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everyhowlmarksthedead · 4 years ago

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KEEPING UP WITH THE ARIZAS

Michael “Riz” Ariza x Reader

Chapter 7: “What the fuck is a ‘Swole Boy’?”

Word Count: 1.2k

Author comments: This work wasn't re-edited, so I'm sorry if you find grammar mistakes! I hope you all enjoy. Gif credits to: @angels-reyes.

Tag list: @starrynite7114 @chibsytelford @dazzledamazon @mara-mpou @sammskellington @gemini0410 @1-800-imagines @briana-mishell24 @sassymox @whyisgmora @aquamento @sadeyesgf @viviansafizada @samcrobae @jade770 @witchy-wish @rebel-without-cause-x @xx--day-dreamer--xx @spiced-reads @tita127 @ifoundmyhappythought @enamouravecleslivresetlechocolat @angelxshiba ✨ (if you wanna be tagged, send me a message!)

“My favorite girl! Wha' can I do for you, bonita?”

Packer's voice sounds happy and excited because of your call, making you smile at the other side of the phone.

“Just a courtesy call”.

“Are you comen' to SanBer'? You don' need a courtese' call, sweetheart!”

“You know, just in case. I have… some business to take care of”.

“You need help?”

“No, no. Don' worry! I'll see you after tha'”.

“For sure, kid. When you comen'”?

“I'm already on my way. Maybe two hours from there”.

“Bike or car?”

“Black Hummer SUV, need the numbers?”

“No, just curious. See you in a while then”.

“See you, prez!”

(five hours before)

If someone turned on a hundred motorbikes around Riz's one, you could recognize your husband's one easily, without looking. So when you heard the roar of the crew coming back to the clubhouse, but not the big black one, your heart quickened. Jumping out of the sofa, you ran outside to the porch worried as fuck and your legs trembling. You didn't see it, but finding Michael inside the green truck. When the men parked their motorcycles, you continued the fast steps to it, seeing how Riz stepped out limping slightly.

“Rey, are you ok?!” You shouted disquiet holding one of his arm above your shoulders, trying to help him.

“Yeah, don' worry, mi amor. I just… fell off my bike”.

“How?”

“Because of a charter called ‘Swole Boys’”. Creeper said with a singing voice, provoking the crew's laughters.

“What the fuck is a ‘Swole Boy’, ah?” You frowned with anger, holding closer your husband to go upstairs inside the clubhouse.

The guys couldn't stop laughing, confusing you a little more, while Riz kissed your temple with a smile on his lips. They explained you that Angel and EZ made some noise on their way to northern Cali, and the payback went for the crew. Apparently, one of them pushed Michael out of the road and his bike got some scratches and breaks, but nothing that they couldn't repair.

While your Mayan was taking a shower on his dorm there, you prepared him some clean clothes and a big cold gel pad to his ankle, waiting him sitting on the bed. They wanted payback? You were going to give them one they wouldn't forget.

“Cariño, estoy bien”. (Honey, I'm okay) Riz's calmed voice brought you back to reality.

Shaking your head, you focused on watching him get dressed pouting at him not very convinced. When he was ready, lying on the bed, you helped him placing the cold pad above his skin and taking it off every one minute for some seconds.

“Did you call Packer?”

“Yeah, we already fixed it as our way”.

You didn't ask anything else, trying to calm yourself while you were healing him somehow. Your husband were leaving some caresses on your head, slowly, gently, after grabbing your chin with two fingers to make you turn at him.

“You're gonna be a good girl, aren't you?”

“I don't know what 'you talking 'bout”. You lie, shaking your head with raised eyebrows.

“Mi amor…”

“Ah, ah. Nope”. You continue lying, bowing over him to press your lips with his, placing a hand on his neck.

“Promise me”.

“Promise you what, mi rey?”

“Don't play the innocent with me. I know you better than anyone”.

