#pug philosopher

[machinesonix]

Okay with Dune 2 being mostly about messianic philosophy and the next one probably even moreso, I wanna talk about what I see as the BIG MESSIANIC PICTURE behind the setting, or at least what I believe it to be. There's going to be spoilers in here, but they're not going to be anything you're going to see on screen in this trilogy.

I'm gonna start off by highlighting something that might not be totally obvious at first glance. There are two completely different prophecies Paul finds his terrible purpose in. The Kwizatz Haderach is the ‘ultimate human’ envisioned by the Bene Gesserit who will have an enhanced power of prescience because he can project the Other Memory through both the X and Y chromosome and free humanity from its animal nature. The Lisan al-Gaib is a myth planted in the Fremen culture by the Bene Gesserit in case the Sisterhood ever needed to control them. The big tldr is that Bene Gesserit training involves a lot of learning through observation, so their kids tend to learn things so fast it looks like they already knew them and they pass that off as a miracle. 

I think it’s pretty obvious we’re supposed to find this Kwizatz Haderach thing pretty sus. The disciples of this prophecy are themselves purveyors of false prophecy. Paul certainly doesn’t believe he’s the Kwizatz Haderach, and that’s because he knows he’s not the Lisan al-Gaib. But he does wind up ticking the boxes. He does in fact survive the Water of Life ritual despite his sex. He is indeed uniquely prescient because he can see both sides of the Other Memory. Thing is as we move forward into the books that are not getting movies, we’re asked to reinspect this because of all the other Kwizatz Haderachs.

Brian Herbert gets kind of a raw deal because he didn’t have his father’s writing chops, but we’re comparing him directly to a person many consider to be the greatest science fiction author of all time. What he did have is a deeper insight into his dad’s setting and philosophies than anyone else, so miss me with any mess about which books you don’t consider canon unless you’re ready to go all Council of Nicea with me. Anyway, a really prominently weird thing that loses a lot of people is that Paul’s kid is a worm. He’s not born that way, he basically does the Water of Life ritual in the middle of a bunch of pupating sand worm larvae and comes out of it as a big worm with a human head that can produce spice in his own body. Leto II claims that he’s the Kwizatz Haderach, and to be fair, he is way more of an ‘ultimate being’ than his dad. People worship him not as a prophet, but as a god. Paul brought revolution to the universe, Leto II brought peace. It’s the peace of a godlike tyrant who can read minds and punish dissidence before it happens, but as long as we’re comparing people to their dads it's not like he started a race war that killed 26 billion people in the name of ‘justice.’ 

You may have heard Duncan Idaho winds up being the real Kwizatz Haderach. If you remember that gimp suit beetle thing in the first movie, the Harkonnens and their Tlelaxu buddies take dead people and turn them into sort of clone-zombie servitors called gholas. I’m not making any promises, but there is a real possibility the third movie will have Jason Momoa in a gimp suit, because Duncan is the best ghola. The second Duncan Idaho, bearing the edgy mid-century sci-fi moniker Hayt, is a gift from the Tlelaxu to Paul after his rise to power as an ostensible ‘we’re sorry we helped the Harkonnens kill your entire family.’ If you’ve seen the 1984 Dune movie you’ll know that the Duke of House Atreides keeps a pug. What you might not know is that it’s been the same pug for 10,000 years by virtue of genetic xeroxing. Once Leto II takes over, Duncan becomes the new house pug. Duncans serve as mentats, swordmasters, philosophers, and more over millenia of incarnations. Eventually one of the Duncans gets slammed with all the memories of the previous Duncans and he’s got this totally bizarre version of the Other Memory where he can remember all of his ancestors' memories, but his ancestors are also himself. Thereafter he can run like the Flash and fistfight robots and people call him the Kwizatz Haderach. Like I said, Brian’s books are petty controversial among fans.

Also the reverse-Bene Gesserit wind up making a Bizarro Kwizatz Haderach at one point but he’s just prescient enough to see that there isn’t a future where he isn’t just a washed up fraud. 

Now let’s put it all together. I think the core philosophical study at the center of Dune is the question ‘What is a messiah?’ And like any great work of art it really is more about the question than the answer. Our three Kwizatz Haderachs (I’m not gonna count Thallo, he’s more like an allegory for Joel Olstein) propose some possibilities. Paul is the guy who ticks all the boxes. His messianic status is descriptive, not prescriptive. He isn’t actually the guy the Bene Gesserit thought it was going to be, so that notion of predestination is gone, but if the Kwizatz Haderach is ‘the man who can use the Other Memory,’ then he’s it. He and the people around him knew the prophecy and chose to lean in that direction, he got 

Leto II is the closest thing to a divine manifestation that fits in this universe. He is literally in the body of one of the unstoppable forces of nature the Fremen venerate as their protector. He calls himself ‘God-Emperor’ in a setting where every man, woman, child, face dancer, and thing in between is raised on the principle that there is a monotheistic creator deity and that deity wants humanity to flourish. Everyone who didn’t believe in God got killed by robots ten thousand years ago. By insisting on literal religious worship of his political station, Leto II is seriously making some waves. Imo this is sort of like an extreme example where the question is more like ‘Is this what it takes before you’ll call someone the messiah?’ Even then, the fact that this dude is definitely NOT God in the way this setting understands it casts aspersions on the idea of a visibly supernatural force being inherently divine.

Finally, Duncan is a total freak accident. He is the ‘perfect human’ because he has been iterated on and improved over and over again, but he has nothing at all to do with the Bene Gesserit breeding program. Thousands of years after the Fremen uprising, when everyone thinks the Kwizatz Haderach is ancient history, there’s this guy with super powers. Unlike Paul, there’s no prophecy to suggest he might be the Chosen One and no decision to lean into the mythos surrounding it. The idea of iteration is really important with Duncan. Pardon the unflattering comparison, but there’s something kind of Heglian in how perfection is an inevitability as long as someone keeps stirring the pot. 

I would argue that aspects of all of this are present in the first book. Leto II and Duncan are just deeper explorations of some of the questions posed by Paul. And if I’m to wrap this all up with a neat little bow, I think the point of it is that they’re all totally valid Kwizatz Haderachs. ‘Kwizatz Haderach’ are just words. For ten thousand years, there was a description of a thing and nothing existed that fit that description. There was a plan to create something that fit the bill, but we got a guy who could do the miracle even when we went off script. At that point it just seems like a semantic argument. Likewise, Leto II is pretty much God. He’s immortal, he sees all things past and future, his body produces and feeds him the chemical that puts him in that trippy oneness-with-everything. He sure as fuck isn’t what anyone was expecting God to look like, but it’s pretty much theologicially bankrupt to be like ‘Excuse me, something isn’t the universal superbeing unless it’s exactly what I already had in mind’ even if people do exactly that all the time. If the 400 meter single worm-boot fits, as they say. I’m not exactly how to make this sound as serious as I mean it, but Duncan as Kwizatz Haderach is basically like Brian Herbert shoving the pile of Korans off his desk and going ‘Fuck it, look.’ This guy’s got nothing to do with the Bene Gesserit. He has the genetic memory of his masculine ancestors, but you probably couldn’t get away with calling it the same thing Paul does in court. Half the reason he gets called the ‘perfect human’ is the sentiment expressed by ‘Oh dawg, Duncan, bro, he’s the realest, most human out of any of us.’ He is just called the Kwizatz Haderach because that is the language that exists in the culture that is closest to what he is. But you know what? Same with Paul, or Leto II, or even the Joel Olstein guy I mentioned. 

Prophecies don’t predict saviors, they make them. Chani has a line in the new movie that’s something like ‘Promise them a messiah and they will wait forever,’ and I think that’s Dune boiled down to its most essential notion.  

[acalavidyaraja]

Chö: The Profound Practice of Cutting Ego-Clinging

Machik Labdrön: The Pioneering Chö Practitioner

Machik Labdrön, a prominent figure in Tibetan Buddhism, left an indelible mark on the spiritual landscape during her 95-year journey that concluded in 1153. Her influence extended across la stod, zangs ri, and chi pug, embodying the essence of Mahamudra - Chö.

**Biographical Details:**

- **Birth Date:** Unavailable

- **Death Date:** 1153

- **Death Place:** Unspecified

**Spheres of Activity:**

Machik Labdrön's activities were diverse, spanning la stod, zangs ri, and chi pug. Her teachings and practices found resonance in various regions.

**Sect and Legacy:**

An advocate of Mahamudra - Chö, Machik Labdrön's teachings were not confined to a specific sect. In her 95 years, she propagated the hidden precepts of Chö, contributing significantly to Tibetan spirituality (Blue Annals, R 984).

**Influence on Renaissance Period:**

While the term "Renaissance" typically refers to a European cultural movement, Machik Labdrön's impact on Tibetan spiritual resurgence could be seen as a parallel, revitalizing force.

**Chö Practice:**

- **Visualization Practices:** Chö involves the visualization of offering one's body to demons and ghosts, especially in haunted areas.

- **Lineage Integration:** Chö, initially considered a distinct sect, became integrated into major monastic lineages, including that of Ganden.

**Key Practices:**

- **Tümmo (Internal Heat Yoga):** Machik Labdrön emphasized the practice of Tümmo, focusing on internal heat yoga.

- **Phowa (Transference of Consciousness):** The transference of consciousness, known as Phowa, held a central role in Chö practices.

**Cultural Impact:**

Chö's association with cemeteries, corpses, and ritual implements might have influenced the adoption of sky burial—an intriguing aspect linking spirituality and burial practices.

Machik Labdrön's enduring legacy lies not only in her remarkable longevity but in the profound spiritual footprint she left on Tibet, influencing both Chö practitioners and the broader Buddhist community.

Chö: The Profound Practice of Cutting Ego-Clinging

**Introduction:**

Chö (Tib. གཅོད་, Wyl. gcod), literally meaning 'cutting,' stands as a transformative practice deeply rooted in the prajnaparamita tradition. Introduced to Tibet by the Indian master Padampa Sangye and further developed by his Tibetan disciple, the yogini Machik Labdrön, Chö is an esoteric discipline aimed at dismantling the four maras and, crucially, one's own ego-clinging.

