahoma) https://www.instagram.com/p/B8rZFJdA0cZ/?igshid=651tvikyedyp

[ryutarotakedown]

sometimes i think about anhlestes and feel insane. who is doing it like them. literally no one.

[ryutarotakedown]

[ID copied from alt text: Screenshot of a transcript of Trice Forgotten episode 3. It reads,

Alestes: (about to raise something serious) Baker? Baker: (weary) Yes, Alestes? [Alestes considers him… then changes her mind.] Alestes: (a form of love) Here, you can have the last potato.

End ID]

[ryutarotakedown]

acast link

transcript link

Hey if you’re feral for the potential of enemies to lovers Gwen x Alice in the Magnus Protocol you should go listen to Trice Forgotten where there are confirmed friends to lovers to enemies to ??? Alestes x Anh also Shahan who plays Sam in TMAGP is also one of the leads in Trice Forgotten so another reason to give it a listen 👀

[ryutarotakedown]

i think the crew of the netaoansom should be allowed to have a group chat. they deserve this happiness at least.

[ryutarotakedown]

[content warnings: choking, slight suicidal ideation]

“You’ll hurt a girl’s feelings, thinking about other people at a time like this,” Anh says.

It sounds flirty. She means it as flirty. But she also means it, full stop: even as Alestes reaches up to push Anh off, even as Anh lets her.

“I have to go,” Alestes says again, grabbing her coat where it’s been discarded on the deck, shrugging into it. Anh watches the movement of her shoulders.

She had thought Alestes was like her. That Alestes understood her — was the only one who did. That this dance they shared, these kisses of metal and blood, would be as fixed and unchanging as the orbits of the stars above them.

She had been right in the first two. Damn shame that Alestes is leaving anyway.

Leaving again.

He told me to kill you, Alestes had said, eyes pleading, even as that callused hand closed around Anh’s neck. Spots had danced in Anh’s vision, sparks in her stomach. He told me to kill you. But I didn’t want to do that, and so here we are.

And it’s—it’s viscerally satisfying, in a way, for that final puzzle piece to slot in. It’s also utterly fucking hilarious, because Alestes had said I was trying to protect you, with the painful sincerity of someone who had no idea how every mission afterward Anh had driven her blade with all the divine strength of someone haunted.

She is willing to kill for Alestes. Alestes is, apparently, willing to not kill for Anh.

She should have done it, Anh thinks. It’s not as though Anh has much to live for, not like anyone would miss her. She doesn’t welcome death, mostly, but for Alestes, it might have been worth it. Alestes, who has a family, and a crew, and a father—

And she has Anh. Always.

Alestes has shaken herself by now, sword sheathed and secured. Foot on the first rung of the ladder, she stops, turns around.

Anh drinks her in: Alestes, wearing an absolutely ridiculously large hat, locs streaming in the breeze, eyes inscrutable. Alestes, her enemy. Alestes, who has never been more beautiful.

“Anh,” Alestes starts, but does not finish.

Anh wants to say—something. Fuck off. Don’t leave me. Were you going to kiss me just then, or was that the oxygen deprivation. I would do anything for you. Please.

Her voice, for once, fails her.

Alestes’s must fail her too, because she nods, once, and then gets to climbing.

[ryutarotakedown]

what the trice forgotten fandom is missing, actually, is a youtube anh/alestes music video set to bad romance by lady gaga.

[ryutarotakedown]

[Translation: Chinese words for “boat,” “turtle,” and “heart.” End Translation]

any ominous "no context spoilers" you want to tease for the coming finale?

🤔

⾈ ⻱ ⼼

[ryutarotakedown]

I’m not a fool, Alestes. You’ve always been plotting something, I know it. You can tell me. You can trust me. I am the only person in the world who sees who you really are. Who you could be.

you guys are always saying you like toxic yuri and then you don't listen to trice forgotten,

[ryutarotakedown]

do you think anh killed mary afterwards. this is a serious question. narratively i doubt it because we need Some antagonist for season 2 (no anh doesn't count. not in my heart) and leaving her to die off-screen is just… unsatisfying imo. mary is such a fascinating white-feminism-allegory character and i do hope she gets killed but like in a more plot-relevant way, not just following her brother

[ryutarotakedown]

i don’t think alestes and anh’s first kiss was anything special, is the thing. i think one day they just both happened to snap at the same time when no one else was around. i think it was awkward and desperate and they both thought “i am never doing that again except holy fuck i want to”

i think after alestes disappears, anh lies in her bed and recreates that moment in her brain a lot. because we all know pham thi “writing 600k enemies to lovers AU as we speak” anh would want it to be perfect. when she’s not busy being heartbroken, it worries at her.

(and i know i’ve kissed you before, but / i didn’t do it right / can i try again, try again, try again…)