“And still you married me…”

Northern Cali isn't much fresh than the desert, but the air that enters by the window it's more pleasant than Santo Padre's. With an elbow nailed on the door and your cheek supported over your palm, you guide the steering wheel with the right, being close to your destiny. You know exactly what you're going to do, going over the plan when sideways you find the screen of the phone flashing with Bishop's name in it. You don't answer, checking seconds before the number of notifications in the lock screen. You're fucked, but you can't simply sit and not do anything.

Reach the gym doesn't take you more than ten minutes, speeding up and loudly rattling the wheels at the entrance. You don't care about the artificially muscular men standing close to the ramp down of the building, confused staring at your car. And you speed up a little more, running over the row conformed by motorbikes. The alarms sound flood the fenced yard, when you hit them feeling a gentle tug on the seat belt, reversing the big SUV before stepping out of it with a gun in your left hand. You're more satisfied than ever.

“What the fuck is wrong with y—?” A man with blonde long hair and hoarse voice doesn't finish the question when he focus on you, taking off the barrel lock.

“I'm gonna show you some mexican manners, puto pendejo”.

You're erratic and excited, with pure adrenaline running through your veins, walking close to the motorcycles and shooting the wheels you find in your field of vision. The whistle of every bullet is like a sweet melody for your ears, enchanting your brain. But when you're at the highest point of fun, the roar of a lot of engines interrupts your revenge.

“Saved by the bell”.

Narrowing your eyes and glaring at them, you keep the gun under your jacket, turning on your sneakers at the exact moment that Packer appears being followed by his men, and the Mayans. You weren't expecting your family, at least, not this soon. Crossing your arms behind your back, you take three steps somewhat closer of the riders. The San Bernardino's president is trying to hide how funny the situation seems to him, while your father is almost running towards you really furious.

“What the hell are you doing, chamaca?” He shouts at you, facing each other and grabbing you by an arm.

“Wha'? I just wanna get fit”. You say with pursed lips, shrugging your shoulders.

“Baby, are you serious?” Riz makes you turn your attention at him.

“Who's that chick?” The tall man and blond hair walks closer with some bad intentions. But you're fast.

Taking again the gun under your jacket, freeing yourself from Taza, you point at him with both eyebrows raised up. His steps don't continue, stopping dead, lifting his hands above his head.

“I'm an angry wife, mothafucka'. I don' give a shit about your… muscles, your bikes, nor your fuckin' jackets. Ain't gonna let you push my husband out of the road without showing you what happens after tha'”. You shoot another bullet to the ground, next to his feet. “Tell him you're sorre'”.

“Wh—What?”

“(Y/N), stop”. Bishop, who was a mere spectator, speaks. “We don' need a war”.

“How it supposed they're gonna give you a war? What are they gonna do? Throwing you steroids and protein powders?”

“Please”. He asks you, hearing some low laughs from your charter.

“Shut the fuck up, Obispo, this is not your business”. Clicking your tongue, you do a rotary move with your hand. “Say it”.

“I am… I am… sorry”.

“‘Riz’”.

“I am sorry, Riz”.

“See? It wasn' that hard!” You smirk shrugging, giving the gun to your father, before walking some steps closer to the one who you identificate like the president. “Next time… People will call you ‘Sol Boys’, you know why?” (‘Sun Boys’)

No. He doesn't want to know why.

“'Cause I'm gonna fuckin' set you on fire”. And you're talking serious shit. No one mess with the Arizas.

#mayans mc x reader #mayans mc #mayans mc imagine #mayans x reader #michael riz ariza x reader #riz ariza x reader #riz ariza #michael riz ariza #keeping up with the arizas

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notwithd · 4 years ago

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A whole new world of music

(So, all this started because of this piece of art i made, i couldn't stop myself i just love Cellist Cas so much. so here it is this fanfic i wrote hope you enjoy it.)

Damn Sam and his stupid puppy eyes, and damn Ruby for dumping him on this exact day. Sam had planned the perfect date night; he had flowers and tickets to a concert at the city.

Dean was ready to spend the night watching Dr. Sexy and eating tons of pizza when Sam came back not even fifteen minutes later, head down and bouquet still in hand. He looked so miserable Dean couldn't take it.

"Ok, let's go," Dean grunts, getting up from the couch.