**Origins and Founders:**

- **Padampa Sangye:** An Indian master, Padampa Sangye played a pivotal role in bringing Chö to Tibet. His teachings laid the foundation for this unique practice.

- **Machik Labdrön:** Revered as the yogini who propagated Chö, Machik Labdrön expanded and integrated the practice into Tibetan spiritual culture.

**Philosophical Basis:**

- **Prajnaparamita Connection:** Chö finds its roots in the prajnaparamita tradition, emphasizing the perfection of wisdom. The practice is a dynamic expression of wisdom in action.

**Practice Overview:**

- **Visualization Aspect:** Practitioners engage in a visualization where the physical body is symbolically offered as sustenance to diverse guests, which may include malevolent forces or threatening spirits.

- **Purpose:** The primary aim is to dismantle or 'cut' the influence of the four maras, obstacles hindering spiritual progress, and particularly to sever ego-clinging—a central theme in Buddhist philosophy.

**Significance of 'Cutting':**

- **Ego-Clinging:** Chö's emphasis on 'cutting' extends to the core of Buddhist teachings, targeting ego-clinging—a profound hindrance to enlightenment.

- **Symbolic Offering:** The act of offering the physical body symbolizes a relinquishment of attachment and a fearless confrontation with the perceived threats represented by evil forces.

**Transmission and Spread:**

- **Padampa Sangye's Transmission:** The transmission of Chö from Padampa Sangye to Machik Labdrön illustrates the lineage nature of the practice.

- **Integration in Tibetan Culture:** Chö transcended its origins and became an integral part of Tibetan spiritual practices, illustrating its adaptability and universality.

**Cultural Impact:**

- **Duality of Chö:** While Chö is sometimes regarded as its own sect, it has seamlessly integrated into major monastic lineages, showcasing its ability to coexist with diverse Buddhist traditions.

- **Influence on Rituals:** The practices of Tümmo (internal heat yoga) and Phowa (transference of consciousness) within Chö have left an indelible mark on Tibetan ritual practices.

**Conclusion:**

Chö, with its profound philosophical underpinnings and dynamic visualizations, represents a unique facet of Tibetan Buddhism. Rooted in wisdom and transmitted through enlightened masters, this practice continues to inspire practitioners on their journey towards spiritual awakening, inviting them to courageously confront and transcend ego-clinging for the benefit of all sentient beings.

[aboutmatheus]

A VERY SPECIAL NIGHT WITH HER

26/10/2023. 23:57

“Suddenly I saw, polka dots and moonbeams,

All around a pug-nosed dream… 🎼“

Im with You at the table, enjoying some drinks on a harmfull blues climate

There’s friends around us,

but for sure they aren’t enjoying the night more than I am

Such a special night

Right now my mind reminds me a philosopher from my place, wich his quote says: “Happiness is that moment you wish would last a little longer”

and Im so goddamn happy right now

While you’re so penetrated with that song, that feeling, that moment; Im looking to the most beautiful woman at the room

Im looking at you, you know that, but you rather pretend

You’re so beautiful right now, that could literally gave a rough man a heart attack.

Since I was a boy, I was so passionate about biology, history, philosophy, cosmos, astronomy, the complexity of the world in every aspect… I was so obsessed with discovering and understanding the world, that I forgot to do so with myself.

You teach me that

You are my ET

out of this world, completely

You’re a space-time deformation

To bend time

And make one second with you, worth more than a lifetime.

I love you, V

I’ll aways do

[nomdepen]

“Yes, they’re magnificent creatures.” She confirmed with a childlike glee. “They were at an event hosted by the Queen Herself. It was the highlight of the event, in my opinion. They were smaller than I’d thought they’d be, but they were still wonderful.” Recounting the memory was bittersweet. She had looked for Eloise that entire day, desperate to know what she thought of the striped beasts. But when she saw her friend sharing the company of Cressida Cowper, the day had been rightfully soured.

“There were peacocks at that particular soirée, too,” She let out a sigh. “But there are enough of those in society as it is.” The colorful birds had been exotic in their own right, but Penelope was all too familiar with cocksure creatures flaunting their wealth. She couldn’t deny that the male peacocks were certainly more spectacular than any dandy in attendance, but it still hadn’t been enough to surprise her. Zebras, however, had been quite a spectacle for Pen.

“You have a horse?” It made sense, she supposed. Soldiers couldn’t exactly be expected to saunter into battle on foot, nor could they be expected to trek across the world without some sort of assistance. It made sense that a caring man like Benjamin would form an alliance with a mare. She wasn’t well-versed in the laws of warfare, but she could only imagine most men would prefer a valiant stallion as their war beast. She hadn’t, however, expected a such majestic creature to be named something so… ordinary.

“She must be quite protective over you if you’ve been together for so long.” Pen allowed her mind to wander off, imagining what his horse might look like. Was she lean and elegant like the derby horses her father always bet on? Or was she a noble beast with thunderous hooves that could carry him anywhere in the world? In her dreams, she always imagined her Prince Charming whisking her away on horseback, but the details had never been quite so clear.

“I’ve never owned a horse myself. I have a dog, though. A pug. His name is Prince. He’s not quite a stallion, but he’s a rather good companion on lonely days.” She didn’t have children yet, but Prince was the closest thing to an infant that she’d ever had. Being the youngest sibling, Pen never had to deal with babies and nappies like Prudence and Philippa had, but she’d driven Prince around the estate in her old perambulator enough for her mind to equate it. “We used to have a Yorkshire Terrier. Well, it was Philippa’s, really, but Mama got rid of him when he wouldn’t stop soiling the carpet.”

His rueful tone spoke measures and Penelope wondered just how many things a soldier like him had witnessed. Too much, if she had to guess. A part of her itched to inquire further, to know more about the things that made him him, but she knew better than that. The weather was charming and the last thing she wanted to do was bring a metaphorical cloud over their outing.

“I concur. Mankind will be the maker of its own demise, I believe. Always yearning for more, until there is nothing left to take.” Her voice was sad, but she wore a gentle smile. She rarely spoke these type of thoughts aloud without her family scolding her for being too philosophical. Philosophy was a man’s luxury, but with Benjamin she felt free to be as philosophical as she wanted.

Beyond compare? Penelope's thoughts nearly seized at his words, her mind working overtime to dissect every syllable. He spoke flattery so effortlessly, offering compliments as if it were as easy as breathing. She couldn’t help but admire him for his brazen sincerity. Compliments were a currency that most women in the ton were frugal with, especially when exchanging them with other ladies. Perhaps females elsewhere in the world were more supportive of one another, she thought, but in London, ladies were as vicious as it got.

“Oh, I don’t know. I suppose I’ll have to wait and see what kinds of scandalous materials they have available.” The excitement thrummed through her veins, her voice nearly trembling with anticipation. An entire collection of books meant near endless possibilities. Even if they were all textbooks, filled to spine with useless facts, Penelope would be elated to expand her horizons. However, if she was being honest, there was always a specific genre that called out to her.

“I know it seems silly, but I always enjoy a good love story. I intend to find at least one romance novel that I have yet to read, and the rest…” She shrugged, allowing herself to be open to new ideas. As a thought dawned on her, Pen’s grin turned girlish and she leaned closer to him. “Perhaps you could help me find some poetry to study. It does seem to be a specialty of yours, after all.”

Despite the innocence in her appraisal, a distinct heat flared up beneath his collar and burned up to the tips of his ears. With a soft, husky little laugh, Benjamin rolled his shoulders forward, almost hunkering since he'd grown out of touch with such flatteries.

"I'm afraid I've been rendered speechless," he said. "Well...if you can ignore the past several words I've already uttered, of course."

Clasping his hands behind his back, he only to dared look at Penelope when she spoke of strange creatures. "Zebras?" he echoed, his eyes twinkling with intrigue. "I confess I've only seen sketches...they appear much like horses, which happens to be an animal I adore. While growing up, we raised a handful of them on our farm, but my Artillery has been with me throughout late boyhood, the war, and now here in England. I couldn't imagine venturing into the world without her."

Wounded... Something about her phrasing struck a chord in Benjamin, and with a stabbing ache in his throat, he wondered if she could possibly be referring to something deeper, visceral, much like his own invisible wounds that bled and festered across his heart.

"I wouldn't say my life is more exciting," he softly said. "In truth, there's quite a bit of my life that I wish I'd never experienced... Sometimes, the quieter, simpler life is far more ideal." He shrugged, rueful. "In truth, I don't think mankind can ever be satisfied. We're never quite appreciative of what we have...not until it's too late."

Upon Penelope's quip, Benjamin's expression warmed again and he chuckled. "Right. Well, at least you can waltz," he countered. "My cousin once crashed right into the refreshments table at a public assembly, because she couldn't keep time -- nor her balance."

Nudging her, he added, "And you are not perfect, no -- nobody possesses such a feat -- but you're certainly beyond compare. I, myself, would take a dozen imperfections over anything flawless. Speaking of which..." The corners of his mouth lifted. "What sort of 'scandalous reading material' do you intend to borrow from the library?"

[noahnopesbest]

With utmost respect, and also with all my love, from the very bottom of my heart:

FUCK YOU, ALEX

[oonajaeadira]

If You Will Let My Heaven Touch Your Stars (Ezra x f!reader)

Rating: Mature. 

Pairing: Ezra (Prospect film) x f!reader

Warnings: FLUFFY SMUT. INSPIRED BY THIS. Non-explicit oral (m and f receiving). Formatting may be strange in certain Tumblr themes due to paragraph spacing with the poetry.

A/N: Okay, y’all. I was looking for another reason to write some Ezra. I got inspired by this naughty confessional post and felt the need to rise to the challenge, but make it a bit soft. You know I’m allergic to writing physical doings without some emotional yearnings. So it has come to this. And I’m not sorry.

Summary: Ezra runs his mouth over some poetry. You run your mouth over some Ezra.

TAGLIST: you can always request to be on the taglist for this or any of my work. If you’d like to be on taglists for upcoming fic, please sign up here –> TAGLIST

MASTERLIST

_______________________________

You know that sigh. It will be shortly followed by a gravelly, dissatisfied “hm.”