"What? To where?" Sam looks tired and confused, as he drops the flowers on the table.

"Dude, you spent like fifty bucks on those tickets! We are not letting them go to waste! I'm going with you," Dean replies.

That's why Dean is now at a fancy theatre, waiting to go into the concert hall. A girl in a tailored suit comes to them and asks Sam to show her their tickets. She then takes them into the hall and to their seats. “A friggin balcony,” Dean thinks as they take their seats that are close to the stage.

Dean looks at the crowd around him and based on first impressions, he assumes that all these people are music snobs. Every person is wearing their best garments and talking excitedly, causing Dean to feel weird and out of place. Dean is grateful that Sam insisted he dress up.

"At least put on clean pants and a decent shirt, Dean," Sam had said.

Feeling a bit insecure, Dean decides to go to the restroom to check on himself and make sure he looks presentable enough.

"I'm ok," he thinks moments later when he's inspecting his reflection. The green dress shirt he chose brings out his eyes and his hair is well combed and soft looking. "Yep, I could be wearing a damn potato sack and would still look hot as fuck," he says to himself.

Suddenly, the restroom door flies open and someone runs into a stall. Dean needs to get away because that's a sign that somebody is about to puke, and he doesn't want to be there. There's no chance for Dean to escape because the man comes out almost immediately and goes to the sink, his face a pale shade of green.

"Are you ok man?" Dean asks worried.

The man jumps, obviously startled. Apparently, he hadn't even noticed Dean in his hurry. "I'm good; I thought I was going to be sick, but it was a false alarm," he replies with a Russian accent.

The guy is extremely handsome: blue eyes, dark hair, pretty lips. He’sexactly Dean's type. He's wearing an ugly tan trench coat over a very elegant navy-blue suit. The man looks like he’s about to faint as he removes the trench coat, letting a strong muscular body show, and stares at his own face in the mirror.

"I'm about to go on stage in a few minutes. I'm just feeling pretty nervous," he tells Dean.

"Is it your first time?" Dean asks just to make conversation; he's definitely getting this guy's number.

The man shakes his head as he replies, "No, I've done this so many times, but it's always the same."

Dean feels sorry for the musician and tries to offer words of comfort. "I'm sure you'll do just fine. It’s my first time coming to this kind of concert and listening to this kind of music, if it makes you feel any better. I’m freaking out about how I look since everyone is dressed so fancy."

The guy smiles and finally looks at Dean, "Thank you; I'm sure you will love it."

They look at each other for a moment. Dean wonders if this is a good moment to make a move, but the guy jumps suddenly. "Oh fuck! I have to go." He runs to the door, but right before leaving, he turns back and says, "You look pretty good to me, since you said you were worried about it." He winks before rushing out the door.

When Dean gets back to the hall, he’s smiling like an idiot. There are at least fifty musicians getting ready on stage already. Each one of them is in their own world as they quickly check their music sheets or tune their instruments. The handsome restroom guy is nowhere to be seen.

Then Dean looks up and sees the mural painted on the roof. It is a blue sky with fluffy clouds and angels flying in between them. Some of the cherubs are playing instruments; others are just looking down with curiosity. Dean stares at the mural until Sam distracts him by handing him a program.

Dean takes it and reads:

Cello concerto in E minor. Edward Elgar

1. Adagio – Moderato

2. Lento – Allegro molto

3. Adagio

4. Allegro – Moderato – Allegro, ma non-troppo – Poco più lento – Adagio

Dean doesn't know what any of this means, but Sam seems very excited about it, so it must be good. He just hopes to not fall asleep in the middle of it or Sam is going to kill him.

Suddenly, the lights dim and the concert hall goes silent. Every musician is sitting at attention and ready to play. The director comes onto the stage and is received with applause. Dean claps a little bit and quickly looks at the program again.

“Guest director: Baltazar Vaughan,” the program reads. Dean glances at a picture of the guy and thinks he looks British and snooty.

Dean reads the next line, “Guest cellist: Castiel Novack.”

The name is followed by details of Castiel’s musical trajectory and career. There’s probably a picture on the next page, but Dean doesn't have time to read.