“Hm.” 

Next will come the impatient flipping of pages as Ezra learns that the book he’s chosen from the stack he got in trade on the Pug is…”less than literary and more than malignant.”

“What’cha reading, Ez.” The main node on the electropulse generator blew during the last harvest and you’ve been doing your best to repair it for the better part of the scaling period. Better to keep eyes on the electrics than let them wander over to his bedroll where he’s stripped to his skivvies, propped up against a crate, reading.

The rotation of Ranakh-4 is almost sixty hours, and in the north hemisphere there’s always light. Should be perfect for prospectors to take shifts and get things done, but instead, it creates a scaling period--a good fifteen-hour window of intense heat and sunlight that’s too dangerous to be exposed to for long, causing lots of nasty side effects. Including skin scaling. Hence the name. So during that period you and Ezra hide in the cooled tent, sleeping, polishing gems, maintaining equipment, wasting time, and generally trying not to annoy each other too much.

That’s a joke between you. In the years you’ve known him, Ez has yet to get under your skin. Ezra’s usually up for a game of dice or five-stand during scaling period, and if you’ve got gear to clean or inventory to count, he’s good for a story. Or ten.

But after the third rotation he stopped playing games of chance with you and his stories got gradually less... crusty. He still had a lot to say, but he stuck mostly to mining anecdotes, weaving around salacious details and editing himself in the moment.

And you’re pretty sure you know why.

This isn’t the first posting you’ve had with Ezra.

There was the assignment on Phintreas. The job on TG-19. The second assignment on Phintreas--that one it was just the two of you. Just like this one. 

There was a moment near the end of that run when you took a break from digging to stretch, arching your back in the dappled sunlight and pulling your arms up and back toward the thick foliage tops. There were singing insectoid creatures on Phintreas and you’d dropped your wrists to your head to listen to their song a little, closing your eyes and hearing in their hum the chords of a song you used to love.

It was just a few seconds, the warm air on your bare shoulders, the long thin trees--actually large grass--rising and swaying above. A pleasant stretch in your lower back. But there was something off. Your ears were full of insect song but there was something missing. 

The sound of Ezra’s digging had stopped.

You turned to find him taking a break, leaning on his shovel, jumpsuit open and pulled down to a knot at his waist like yours. Dirt-streaked arms and undershirt, looking at you, staring with sad eyes, the long slopes of his mustache running into his patchy beard making him look like he was pouting more than he was. Probably. Totally lost in thought, his eyes slid down your torso. When he woke to the fact that you caught him using you as a backdrop for reverie, he didn’t even have the balls to be embarrassed. Just realigned his focus on his shovel and went back to digging, the veins straining out on his big hands.

“You okay, Ez?”

“As well as one can be, sweetheart. I feel we’re close. It is a fine day full of wonderments.”

You’d thought about that look in the days afterward. Didn’t really know what it meant for you. Until the final sleep cycle on that grass planet, the wind traveling through the fields making the grasses sing hollow and low in the night. 

“What’cha reading, Ez?” You’d come to learn that it was a magic question, one that not only got you an explanation, but perhaps a chapter or two in his baritone twang.

And that night, as you packed your final bag, he swung the spine around to read out, “Papas Cordel, Love Verses.”

He didn’t ask you if you wanted to hear any. He just started to read.

Softly. Slowly. The words were innocuous on their own but their combination was sinful, his voice melting at the back of your brain, lifting the fine hairs of your neck, slithering down your spine before making an orbit to press upon your core and vibrate there. 

He never said goodnight. Just read you a few poems full of worship and yearning in that sonorous voice of his, then rolled over and went to sleep. It left you in a panic, trying to control your breathing, in full understanding of what that look from a few days ago had really meant.

And for the duration of your next couple of jobs you spent some time in regret, wishing you’d decoded your feelings sooner or that he’d made his own clearer. You’d vowed that if you ever had the chance to go back and live that night again you wouldn’t hesitate to….what? To do what? You never got that far. Didn’t matter. Time doesn’t go backwards. After a while, it was easy enough to convince yourself that you’d just read too much into it, that you didn’t really feel anything and neither did Ez. He had just been tired and staring into space that day. And he’d just been aesthetically moved by the song of the grasses in the night wind. It was a trick of the light, and the more you rationalized it, the further the memory slipped into the realm of silly fantasy.

So when this assignment came, you’d had time enough to leave the fantasy behind and met Ezra as you always had--as a friend and a damn talented prospector you were happy to dig with. The man always got his haul and getting paired with him always meant profit.

It only took one scaling period to make you realize you were lying to yourself. 

Scaling period means getting somewhere shaded and cooled and making yourself as comfortable as possible. Which means stripping down to essentials. All those dice games trying not to look at Ezra’s broad, bared chest, looking up from a hand of cards to find his eyes quickly darting away from you…. By the third rotation you’d noticed that neither of you could make eye contact with the other anymore and after that, Ezra generally spent his downtime during scaling periods laying on his bedroll in his skivvs, reading one of the dozen books he’d scavenged back on the station.

You weren’t sure if you were flattered or embarrassed or even injured that he wouldn’t move on whatever he was tense about. But, ultimately, this arrangement was easier.

Or so you lied to yourself.

A “what’cha reading, Ez” got you a few chapters of an old time-travel adventure or a philosophical treatise on the life of some forgotten pioneer while you mended a garment or recounted the supply of viable drill bits or tried to fix the damn faulty electropulse generator for the millionth time. Something rollicking and full of resonance to keep your ears busy and your mind distracted while you focused your eyes on anything but Ezra’s bronze skin and sable eyes and full lips and big hands and thick thighs and--

This time he clicks his tongue and runs a hand through his hair, humming a high note in a kind of frustrated laugh. “I won’t devastate your ears on this one, sweetheart. Not much of interest here but some poor soul ruttin’ and scraping for talent that eludes them. How this found its way into a thing to be bought and sold I will never understand.”

And yet, he keeps reading. Silently.

After a few minutes and another wire successfully cleaned and reconnected, you repeat yourself, taunting him.

“What’cha reading, Ez.”

“Mm.” He just flips through a few more pages, refusing to answer.

“Hey.” You chuckle into your work. “What’cha reading.” 

You hear a huge intake of breath before a hold and a forced release.

“Wow,” you laugh. “Fine. Don’t waste breath on it. Just tell me which one it is so I can avoid it later.”

“Love and other Stars by Aeon Aido Raja.”

“I see. What’s it about?”

“Sadly, it is about a poet who cannot seem to make the match between words and sentiment; a volume of supposed amorous verse.”

“Amorous verse,” your hands stop working on their own. “Love...poetry?” There’s a sudden flashback to the sound of hollow reeds and soothing verses in the night. The words are a program in your brain, overwriting your inhibition and professionalism, pushing you to a deeply-coded goal to calm the flutter in your chest.

“So it claims. Although I fear it lacks full understanding of both--” His voice cuts out as he realizes you’ve stood and you’re moving toward him and his wide eyes lock to yours as you sit beside him on the bedroll. “Now what has gotten into you, sweetheart?”

You know exactly what’s gotten into you. The triggered wish of returning to that night, the built-up tension of dancing around each other in your underwear, trying to deny what’s going on, watching him purposefully respect you when you know he feels something, when he knows you do too--

What was it you were going to do if you had a chance to go back to that last night on the grass planet? Time to find out.

“Read to me.”

Ezra hesitates, unsure. “This?”

“Read it.”

His eyes flick down to follow the quick fold of your lips as you wet them with your tongue, unconsciously mimicking you, before fumbling his gaze back to the book and, with a regretful sigh, begins.

“I have never told you When your lips found my own I have never told you My dearest--

“Walking through the light of a moon in decline-- Can you blame me if I steal your kiss? If I call you to my side before it collides with the ground?”

When he looks for your reaction, you’re not sure if he’s pleading with you for permission to stop or continue.

Shit. He’s right. It isn’t great. But you’re here now, you’re going to make the most of it.

“That’s not...so bad.” And then you find out what you would have done that night--or at least how you’d start--by showing him your raised palm, lowering it slowly toward him. “Tell me if you want me to stop.” Your hand travels down through the air, just to the inch above his skivvs, waiting a moment in the aura of radiated heat there, before settling lightly over him. He never says no, never takes his eyes from yours, the only reaction coming from a small lift in his chest, the corner of his mouth curling just a fraction, and the fabric beneath your hand quickly becoming the only thing there to qualify as soft.

“Sweetheart, what you’re beginning here--”

“The only words I want from you are that poem. I want to hear you read. You stop, I stop.”

The heat hangs heavy between you, burns beneath your hand. And with a huffed exhale, Ezra starts again.

“I have never told you When your lips found my own I have never told you My dearest--

“Walking through the light of a moon in decline-- Can you blame me if I steal your kiss? If I call you to my side before it collides with the ground?”

Supporting him from underneath, you’ve begun running your thumb up and down him, and his breath hitches, bringing him to a stop. So you stop.

“You stop, I stop, Ez.”

“Believe me, gentle one, I do not wish the impediment of your affections--”

“Then don’t stop.”

In a beautiful panic, Ezra looks back to the poem. “You sure you want this one?”

You nod. “I don’t care how good it is. That’s the poem I want. Keep going. I've always liked your voice. I know you can make it pretty.”

He stares at the page a moment, and you push him--literally--gasping into a start.

“If ever I could tell you When my heaven touched your stars If ever I could tell you Beloved--”

You stop palming him when he stops to breathe, and it’s only when you trace his waistband with your fingertips that he swallows and continues, willing you to keep going--

“Waking in the night to the aching void of your embrace-- Can you forgive me if I plead your name? If I summon you to my body from wherever you are?”

Whether it’s the want in his voice or just getting further into the words, the poem is already getting better. His eyebrows begin to push together and arch, as you stretch the top of his underwear down, wrapping your hand around him. His words start riding the occasional groan which just resonate with you more and you rock yourself against the bedroll in time with your gentle, yearning pulls--

“You hold me adroitly With accurate proximity To keep your breath and my breath Two founts and one pool. To swim a in star-reflective stream of our holy recreation--”

He’s doing so well, the words wandering out deep and breathy, so beautifully controlled...until you lower your mouth to him.

Then there’s a strangled staccato grunt as he adjusts, takes a couple of quick breaths and continues--

“But your body is a.....wildfire Your lips a destruction And I give my everything over to your….cleansing devastation.”

Oh, his struggle is glorious. You can feel him trying not to buck, needing to blow out a breath between pursed lips here and there to concentrate on the print. He reads with intent, leaning into context and feeling, making a gift to you of every word.

“I have yearned for you to find me worthy of a spark An ignition... The rebirth of your combustible attentions.”

He pauses again to breathe, and while you allow him a small reprieve, he’s stopped a little too long and you abruptly halt. When you pull back to look up in reprimand, he gives you a soft smile through his panting, shaking his head in wonder. You know he’ll have plenty of praises when this is over, but he doesn’t seem to want to break the spell to say them now. When you return his little smile, he looks back to the page and continues, prompting you to return to your own administrations.

“How you draw from me each sweet effusion-- Every secret vein untapped-- Now yours in expert execution, Now open to your burning maw.”

He pushes through the poetry rather than into you, allowing you to hear him and match him. Your body begins to counter-react as you feel him brimming, turning on more need in you than you’ve felt in a while, and you show him just how well he’s doing by doing well by him. 

There’s a shift in his voice as more breath enters in and nonverbal noises begin to punctuate the words; a shift in his body as his fingers tangle in your hair and grip tightly, suggesting a final rhythm-- 

“But within the fire An aperture of...divine precipitation Where those of us who live untouched Can go to drown To die To howl…..! To see the blessed face of eternity Or the….busting open….of a thousand….wretched….stars-- You-call-me-to-sinful-prayer You-invoke-my-abject-soul I find myself in debt…!...and thrall…!... to your superior…!...divinity--”

When he stops reading this round, you show mercy as he pounds his fist into the bedroll and makes his own additions to the poem, exclamations made up of your name and curses and calls to higher powers. You can only expect a man to expel from himself wondrously one method at a time, and Ezra’s earned his reward so beautifully.

Damn his opinion. The poem was perfect. You chose correctly. Either that, or Ez’s tongue really can spin any old refuse into gold.

But the book is still held high, and as you lift from him and guide him through his aftershocks with your hand, he breathes heavy though the final verse--

“This is how I love you from afar With agony and forlorn words While you hover forever in my purview A shaft of dazzling incandescence Shining down from your sun/star Through the glass of my desire Starts and restarts an everlasting blaze”

Then, setting the book reverently on the bedroll, he takes your face in his hands, dragging his thumbs across your lips, no longer needing the page for the last lines.

“If ever I could tell you And if you will let my heaven touch your stars If ever I could tell you Beloved--”

Ezra’s kiss is achingly grateful. He tries to put into one kiss the loving equivalent of everything you’ve just done for him.

When he pulls back, he gives you the tiniest rough shake, a punctuation of his playful consternation. “Mmm,” he grunts. “While I am glad to know you find my recitals pleasing, you’re about to find out that my talent for oral ministrations do not stop at mere recitation.” With a miner’s strong arms he flips you over him onto the bedroll, making short work of your underwear and pinning your legs around his shoulders in a matter of seconds. “Now, I will not be so cruel as to make you put words to my reciprocation, unless you’d like to fill the silence to direct me to your will. Or say what you please. I will not be able to add to the conversation as I will be otherwise occupied.”

You don’t know if it’s years of running his mouth or wagging his tongue or yapping his jaw, but he’s well practiced in using allllll the muscles therein to help finish what poetry couldn’t quite accomplish.

At one point you think of surprising him and trying your own hand at reading while being entertained. But when you fumble for the book, it opens to the same poem.

But not the same poem.

The opening lines are there: “I have never told you When your lips found my own I have never told you My dearest--Walking through the light of a moon in decline--Can you blame me if I steal your kiss? If I call you to my side before it collides with the ground?”

And that’s it.

That’s where it ends. The whole published poem--a mere seven lines.

Oh, Kevva. That’s...that means….

Damn, Ezra. The mouth on you.

The book drops to the bedroll.

And you break into pieces as his heaven masterfully consumes your stars.

________________

TAGLIST: you can always request to be on the taglist for this or any of my work. If you’d like to be on taglists for upcoming fic, please sign up here –> TAGLIST

Taglist: @melobee @extraterrestrialdork @14mcmd1122 @grogusmum @cannedsoupsucks

[spicycreativity]

Remus Sanders de Cyrano de Bergercock, or: Post-PoF but Make it Valentine's Day

4k; content warnings for crude sexual jokes and references (Remus) and one short make-out scene 😌

I tried a new narration style this time just for funsies

Happy Valentine's Day!

Janus was doing it again. The teacups on the table had long since been emptied and now the dregs sat cold and still smelling faintly of Thomas' anglophile phase. Two teacups. One for Janus, one for Patton (and still smudged with his strawberry-flavored lip balm). Remus had pointedly been left out of the equation, having been shooed out of the room with a 'behave' that held all the menace of a teenage girl warning her parents not to ruin her first date.

Now the little meeting was over and Remus had been unleashed and Janus was just staring at the teacups in the least dangerous silence Remus had ever known.

Most of Janus' silences came with a bold warning spelled out in crossed arms and furrowed brows: disturb me and perish. But this. This was something Remus had never seen before, something that would have made Virgil (the old Virgil) cackle with friendly schadenfreude: Janus sat with a flush on his cheek and a small smile on his lips as he stared dreamily at the spot Patton had occupied not five minutes before. Even as Remus observed him, he sighed and tilted his head, more Disney prince than man. (Somewhere on the other side of the subconscious, Roman suffered a shooting chest pain.)

Beads rattling, Remus got a running start and threw himself onto the couch beside Janus, jostling him out of his lovestruck stupor. "You're mooning," said Remus, kicking his feet up on the coffee table. The cups and saucers rattled, wafting up the smell of earl grey and Louis Tomlinson.

"I'm not mooning," Janus argued, more out of habit than anything. A millisecond later, the teasing clicked and he straightened his posture, his face falling into picture-perfect incredulousness. "Over Patton?"

"You're moonier than a college football game." Remus reached for his fly to give a demonstration, but Janus stopped him with an outstretched hand. Remus sat back to allow the mental image to sink in instead.

He'd had a sneaking suspicion something like this might happen, hammered home by how excruciatingly one-note Janus had been lately. Every other sentence was about Patton somehow, whether to complain about his taste in food/movies/philosophical ideologies/friends or to recount some 'utterly stupid' thing Patton had said about food/movies/philosophical ideologies/Remus. It was a textbook crush with all the signs and symptoms of someone too emotionally stunted to tell they had a crush. This starry-eyed, gooey, abhorrent Janus was simply the final nail in the coffin of the dead horse. Crushes like these were the reason Disney had invented the word 'twitterpated.'

"Look," said Janus, lacing into his metaphorical tap shoes, "if this is because I kicked you out, I genuinely don't think you would have enjoyed yourself—"

Remus pulled up his sleeve to check his watch, which he had imagined into existence as soon as it was necessary for the gag. "Uh-huh, uh-huh."

"If it's really that important to you, I'll invite you next time and you can sit right next to me and listen to Patton talk for three hours about his conflicted feelings on pugs."

Remus ran a hand through his hair to hide the manic grin yanking on either corner of his mouth like he'd been caught with fish hooks. "How does Patton feel about pugs?"

"He thinks they're cute, but he hates that they have such severe breathing problems," Janus answered automatically. The flush had crept into his cheek again, a dainty shade of pink that made Remus' toes curl inside his boots. There was a softness in Janus' eyes that Remus had never seen before, not even when Janus was talking to him about Thomas, whom Janus valued above all else.

He was lost.

Something must have shown on Remus' face, because Janus slammed the door shut on everything too early, and his face was a blank mask ready to be molded into an expression he hadn't chosen yet. Remus took the opening, watching Janus decide on an expression as he talked: "I bet he likes you back. He's always coming around to visit and you're always locking me away in the chokey!" He threw himself against the back of the couch, raising his arms as though he'd been chained to a dungeon wall. "Augh! The indignity!" He made a whip-crack sound with his mouth and pretended to flinch. "Harder!"

"Are you done?" Janus asked, having settled on annoyed incredulity.

"Will you admit that you were all moony-eyed for Patton just now?"

"I was thinking—"

"About Daddy Patty's 9-inch c—" With a subtle motion from Janus, Remus' hand came up to cover his own mouth.

"Look," said Janus with a heavy sigh. When Thomas wasn't forcing him to the forefront of conscious thought, when his features belonged wholly to himself, he was the shortest of all of them. He looked especially small now. "Even if I had an interest in Patton, which I don't, pursuing him, which I don't want to even do, would just make things harder and more complicated for him. So even if I wanted anything to do with him, it would be far kinder to just keep it to myself."

"Or," said Remus, his hand finally dropping from his mouth, "convince yourself you don't even have feelings for him in an act of self-delusion and cognitive dissonance to allow yourself to not think about the fact that you, the embodiment of selfishness and self-preservation, are committing an act of pure selflessness that defies your function? Hypothetically?"

Janus sighed so heavily that it sent a shiver down Thomas' spine. "Sure, Remus."

A thousand thoughts raced through Remus' mind until his brain (imaginary, metaphorical, or otherwise) threatened to shut everything down and send him floating into the gentle waters of dissociation. "Interesting," he said as the water began to lap at his ankles.

"In that case," Janus said in a slow, guiding tone, "it would be better for you to just leave it alone. Do you hear me, Remus? Say it with me now: Leave it alone."

But Remus was gone, swept away on the tide.

-

Janus really was a bad liar, when you thought about it. His real talent lay in obfuscation, namely, in keeping his mouth shut when it really counted. Once you got him talking, the truth practically ran out, but it ran out backwards and usually tripped and fell on its ass. If Janus succeeded in smoothing everything out, it was usually through more obfuscation.