He looks up just as the director makes a sign with the baton and all the musicians play the same note until they sound like a single instrument. Once the orchestra is tuned, the director makes a welcoming gesture to the side of the stage and that's when Castiel Novak makes his entrance.

Dean’s eyes widen in shock as he realizes Castiel is the guy from the bathroom! He still looks a tad nervous as he thanks his welcoming applause with a little bow and a hand to the heart. Dean claps harder and Castiel looks directly at him for a second, recognition in his bright blue eyes. Castiel is breathtaking and Dean is sure he's blushing.

Castiel shakes the director’s hand and then goes to the only chair that's still empty, the one in the middle of the stage. As Castiel takes his seat, he maneuvers his large instrument into place, stroking it with love and care. The dim lights brighten and focus on Castiel, illuminating his perfect face as he takes a deep breath. He is poised and prepared to begin, and Dean has never seen a more angelic beauty.

Without warning, the bow slashes the air and Castiel starts playing strong notes. His expression is one of defiance, like he is a rebel that decided to start before the director was ready. That's clearly not the case as the director is expectant and gives the cue to the rest of the orchestra moments later. They join Castiel quietly, raising the intensity little by little as the cellist plays a low dark note that reverberates everywhere.

Dean shivers with emotion as he feels the music vibrate through his body. The mood is now sweeter but sad. Castiel stares at the roof as if he were in mid prayer, not even looking as his hand moves up and down the fingerboard. The notes produced are beautiful, and Castiel makes it seem effortless.

The music intensifies as Castiel plays a descending scale with a dramatic vibrato. The orchestra then erupts with a fortissimo which quickly dies down, so Castiel can play his desperation, slowly lowering his own sound until he goes quiet.

At this point, Dean realizes he's on the tip of his seat, leaning over the balustrade. His cheeks are on fire as Cas looks directly at him again, changing the position of his right hand to play some chords in pizzicato. Dean stares at the musician as he caresses the strings in a way that is almost romantic, and Dean feels his heart beating fast.

The rhythm becomes faster as Castiel’s blue eyes finally leave Dean’s. He gets more and more excited as his fingers move rapidly and his bow slashes the air. He wears a smug expression as if he is having a battle with the music and he is winning.

This part of the concert speeds by and soon Castiel is playing with eyes closed, biting his lip, very clearly enjoying himself. His face is red and sweaty; his previously neat black hair is now all over the place. Castiel’s the hottest damn thing Dean’s ever seen and Dean knows he’s going to die before the concert is over.

As soon as it started it finished. Now Cas has gone quiet again, the seconds without sound feel like the aftermath of war. Then Cas starts to play a melody so sad and beautiful it is painful.

The mood in the hall has changed dramatically; the orchestra dies down to pianissimo as Castiel plays what sounds like a lamentation. The bow glides smoothly, and sweet notes float through the air as the orchestra plays louder, adding drama to the soft melody.

Cas is sorrowful as he plays a high note that is both quiet and full of misery. He looks as if he's about to cry, blue eyes shining with unshed tears.

"No, no please don't cry." Dean can't stop thinking. "Angels are not supposed to fall."

Dean hears a sniffle beside him and finds Sam wiping tears with his sleeve. “Don’t say a word,” Sam mutters.

The final notes Cas plays have a trembling vibrato, as if he's about to give up. He goes quiet, head down as the echo of the last note resonates through Dean.

This silence is longer, and for a few seconds Dean thinks it is over. He wonders why nobody is clapping for this awesome performance because Cas deserves a standing ovation. "Psst, Sammy why is no one clapping?"

"Shhhh, you're not supposed to clap between movements." Sam whispers harshly.

Movements? Dean is about to check his program again when Castiel raises his head and takes a deep breath. He's not giving up, and the fight starts again.

This time Cas is fearless as he plays intricate passages full of emotion. He breaths with every phrase, and every change is accentuated by the orchestra.

Dean feels like he's watching a real angel, all greatness and elegance, but also noble and good. When the tempo slows for a little bit Castiel looks directly at Dean again. Ocean blue collides with forest green and the two men share a secret smile.