But this time, he had failed to obfuscate the truth. Remus, with his persistence, was uniquely well-suited to weaseling the truth out of Janus. And so it lay naked and tantalizing before him: Janus was head-over-heels for Patton. And it was making him miserable. That couldn't be allowed. Remus had to fix it.

In many ways, Remus served as Janus' opposite; blunt and aggressive, he got his way through the repeated application of verbal force. He was a living wrecking ball with an experienced hand at the controls. Probably some old Italian guy named Vito who smoked cigars on his lunch break and thought OSHA was a small town in Wisconsin.

Anyway.

Remus' impulse had been to swagger on down to Patton and tell him outright just how badly Janus wanted him. But, contrary to prevailing belief, he was sharp enough to know how that would end. As much as Patton insisted that everyone needed to tell the truth, he sure wasn't equipped to handle it, at least not until it had been wrapped up in pleasantries. Like wrapping a pill in lunch meat for a stubborn dog. No, Remus needed a subtler plan, a plan that slithered and crooned like that creepy snake from The Jungle Book. Remus was going to have to act like Janus.

So. WWJD? Probably something old fashioned like— The speeding semitruck of an idea struck Remus full force: Love poetry. Some flowery, hand-written little rhyming missive, scented paper, swirling calligraphy. A piece of paper appeared on the desk before him and a pen jumped into his hand.

Huh, when had he gotten to his room? Maybe Janus had taken him once it became clear that Remus was having a trip.

Eh. Did it matter? Taking up the ballpoint, he scribbled 'Draft 1 Love Poem, Remus de Bergerac.'

No.

'Cyrano Vaginerac.'

He could do better 

Ooh. It was coming to him. Cyrano de Berger-cock, the porno parody, and instead of having a big nose, Cyrano was cursed with a 12-inch monster—" Knock.

Knock knock knock.

Remus' paper had turned into a screenplay without his realizing. He flipped it over as he went to answer the door, humming The Police's Roxanne on his way. Deception was the name of the game. No hints.

Janus stood in the doorway tapping his forefinger against his thumb. Remus beamed at him. "How goes it, Romeo?"

Janus made a face like Remus had just inserted a slice of lemon into his mouth. "I was just coming by to ask you to keep it down. You've been awfully noisy since this morning."

Remus spotted the concern buried in the sarcasm and the truth sprang to his lips before it could even occur to him to lie, but he caught it by the tail in the nick of time: "I'm okay. I'm just working on—" He stared at Janus, wide-eyed and smiling in cornered-animal frustration. The silence stretched out before them and his imagination, which he had previously thought boundless, delivered no lie. Well, there went that.

What Remus did not know: The look of feral panic on his face was nigh-indistinguishable from the expression of manic excitement that tended to overtake him when he was immersed in a project. That he had gone silent was of no concern to Janus, who was merely waiting to be polite. He waited a few seconds longer. Remus' left eye began to twitch. "Can I come in?"

"But of course!" Remus said, snapping back into himself. Acting against his function was hard and it kind of hurt in the same way it hurt to focus on something he didn't find interesting. Janus suppressed him a little as he came in, a small exertion of denial to keep the effects of Remus' room at bay. "Business or pleasure?"

"This place is filthy," Janus said like that was any sort of revelation. Remus threw himself backwards onto his bed to wait. Janus would get to his point in time. "Look, you'd tell me if you were upset, wouldn't you?"

"Upset?" Remus sat up, but Janus was busy pretending to care about Remus' DVD collection.

"About certain conversations we might have had this morning?" Janus prompted.

"Do you like Patton better than you like me?"

The answer was not immediate, which was how Remus knew to trust it. "...Of course not."

"So why would I be upset?"

"Oh, you know, I've heard tell that some people can get jealous when, uh…" Janus broke off, having lost himself. "If I had a thing for Patton, I might expect you to be slightly…" He gave up with a sigh and looked plaintively at Remus. "So you're not jealous?"

"Please!" Remus spread his arms out wide. "I may be green, but not with envy! You can get back to your mooning guilt-free."

"I'm not—" Janus gave up with a huff. "I think I'd better go. I'm going to be very busy with important work, so try not to disturb me." He swept out, leaving the invitation floating in the air like fine cologne.

Remus waved it away. Unlike Janus, he did have work to do.

A new stack of paper was waiting for him at his desk. He sat, one leg folded with the ankle resting on his opposite knee. If it were up to him, he would write something to the point like 'Roses are red, violets are blue, rhyming is hard, let's bone.' But Janus would never say something like that in a million years and the point was to sound like him.

The subtle feeling of discomfort was back. It just wasn't in his nature to imitate and skirt around things like this. But if it was for Janus, he would endure it.

Such a declaration was easy to make, but much harder to stick to. Remus wrote two stanzas of a sestina before the fraying high-wire of his attention span snapped and the unicycle-riding clown driving his thought process plummeted to a gory death in front of a crowd of sickened onlookers. Well, that was fine. It wasn't like Janus was some master poet. Poetry didn't suit him, anyway. These two stanzas would have to be enough, plus an envoi tacked on for a feeling of completion. Writing in iambic pentameter was hard enough on its own, it's not like Janus would really put in the extra effort to make it all rhyme, right?

Janus' pen of choice was the Monteverde Invincia in brass, a suitably pretentious pen that matched his aesthetic. Thomas had seen one once in a boutique stationery shop and Janus had seized the memory in all six of his yellow-clad hands. But Remus didn't know that, only that Janus had some sort of a fetish for fancy pens, and what was fancier than a quill pen?

After a few failed attempts at cursive, he came to realize that writing neatly with a quill on was about as intuitive as performing a kickflip in stilettos. Ah, well. Rollerball, then.

Once done, he surveyed his work and felt oddly proud of the result. His looping cursive looked good on the cardstock he'd chosen, shiny gold against matte black. Remus had, against all odds, done a good job impersonating Janus. (Or so he thought).

Remus' poem read thusly:

With one deft thrust, you opened up my chest

And there exposed my bleeding, beating heart

Will you gasp when you find it burning up

Or hold it in a one-handed embrace?

Just one touch has left me open for you

Panting, trembling, waiting for your next move

Oh, oh, oh! how I long to make you move

And meet you face-to-face and chest-to-chest

With no one in our way, just me and you

And in the silence you would hear my heart 

You would feel the pounding as we embrace

In this sweet moment, you would take me up

Know the rabbit-fast movement of my heart

Eat me up within our tangled embrace

Eyes, chest, feet, mouth: yours. I belong to you.

Discerning readers will spot anywhere from 7 to 10 sexual innuendoes in the above. Luckily for Remus (and maybe Janus too), Patton had an endearingly obnoxious (or obnoxiously endearing) habit of taking everything at face value.

Remus signed the bottom of the paper with a shiny, swooping 'J' and set off for Patton's room.

The following hour was an ecstasy of agony, all trembling limbs and giddy anticipation. Remus paced and bounced on the balls of his feet, even going so far as to make a few passes by Janus in the living room but never quite daring to show his face. He was too nervous right now; his honest face would give away the game faster than Virgil could jump to a bad conclusion. So he paced until his thudding heel strikes summoned Janus, who was doing a passable job of pretending to be annoyed, anyway. He had his arms crossed over his chest and his hip cocked just so, but the furrow of his brow hinted more at concern than he would have preferred. But that was alright. Good lies weren't necessary with Remus. "If you're trying to wear a hole in the floor, you're going to get bored before you get anywhere with it."

"Not if I wear really heavy shoes," Remus said, but he was too distracted to summon up a pair of cinderblocks to demonstrate his point. Instead, he leapt forward and turned, slinging one arm easily over Janus' shoulder. "Let's go play Pokémon Stadium."

-

Remus sat in the discomfort of lying for the next few days, shimmying and stamping his feet when the unfamiliar sensation got to be too much. Janus remained none the wiser, too caught up in a pink-tinged and distinctly 1950s-inspired love fantasy. He kept having dreams about sharing strawberry sodas with Patton and waking up with a craving for strawberry-flavored kisses. Beyond that, nothing happened. So much nothing, in fact, that it was starting to get unusual.

"Where's the Foxy Froggie?" Remus asked on the third morning after his illicit delivery, inadvertently startling Janus out of a daydream wherein Patton asked him to go steady at the roller rink.

Janus stiffened and said, slightly too casually, "Am I Morality's keeper?"

Well, damn. He hadn't snuck into Janus' bedroom in the night and, in the immortal words of Conway Twitty, laid him down and whispered pretty love-words in his ear. Remus tucked his feet under him on the couch and began to work. "You killed him with a rock?"

"Don't be uncivilized, Remus, obviously I used poison."

"The coward's weapon." Remus waved a hand, grinning behind it.

"'Coward' in one font is 'pragmatist' in another," Janus said lightly, glad of the distraction. Patton's absence was unusual and it weighed on him.

"Sorry," said a voice that was neither Remus' nor Janus', "is this a bad time?"

Remus sprang to his feet in delight, unable and unwilling to keep the deranged grin off his face. "Not at all!" he said. Then, regrettably, he threw his head back and cackled like an asthmatic hyena.

Patton (the voice belonged to Patton, if you hadn't already figured that out) took this in stride. Sort of. "Uh, great!" he said with an expression like an underpaid worker who'd just found out he was getting a pizza party instead of a raise. "Thanks."

He was holding, Remus noticed with delight, a small, white envelope. "Shall I leave you two alone together?" he crooned, leering at Patton. This was it! His master plan, deviously woven, was all coming to a toe-curling climax. Move over Janus, there's a new Lord of the Lies in town. And his name? Remus de Bergerac. No, wait. Berger-cock. 

"Ah, Remus?" Janus gave a restrained little wave that the untrained observer might have mistaken for polite. 

"Oh, don't mind me!" said Remus, laying it on thick. Like, 'artificially-flavored maple syrup that's been congealing on the back table at IHOP for 6 years' thick. Sticky, too. "Pay no attention to the rat behind the curtain." Raising his hands in surrender, he backed away, hit the coffee table, did a fantastic Gene-Wilder-as-Willy-Wonka-style pratfall that went unappreciated, and finally left the room. He stayed close enough to eavesdrop, of course.

"That was…" Janus hesitated, base instinct to lie getting tangled up with his inability to choose a word to describe Remus' unusual behavior. "Well."