Finally, the orchestra breaks into fortissimo as Cas finishes the piece with a couple strokes and a strong victorious note.

The theatre bursts into a standing ovation, Castiel's smile is bright as he thanks everyone with a reverence. Dean is standing, clapping hard and whistling every so often. He thinks Cas’ smile is the most beautiful he's ever seen. Cas looks his way and does a little bow with a hand over his heart, like he's thanking him specifically!

"Sammy, I think I'm in love," Dean says as his heart rate kicks into overdrive.

Sam is not listening to his brother’s love declaration; he turns to Dean and hugs him hard. "Thanks for coming with me; I can't believe I almost missed this."

"I know! it was awesome!" Dean exclaims.

When he looks back to the stage, Cas is gone, and even though the ovation is extended, he doesn't come back.

Later that night, Sam and Dean are walking back to the Impala since Dean doesn't believe in valet parking. So, his baby is parked more than two blocks from the theater.

He's thinking about Cas, and how he won't see the man again. As they round the first block, they find Cas near a crappy Lincoln Continental. He's wearing his tan trench coat again, and he's putting his cello case in the back of the car. He looks like a completely normal person rather than someone who just performed in one of the best concerts Dean’s ever seen.

"Dude look, it’s Castiel Novak." Sam points at the musician, but Dean is already walking towards Cas with a purposeful stride.

"Hi, my name is Dean, and I just wanted to tell you that your performance tonight was amazing."

Cas freezes like a deer in headlights, and his cheeks turn pink when he realizes Dean is the guy he was ogling at the concert. He had been saddened when he realized at the end of the performance that Dean was accompanied by someone.

"Thank you, I'm glad you and your companion enjoyed it," Cas says carefully as he glances at Sam for a second.

Dean's a little bit distracted. Cas is even more beautiful up close, and his voice is just delicious which causes his words to take a while to reach Dean's brain.

"Wait a minute, you think he is my date?" Dean asks incredulously, pointing at Sam. "That loser? He's my brother, Sammy."

"Oh." Cas blinks in surprise. "I saw you guys hugging, and I assumed. I'm sorry."

"You're beautiful," Dean blurts. "I mean, your interpretation was beautiful."

Dean is so embarrassed; he feels he could cook an egg on his face. It is all worth it when he sees Cas’ lips spread into a beaming smile.

It turns out that a profound bond was created that night and love was found through music. It sounds like a chick flick, but it’s true.

Dean couldn't be more grateful that Ruby dumped Sam on that exact night because thanks to her, he discovered a whole new world of music and scored a date with a hot cellist.

especial thanks to my friend and beta reader @shadowywerewolfqueen you are amazing!

#Destiel #destiel fanfic #Musician AU #Cellist Cas #my writing #castiel #dean winchester #spn fanfiction #debut fanfic

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cupsofsuga · 5 years ago

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𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄 ━ 𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐁𝐓𝐒 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍 *:·。.

{ ⚠️} WARNING - This is a yandere au, meaning the following may be triggering to some viewers. I am not trying to discriminate the boys in any way, this is for entertainment purposes. Viewer discretion is advised!!!

{ ☕️} NOTE - I changed up the plot just a teensy bit, love!! this is fanboy!bts with idol!reader

{ 💐} ANON ASKED - ❝ Hcs of yan idol!bts with an idol!s/o uwu ❞

━━━ 𝐊𝐈𝐌 𝐒𝐄𝐎𝐊𝐉𝐈𝐍

jin is an old, childhood friend of yours that departed from your life as your career skyrocketed

he’s a distant memory, but, to jin, you mean everything

how must he move on when your smile sits in the sun? how can you expect him to simply forget about you when he feels your touch in the wind and sees your eyes in the stars!?