"Yeah." Janus and Patton met eyes, each of them blushing and breathless and starry-eyed. In the hall, Remus stuck out his tongue and gagged. Patton gave a shy smile. "Hey, Janus."

"Hey," said Janus, smelling strawberries. Then he remembered himself. "By all means, let's just stand here and stare at each other."

He motioned at the couch, but Patton shook his head. "This is okay. I just, um. I wanted to apologize for how long it took me to get back to you."

"That's alright," Janus said slowly, feeling the first subtle pinch of wrongness, that he might be missing something.

"I guess I was just panicking, because it was something I didn't even know I wanted until I had it. And I wanted to do something equally as special for you."

"Uh... huh…" said Janus, Lord of the Lies, Subterfuge Specialist, Master of Mendacity, Captain of— Well, you get it.

"So," said Patton, holding up the envelope and taking a deep breath, "I wrote you this:

Self-Care is yellow

Morality is blue

Poetry is hard

But I like you, too."

Around the corner, Remus stamped his foot. He'd really put way too much effort into this little scheme, hadn't he?

Janus blinked, excavating bits of the truth from the situation. The emerging fossil was starting to look distinctly Remus-shaped, but it was no good to jump to conclusions quite yet. "You like me?" he repeated. His lips tingled.

"I'm sorry I couldn't put it as well as you did." Patton looked down at his feet, blushing like an anime schoolgirl. "But all that stuff you said… I want to be yours, too. And I want you to be mine."

"This is a love confession," Janus said out loud. He'd been caught on the back foot before, but never quite like this. Unsure of what else to do, he borrowed a trick from Roxy Hart and swooned.

"Whoa!" said Patton, catching him in the least-romantic way possible, which is to say he grabbed Janus under the armpits and set him back on his feet like a toddler.

Annoyed, Janus grabbed him by the collar and kissed him. Patton was wearing strawberry lip balm, and a surge of vindication made Janus' heart hammer in his chest. The third-act twist could wait; everything could wait. Reality gave a thrilling shudder and turn as Patton bent at the waist and picked Janus up under the knees. Janus wrapped his arms around Patton's shoulders to keep from toppling backwards but broke the kiss, instead touching their foreheads together. And face-to-face, chest-to-chest, Patton felt the rabbit-fast pounding of Janus' heart.

In the hall, Remus punched the air. 

"I have to tell you something," Janus murmured, unable to keep from imagining his gloves away so he could run his fingers through Patton's hair.

"Oh, yeah?" Patton's grin was distinctly boyish, so unlike the fathering persona he wore around his shoulders like his cardigan.

"No— Really, I have to tell you something. But. I need you to know that this isn't going away."

"This?"

"Us."

"Why would we?" Patton asked, tilting his head. "Is it bad news?"

"I'm afraid you'll have to decide that for yourself." Janus wiggled out of Patton's grip and snapped twice. "Remus!"

Remus slunk in like a guilty dog, pouting up at Janus and Patton and flinching like they might hit him. "Yyyeeees, Janus?" he said in a whine.

"Is there something you'd like to tell us?"

Remus dropped the act. "You know it!" He sauntered over to Patton, displacing Janus, and leaned hard on Patton's shoulder. "Janny-Bananny is really in love with you, y'know. He's been pining like a tree ever since you stood up for him way back when."

"That's totally what I meant," Janus huffed, crossing his arms over his chest and drawing into himself. 

"But…" Patton looked at Remus, then at Janus. "I know. You told me so in that poem."

"Oh, that!" Remus smacked his forehead so hard his head snapped back, feigning forgetfulness. "I wrote that."

"You wrote that?"

"He wrote that," Janus confirmed. "Without my knowledge or permission, I might add."

"But…" Horror dawned on Patton's face. "So I just…"

"Well for Christian's sake, it wasn't like he was going to tell you," Remus snapped.

"Christian?" Janus' eyes widened almost imperceptibly. "Oh my God, Remus, you do know that Christian and Cyrano both die, don't you?"

"Really?" Remus shrugged and bounced on his toes. "Maybe I should actually read Cyrano de Bergerac."

"Oh!" said Patton suddenly, reaching behind Remus so he could hold Janus' hand. "This isn't going away."

"No," said Janus with a sigh of relief. "Yes. Whatever."

"I get it." Patton beamed and then, dropping Janus' hand, wrapped both arms around Remus and bear-hugged him so hard his feet left the floor. "Thank you, Remus."

"Oh my God," said Remus, wriggling fruitlessly like a worm freshly removed from an apple (get it?). "Approval. Ew, ew, ew, get it off, get it off! It burns!"

Patton winked at Janus over Remus' shoulder. Janus smiled back and joined the hug, squeezing Remus from behind. "Yes, thank you, Remus. We owe everything to you." Ignoring Remus' protests, he stood on his toes and kissed Patton again.

Revenge was sweet, but Patton's strawberry lip balm was much, much sweeter. 

[otnesse]

Fully agreed with you there about Woolverton. Her constant bashing of Belle's predecessors (and not just Snow White either, pretty much all of them from Cinderella to Aurora, heck even Ariel since she bashed her as being a clueless girl who married a boy she just met) was just below the pale, especially when half of them were abused by their parents and practically survivors. And yeah, the triplets also got a raw deal as well, even worse in that they never even got ACTUAL inner ugly characteristics beyond crushing on Gaston (which isn't even an actual ugly characteristic anyway, especially when it's left unclear whether they were even AWARE of Gaston's darker nature). Babette got a slightly better treatment insofar as she's at least treated as a good guy for most of the movie (even if she's implied to be sexually loose like Lumiere), unlike the triplets where, similar to Percy the Pug, we're fully expected to boo them as villains despite them not actually DOING anything wrong besides crushing on Gaston. But still, she wasn't really treated all that well all things considered. Funnily enough, however, and maybe it's due to plenty of other franchises and characters (Tifa Lockhart, the various Dead or Alive girls, Barbie, Samus Aran whenever she's not power-suited, Lara Croft, etc., etc.) being closer to their build than Belle's, but I'd argue that, if anything, their beauty actually DOES look that, while Belle's beauty you really can't take seriously at all. And don't get me started on Woolverton's hatchetjob towards Maleficent and Sleeping Beauty (and BTW, here's something to consider: Angelina Jolie apparently was AGAINST making Maleficent a full-on good guy, even had to repeatedly try and dissuade Woolverton from doing so). I've already had to put up with a flaming misandrist professor in college (not to mention three to four radical leftist professors during that time, five or six, tops), and am NOT fond of people of her ilk.

Heck, I wouldn't even say Belle's intelligent at all at this point. I wouldn't even be surprised if she ends up blindly parroting any pretentious individual she finds just because they're deemed "smart". Sort of like Cecile Cosima Caminades from Peace Walker regarding Sartre (bear in mind that this was toned down in the English version. Japanese version? She squealed at the mere mention of Sartre's name by Snake):

And THAT'S the best case scenario. Worst case scenario, especially given the implied setting of the film being the eve of the French Revolution, I suspect she'll end up behaving exactly like Sephiroth did after he stumbled upon those science journals after a trip to Mt. Nibel reactor:

Even have her turn against Adam as well, not to mention go all Khmer Rouge on that village. Let's just say that Gaston may have actually had a point behind his decrying of reading, getting ideas, and thinking after similar stuff occurred during that time in real history. In fact, this is such a big fear of mine that the only reason I'd even RISK associating with Woolverton at all, DESPITE knowing her blatant misandry, is purely to determine whether or not Belle actually WOULD end up becoming a Jacobin or not, hoping she doesn't, but being prepared if Woolverton DOES think she'd become a Jacobin. Let's face it, being well-read doesn't necessarily make you intelligent or immune to mob rule, either instigating it or being swayed by it. Just ask Sarte, since aside from his being a philosophical giant was apparently very literate, and a voracious writer, yet he STILL ended up swayed multiple times to sing praises to people like Mao Zedong or Che Guevara.

And seriously, she's an outcast because she loves books? Ignoring for one second that the fact that the village even has a bookstore at all suggests there's plenty others besides Belle who can read, the setting of the film in real life had France being the highest-literacy nation in the world (in fact, ironically enough, it was PRECISELY their highly literate reputation that caused them to undergo the French Revolution due to Voltaire and his buddies hijacking the French Academy to push their anti-Christian screeds). If anything, had it been real history, the villagers would treat Belle like a god due to her literacy (and that's IF her literacy was as advanced as the story claims. The fact that she only seems to read fairy tales in the original movie indicates she's average level at best, if even that. Aurora had more hints at actually BEING an advanced-level reader by being literate during the 15th century).

And don't get me started on the misandry displayed in Maleficent and even Beauty and the Beast (I mean, sure, BATB's misandry wasn't quite as blatant as in Maleficent where ALL the males, even Diavolo, were depicted as either "evil", useless, or in the case of Diavolo, a chew toy for Maleficent to abuse. But it definitely was still apparent when most of the guys were depicted mostly in a similar bad manner. Gaston's pretty obvious, but even the good characters, including Beast, weren't treated well at all.). All Woolverton's handiwork. On that note, I couldn't help but notice she conveniently doesn't have the enchantress reappear at all in the film, effectively getting away with cursing a child and his servants just because he effectively practiced stranger danger, sort of like how Maleficent was treated as good and justified despite cursing a newborn baby just because her ex removed her wings. Instead of using the Enchantress as the villain, which would have been the more logical decision to make, we got a gender studies archetype instead.

Can I ask your take on Linda Wolverton ? I saw this old post and it kinda rubbed me the wrong way. I think there's nothing wrong with preferring reading to baking, especially since back then there wasn't any Disney heroine whose hobby was books yet, but it felt like a jab at Snow White to meet, am I wrong?

https://at.tumblr(dot)com/princessposie/pinkballerinas-belle-books-belle-is-not/20j6l8e6ppry

I'm just going to be blunt- I don't like Linda Wolverton at all and I think she ultimately is a misogynist and you can kind of see that in her writing. The way she took one of the most beautiful and perfect matriarchies, as seen in the original Sleeping Beauty, and distorted it to say true love doesn't exist and the person who will save you will be the one who cursed you and just ruin gender relations and make men entirely inept and making all women but the ones "misunderstood" by society (but are actually evil...like, honestly, who curses a baby on account of the father being their ex???) to be useless idiots. I...I honestly think she's a misandrist who thinks she's intellectually superior to others and you can see that in how she wrote Beauty and the Beast. Belle is the only character allowed to be attractive, but if you're also attractive like Babette and the Bimbettes, you need to oversexualized to the point where no one will ever take you seriously. Ugh I have so much more to say on her, but I'll refrain lol OP is a good blog though and I think that anecdote was about how Linda wanted to keep her work the way she intended it, but Linda does take a potshot at Snow White whenever she can and she just has really problematic views on women and other people and I sincerely hope she can work some of them out when she's not being adored by endless crowds of fans that think she's the greatest thing since sliced bread because she put Alice in Wonderland in pants in the live action

[bybloemencomic]

I’m reworking the cast page, and wrote up some new character descriptions. Figure I’d post it here as well!

Basil: An experienced field agent of The Adversary. Something of a behavioral economist, he’s made a career out of tempting people off the straight and narrow path by dangling the right incentives just out of reach. He’s spent enough time on the surface to adapt to and even grow fond of it, so much so that he’s desperately trying to dodge a promotion attached to a desk in the Third Circle. At this stage in his career, he feels most at home working undercover in the guise of an affable old man. Maybe too at home. His familiar thinks a long vacation would set him right but tempting comes with more moral hazards than benefits.

Ludwig: Basil’s apprentice. An exceedingly clever and talented young demon whose lofty ambitions are constrained by his limited understanding of human society and poorly tailored glamour. He’s desperate to complete his training and earn his wings (so to speak), and his unbridled enthusiasm is a constant source of concern for his mentor. As this enthusiasm often takes the form of public displays of moral philosophizing and/or light necromancy, these concerns may have merit. In his short time on the surface, he’s gained an appreciation for poultry and religious propaganda that seems to portend trouble.

Gertrude: A young merchant. An aspiring florist who spent months watching auctions on the sidelines before a pair of angel investors provided her with the means to participate. Her principles and aspirations are often at odds with one another, and she sometimes finds herself struggling with the responsibility attached to the opportunity she’s been given. She’s worried about letting her family and new business partners down, even if said business partners seem surprisingly comfortable letting her gamble a fortune. She is, despite all indications to the contrary, more of a cat-person than a dog-person.

Oskar: Gertrude’s husband malewife. The inheritor of a small family business, he’s relentlessly friendly and good natured but leaves the management of the accounts and strategic planning to his wife. He’s very supportive of her interest in floristry, even if he can’t tell an admiral from an admirael.

Joop and Jutte: A pair of potion sellers. Inventors of “Dr. Jutte’s Miracle Medicament”, what they lack in accreditation they make up for with entrepreneurial spirit. One of them is wanted for an unspecified series of crimes and the other was kicked in the head by a horse. Both were involved in hand crafting their latest miracle elixir, their most successful venture to date. In the process, they unwittingly made a deal with an actual devil, but his assistance has been less than forthcoming.

Ingrid and Agnes: Full time Calvinists, part time small-press publishers. Purveyors of Stenenbrugs finest, free religious tracts (and also the occasional sermon, also free). They’re particularly excited about their newest tract, “The Beast”. An enterprising young gentleman has even offered to distribute it on their behalf.

Geert: A former farmer. Now a failed florist, and a new believer in the existence of witchcraft. Having squandered his opportunity to make a fortune, he’s highly suggestible and looking for a new direction in life.

Katerina van Haupt: An extremely successful merchant. Deals in exports, with a thriving international business. She can always be found with a small retinue in tow, which until recently included a poorly behaved pug. Her last partner disappeared under strange circumstances, but she’s consoled herself by turning her attention (and vast resources) toward the tulip trade.

Pieper: Katerina’s former lap warmer. A fallen pug of great ambitions. He views himself more as a disgraced courtier than a discarded pet and was willing to make an infernal pact to find a suitable new residence. Dogs and devils usually don’t get along, but Pieper’s view of the latter is evolving after adopting one of his own.  

Crumb: Basil’s familiar. A corvid of indeterminate age who volunteered herself into service after a fateful encounter with an emissary of The Adversary. At one point a raven, she keeps running into her many distant relatives on the job. She adores, in no particular order: bread, Basil, pranks, and small, colorful objects. She’s not so fond of the other familiar, or the dog for that matter.

Frederick: Ludwig’s familiar. A bad-tempered rooster, perfectly suited to infernal service and happy to trade human souls for kernels of corn. He thinks well of his master, and is willing to overlook his bratty behavior. He thinks a bit less of his master’s master, and very little of Crumb.

[ubu507]

philosopher pug

[queenofbaws]

Obviously you'll get to this when you get to it, but here's to an official year of (starve) sundays! A year of traumatized and grief-stricken parents while their own horribly transformed children hunt them down for food 🎉 🎉 🎉 And to celebrate this momentous occasion, this is absolutely the part where the ever immortal and invincible Charlie Brown makes his appearance to save the day! Right? ...right?

And it was at that very moment, as a whirl of wind came shrieking down the mountain, sounding like a beast of its own sort, that the fifth member of their sortie appeared in the doorway of the cable car station, having finally been able to navigate his way out of the car and through the station while wearing his maddeningly unpleasant dog booties.

At the sudden (’sudden’ in a philosophical sense, maybe, but certainly not literal) movement, the five things snapped their nightmarish heads in his direction, their attention torn from their sad, slouching postures of fear to instead focus in on the real threat: Charles Pugsley Brown, the world’s most fearsome (and debatably pudgiest) pug.

Moving with the speed of a wounded woodchuck, Charlie kick-stepped his way over to them, each step into the snow accompanied by a shake of his bootied paw, and lo the monsters in the ice shrank away as if goaded by flame. They recoiled, screaming, shielding themselves from his wall-eyed gaze, springing backwards on their awkward joints to put as much space between themselves and the fearsome beast as possible. Perhaps it was the fury in his eyes, or the decisive stomp of his little paws, or maybe it was just the imposing figure he cut while wearing his chunky-knit Christmas sweater, but either way, there was a flash, a blink, and the monsters had retreated into the pines of Blackwood, ne’er to be seen again.

Charlie was lifted into the air by the four appreciative parents, who, still sad at the loss of their children, found at least a momentary surge of joy and relief at knowing their lives had been saved - as he was lifted into the grey winter sky, Charlie’s tongue lolled out of his mouth in pride, in elation, in glee, and then as though to seal the deal, he let out a single victorious fart.

six sentence sat(or)sunday!!!

[adonischildsupportcase]

We all know damn well all my jingles are either coming monthly from vintage Anita Baker era auntie retirement checks, bootleg pug breeding, uploading philosophical crackhead discussions that end in arguments over stolen crack to tiktok

Called that goblin @adonischildsupportcase to check on his finances with these banks fuckin up

He goin through it yall…

[anniekoh]

Really enjoying this book on pit bulls and its exploration of race, class and social meanings of dogs. The examples of media-fueled panics (spitzes aka pomeranians are rabies vectors!) are also useful for teaching purposes.

37: Fears about “demon dogs” have cycled through Anglophone culture for hundreds of years, but none has endured as long as the controversy over pit bulls, which is now entering its fifth decade. Nor has any been fed by as much bad science, media sensationalism, political brinkmanship, moral panic, racial venom, or class prejudice.

I like how the author starts with the adoption of their own dog, and the chance encounter with the director of what is now called Beyond Fences that seeks to address the “’reverse Robin Hood’ mentality in the traditional animal welfare movement that disparaged those who could not spend a great deal of money on their animals. Several of the Coalition’s clients reported having their companions stolen by well-meaning rescuers who did not realize how much the dogs’ owners depended on them for emotional support.

26-28: A month or so after Sean and I adopted Nola, I met a woman named Lori Hensley. We were standing in line at a local theater making casual conversation when she mentioned that she directed a local nonprofit called the Coalition to Unchain Dogs. The goal of the organization, she said, was to invert the normal paradigm of animal welfare. Instead of removing dogs from “bad” homes and placing them with “better” families, the group worked to improve the dogs’ lives in the homes they already had, thus preventing them from entering the overburdened shelter system in the first place. This was done by providing the dogs’ owners with basic veterinary care, spay/neuter surgeries, doghouses, and fenced play areas for their pets, all free of charge.

...

31: On one of our Saturday afternoon outings, Lori told me something that I have never forgotten. She said, “As long as there are different classes of people, there will be different classes of dogs.” And the more I learned about pit bulls, the more it seemed that the dogs and their people had been pushed outside what the philosopher and ethicist Peter Singer calls “the expanding circle” of compassion. If you looked a certain way and came from a certain neighborhood, your dog was assumed to be a pit bull (or, at the very least, a “pit mix”), and your relationship to it was assumed to be motivated by greed or machismo. “Pit bull” no longer felt like a physical description to me. It felt like a social caste. To date, “pit bulls” have been either banned or heavily regulated in more than 850 U.S. communities, including the cities of Miami and Denver, as well as in the Canadian province of Ontario and the entire United Kingdom, among other places. Many public-housing projects, apartment complexes, and homeowners’ associations refuse to allow pit bulls to reside on the premises.

... According to [PETA] the organization’s founder, Ingrid Newkirk, the dogs are kept only by “drug dealers” and “pimps.”

Pit Bull: The Battle Over an American Icon by Bronwen Dickey (2016)

The hugely illuminating story of how a popular breed of dog became the most demonized and supposedly the most dangerous of dogs—and what role humans have played in the transformation.   When Bronwen Dickey brought her new dog home, she saw no traces of the infamous viciousness in her affectionate, timid pit bull. Which made her wonder: How had the breed—beloved by Teddy Roosevelt, Helen Keller, and Hollywood’s “Little Rascals”—come to be known as a brutal fighter? Her search for answers takes her from nineteenth-century New York City dogfighting pits—the cruelty of which drew the attention of the recently formed ASPCA—to early twentieth‑century movie sets, where pit bulls cavorted with Fatty Arbuckle and Buster Keaton; from the battlefields of Gettysburg and the Marne, where pit bulls earned presidential recognition, to desolate urban neighborhoods where the dogs were loved, prized—and sometimes brutalized. Whether through love or fear, hatred or devotion, humans are bound to the history of the pit bull. With unfailing thoughtfulness, compassion, and a firm grasp of scientific fact, Dickey offers us a clear-eyed portrait of this extraordinary breed, and an insightful view of Americans’ relationship with their dogs.