this life is not for you, rather, the sweet, mundane one you and him planned for in blanket forts during the time of your youth

oh, what he’d do to lay his hands upon your summer skin and to look into the ornaments of your irises…

jin’s obsession only intensifies when he found your address and broke into your estate days later

he left old polaroids with dates stamped from nearly a decade ago on your dresser

even going as far as to sleep in your bed

inhaling your scent, relishing in the ghost of your form, the revelation brought him to tears

luckily, you didn’t take notice to your damp pillow that jin had broke down on

but, god, does he miss you…

after one of your concerts, you stumbled sluggishly to your dressing room

there was no answer as to why you were so lethargic, but, you only assumed it was the downfall from the adrenaline rush you received from the shrill screams from fans

without even bothering to change our of the skimpy outfits you were obligated to wear, you nestled yourself onto the leather couch

with a numb body, before you fell into a slumber, you hear a relatively sweet voice as they comfort and coo your name like the melody of a dove

❝ it’s ok, it’s ok. everything will be ok, you’re safe now, y/n/n… oh, how i have longed for this single moment for so, so long! we’ll be happy together, i promise you. we’ll be just fine… ❞

━━━ 𝐌𝐈𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐈

min yoongi, a fan of y/n l/n!? that’s just absurd!

there’s no possible way that the cold-hearted, aloof, intimidating-as-all-can-be min yoongi could be some closeted fanboy… right?

but, just one peek into his rusted journal and you’ll uncover poetry that challenges oscar wilde and pages filled with doodles of your starlit face

one peak into his bedroom and you’ll find three cardboard cutouts with words of honey written on sticky notes that are strung upon your form

you’ll see posters littered all around the room, even a few taped on his ceiling so you’d be the first thing he sees when his alarm disrupts him of his slumber

one peak at his body and you’ll find tattoos littered upon his skin from everything to your name, to your favorite flowers, to your full-on face that he hides under chunky sweaters

there must be a million quotes of your songs that he deluded himself into believing was intended just for him inked upon his skin forever

all of those words he typed with the intention of escaping reality and joining you hand-by-hand into a new future are his source of light in these grey, gloomy days

and don’t get me started on all of those times he accidentally wrote your name during exams or how he spent his nights gazing into the cardboard cutout before him just praying that with some magic spell, you’d come alive and be there with him

yoongi is not just some devoted fan, no

he’s your soulmate

and this man is willing to walk straight into the depths of hell and crawl his way out just to prove it so.

━━━ 𝐉𝐔𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐎𝐊

hoseok’s idea of a typical friday night would not be lying and rebelling against his parents just to join his friend and be packed like sardines in an abnormally-heated arena

the sweaty-scented mosh pit adorned with dozens of fans screaming for an idol he doesn’t even remember the name of, he’d just about rather be anywhere now

that is until you waltz out and the shouts intensify, everyone chanting your name as you show off your sugary-sweet smile like a king would with a crown

hoseok might as well have melted into the germ-infested floor before him from how stunned he was upon seeing you for the first time

and your voice!

god, the way you sang with such a level way of elegance sounded like the coo of a dove, the fits of laughter you shared had the poor sunshine in the crowd grow a weak-hearted smile

your eyes shined like wild stars as you looked upon the faces of every individual guest and beaming at the way they so cheerfully smiled for you

and you looked straight at hoseok! he swears you did!

as the glistening lights fade and you turn tail and walk off stage, you are completely oblivious to the boy in the crowd who’s left his heart on a silver platter just for your liking

he leaves the arena giddy, practically shaking with excitement in his seat and blabbering about every breath you took as his friend drives him back to his home

and this poor, but immensely infatuated boy doesn’t earn an inkling of shut-eye for the next 3 days due to him obsessively stalking all of your content

he’ll fake a cough and skip school just to lie in bed, listen to your music and fantasize about all of those lovestruck lyrics you sing being solely intended for him

hoseok will spend hours upon hours looking through photoshoots of yours

even spending as far as 4 hours staring at the same picture of you, tracing his fingers upon the pixelated screen and imagining it was your skin he caressing

you’re his whole life now!

hoseok doesn’t know what he’d do without you…

━━━ 𝐊𝐈𝐌 𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐉𝐎𝐎𝐍

oh, the proper and pristine kim namjoon

how much more perfect could you get with a wealthy lifestyle, having the privilege to attend some elite school and terrible, terrible parents?