The Animal Estate: The English and Other Creatures in Victorian England by Harriet Ritvo (1989)

When we think about the Victorian age, we usually envision people together with animals: the Queen and her pugs, the sportsman with horses and hounds, the big game hunter with his wild kill, the gentleman farmer with a prize bull. Harriet Ritvo here gives us a vivid picture of how animals figured in English thinking during the nineteenth century and, by extension, how they served as metaphors for human psychological needs and sociopolitical aspirations. Victorian England was a period of burgeoning scientific cattle breeding and newly fashionable dog shows; an age of Empire and big game hunting; an era of reform and reformers that saw the birth of the Royal SPCA. Ritvo examines Victorian thinking about animals in the context of other lines of thought: evolution, class structure, popular science and natural history, imperial domination. The papers and publications of people and organizations concerned with agricultural breeding, veterinary medicine, the world of pets, vivisection and other humane causes, zoos, hunting at home and abroad, all reveal underlying assumptions and deeply held convictions--for example, about Britain's imperial enterprise, social discipline, and the hierarchy of orders, in nature and in human society.

[donutcryforme]

Elizabeth “Lizzie” McKean

The Swan Song

The saddest truth is realising you have fallen madly in love with what can never be. 

Flexible: may change depending on verse

Female | “Straight” | FC: Lisa Teige

+ Empathetic, Generous, Intuitive, Kind, Loyal, Sociable

- Clumsy, Conflict-Averse, Procrastinating, Resentful, Unorganized, Withdrawn

MBTI: INFP (”The Mediator”)

Moral Alignment: Lawful Good (”The Crusader”)

Typical Age Range: 18-22

Example Occupations: Publicist, Writer, Student

Likes: lightning storms, camping, hiking, jelly doughnuts, her pet corn snake Baby, thai food, birds, climbing the giant rocks in Central Park, 60s classic rock (Hall & Oates, the Beatles, Simon & Garfunkel), anything deep fried, Meg Ryan movies, reading a good historical fiction novel in Bryant Park, the Mets (or any other underdog), philosophical or theoretical conversations (”What do you think happens when we die?”)

Dislikes: when others’ luck or talent outshines someone’s (her) work ethic, humidity, bullies, obnoxious know-it-alls, horror movies

Daughter to Kathleen and Grant McKean, the latter an Oscar-nominated director.

Cousin to critically-acclaimed actress Annona Bright, who was born a year after her. Annona is the daughter of indie director Linda McKean-Bright and washed-up actor Sam Bright.

Early Years: Their parents thought having girls a year apart would make them the best of friends--and perhaps, at first, they were right. But slowly, playground memories and swing set promises faded as Annona got more involved in her work.

At first, Lizzie didn't really mind being looked over for the spotlight. She'd never been a person for center stage, and suffered from awful stage fright, even in groups. She had been born with two left feet, and even though her mother tried everything--from ballet and tap, to hip hop and jazz--it just never seemed to stick. Even if she memorized the moves, put her limbs in the right places, she seemed to lack that stage presence, the star quality that differentiated a graceful dancer from a fumbling quarterback. If Annona was a silky black cat, Lizzie was an ugly, wrinkly pug, with eyes too big for its head and noisy breathing problems.

Athlete: At the age of five, she joined her first softball team. She blossomed in the social aspect of it, the camaraderie and teamwork. She was pretty personable and got along well with the other kids, but her mother scowled at the everpresent grass stains on her jeans and dirt smudged on her cheeks. When she entered second grade, Lizzie's mom enrolled her in a tumbling class. Lizzie liked this, too, even if it was a little lonely--more competitive and less team-oriented than softball. Still, gymnastics grew into something that she was able to stick the landing to. She liked being able to get out her aggression on the parallel bars, to sink into the pool of cubed foam at the bottom when her arms couldn't take the strain anymore. It was also something she was pretty good at. But over time, it grew to be too much.

Teens: By the time she reached eighth grade, she was practicing five days a week, four hours a day, and all other areas of her life suffered. Weekends were all about schoolwork, catching up on missed assignments she’d been too exhausted to handle during the week. She had no time for friends--not that she had time to make any to begin with. Her mother, surely, didn't mind--her husband had fully buried himself in his work, gone for 14+ hours a day, six--sometimes seven--days a week. This was the thing Kathleen could delve into. But it became too much for Lizzie, became her identity as much as directing had become her dad's, and she realized she didn't want this to be her personality. She never liked having all eyes on her when she was on the beam. The spotlight was too bright. It was getting harder to swallow back the fear of missing out: the birthday parties, the (lack of) family vacations, the first kisses, the best-friendships. The everything.

Before she entered high school, she told her mother she wanted to quit. The stress of having to balance schoolwork and gymnastics, the lack of time to do anything else, was becoming too much--not to mention the injuries were becoming more frequent, a sprained ankle or wrist here and there turned into something being fractured more often than not. What could she have done with all that time spent just trying to master a double back handspring? What else was there to life? Her mother grieved, both the loss of a community of parents she had come to know, the success of her daughter, and the hobby to focus on. Their relationship never really went back to how it was after that, and despite all of the free time to make new friends, Lizzie never felt more alone.

Invisible: A shadow in faded light, Lizzie felt invisible. In gymnastics, her mother would always brag about her, was always there to applaud when she landed that full twist or perfected that tsuk. But now, it was like she didn’t exist. Not that her mother was mad at her--not that she kept a petty grudge (or did she?)--but she realized gymnastics had been as much of her mother’s hobby as it was hers. Without that shared thread, they had nothing in common. Her dad was still gone all the time, and when he was home between filmings, he was usually working on a passion project. It wasn’t unusual for him to brag about Annona at dinner, much like her mother used to do about her. Had she made a mistake, giving up gymnastics? Her mother reminded her it wasn’t too late to go back, but it was. The giant calluses on her palms were finally beginning to heal. She was getting used to a life without some kind of brace on her leg. Once she stopped that momentum, the thought of going back was simply too exhausting. 

A New Quest: With a life of an athlete behind her, she is now trying to find herself, without the security blanket of gymnastics to create a mold. Who is she? She still isn’t sure, but she’s going to find out.

Starters | Threads | Texts | Musings | Mirror

[nellygwyn]

Fanny could read, work, and write, but she had been taught nothing more; and as her cousins found her ignorant of many things with which they had been long familiar, they thought her prodigiously stupid, and for the first two or three weeks were continually bringing some fresh report of it into the drawing-room. “Dear mama, only think, my cousin cannot put the map of Europe together—or my cousin cannot tell the principal rivers in Russia—or, she never heard of Asia Minor—or she does not know the difference between water-colours and crayons!—How strange!—Did you ever hear anything so stupid?” “My dear,” their considerate aunt would reply, “it is very bad, but you must not expect everybody to be as forward and quick at learning as yourself.” “But, aunt, she is really so very ignorant!—Do you know, we asked her last night which way she would go to get to Ireland; and she said, she should cross to the Isle of Wight. She thinks of nothing but the Isle of Wight, and she calls it 'the Island', as if there were no other island in the world. I am sure I should have been ashamed of myself, if I had not known better long before I was so old as she is. I cannot remember the time when I did not know a great deal that she has not the least notion of yet. How long ago it is, aunt, since we used to repeat the chronological order of the kings of England, with the dates of their accession, and most of the principal events of their reigns!” “Yes,” added the other; “and of the Roman emperors as low as Severus; besides a great deal of the heathen mythology, and all the metals, semi-metals, planets, and distinguished philosophers.” “Very true indeed, my dears, but you are blessed with wonderful memories, and your poor cousin has probably none at all. There is a vast deal of difference in memories, as well as in everything else, and therefore you must make allowance for your cousin, and pity her deficiency. And remember that, if you are ever so forward and clever yourselves, you should always be modest; for, much as you know already, there is a great deal more for you to learn.” “Yes, I know there is, till I am seventeen. But I must tell you another thing of Fanny, so odd and so stupid. Do you know, she says she does not want to learn either music or drawing.” “To be sure, my dear, that is very stupid indeed, and shows a great want of genius and emulation. But, all things considered, I do not know whether it is not as well that it should be so, for, though you know (owing to me) your papa and mama are so good as to bring her up with you, it is not at all necessary that she should be as accomplished as you are;—on the contrary, it is much more desirable that there should be a difference.” Such were the counsels by which Mrs. Norris assisted to form her nieces' minds; and it is not very wonderful that, with all their promising talents and early information, they should be entirely deficient in the less common acquirements of self-knowledge, generosity and humility. In everything but disposition they were admirably taught. Sir Thomas did not know what was wanting, because, though a truly anxious father, he was not outwardly affectionate, and the reserve of his manner repressed all the flow of their spirits before him.

To the education of her daughters Lady Bertram paid not the smallest attention. She had not time for such cares. She was a woman who spent her days in sitting, nicely dressed, on a sofa, doing some long piece of needlework, of little use and no beauty, thinking more of her pug than her children, but very indulgent to the latter when it did not put herself to inconvenience, guided in everything important by Sir Thomas, and in smaller concerns by her sister. Had she possessed greater leisure for the service of her girls, she would probably have supposed it unnecessary, for they were under the care of a governess, with proper masters, and could want nothing more. As for Fanny's being stupid at learning, “she could only say it was very unlucky, but some people were stupid, and Fanny must take more pains: she did not know what else was to be done; and, except her being so dull, she must add she saw no harm in the poor little thing, and always found her very handy and quick in carrying messages, and fetching what she wanted.”

~ Mansfield Park, Chapter 2 // Jane Austen

[lula-and-ellie]

Some people have better views than others