how he’s just a mangled heart in the hands of a monster

but, as the all-mighty, alpha-male facade drops, we’ll witness the truth behind all that faux dominance

pray into the truth that’s itched under his skin and you’ll find a soft, gooey centerpiece that’s sweet and submissive

after some pointless bicker with his father, namjoon will return to his bedroom, door locked as relishes in his only source of joy: you

he’ll lie down in his expensive sheets, fantasizing about your sweet voice and touch, caressing him and cooing him of his worries

namjoon will cling onto a body pillow, staining the fabric with his tears

his tenacious grip (on what he fantasizes being you) will not weaken and will remain to be his only form of comfort in these grey days

and on the laptop before him, he’ll turn on one of your lives from the past, pretending, just for now, that you are here and you are real

all those other eyes that also watch you, they’re not real!

it’s just you and him

and having the privilege to lie down and relish in your disgustingly sweet essence is all-too infatuating for his poor heart to handle!

knowing that at the end of the day, he’ll always have you saved his life in more ways than one

knowing that he is yours and you are his, he has found tranquility.

━━━ 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐊 𝐉𝐈𝐌𝐈𝐍

hours upon hours of scrolling with those all-too-familiar but infatuating jolts to his heart, jimin comes across a photo

a photo of you and a friend, just a little too close for his liking…

and there, we witness a tsunami of insecurities and doubts who have biased jimin for its affection

his mind reels back and forth between the potential truth and reassurance:

you love him! yes, you love him! you liked his comment once! and you even noticed him during a live stream 3 months, 1 week and 4 days ago!

and he’s not crazy, he just loves you so, so much! i mean…

yes, he did strangle a girl that caught your sweatshirt when you threw it into the crowd, but that was all in the past!

this is in the present, and jimin loves you more than you’ll ever know!

and oh, how dreamy and overwhelmingly immaculate that night was…

how he savored every breath that left your mouth as you sang for the arena, how the tears fell down his cheeks as the revelation of your presence knocked the air out of his lungs, and how even months after the concert, he still keeps the clothes he wore that night safely tucked in a rack cover

not a single second goes by where jimin does not think of the luminescence of that single night and just how golden your single presence was

but, for now, he is departed from your form and must find comfort by his lonesome

jimin will scroll through fanfiction, feeling his heart quicken with every word that makes up for his fantasies, satisfying him of his deprived need for you

he has lost count of how many imagines he’s saved at this point, but, then again, he doesn’t care

all that is valid is the pandemonium he sits in while relishing in the fantasy of you being with him, and to hold the privilege of simply waking up next to you in his embrace

as your songs and his hushed sobs echo, jimin grips onto the pillow and lets your cherubic voice soothe him of his sorrows

and for just this short time, jimin can let your seraphic voice bring him serenity.

━━━ 𝐊𝐈𝐌 𝐓𝐀𝐄𝐇𝐘𝐔𝐍𝐆

yeah……… you’re fucked

after enduring the torture of public school and numerously writing down your name when he intended to write down some algebraic expression he couldn’t remember if he tried, taehyung has returned home

and nothing feels better than satisfying that eternal longing held within him

he’ll ignore his parents and their attempt at small-talk, mumbling something about needing to finish homework and locking himself in his room

and what we see in his room is………. terrifying…? infatuating…?

i mean, your face is EVERYWHERE

posters, polaroids, selfies, all splattered across the walls, ceilings, and even his locker at school

there’s even a single screenshot taped above his desk of the smile plastered on his face when you read his comment: “i love you” during one of your live streams

taehyung then open his sketchbook, smiling fondly with his heart battering in his chest as he flips through past sketches of your beaming face with flowers and fruits adorning the pages

he seeks an empty page, beginning another one of his trillion sketches of you, his muse

this boy doesn’t need a picture to follow from, he knows every one of your facial features from heart

from the shape of your nose to the single mole on your cheek, taehyung has got it imprinted in his mind

and as your song spills from his phone while he’s sketching your wondrous eyes, he thinks back to the sacred memory of when he attended your concert

hearing you serenade thousands upon thousands of fans, including him, wasn’t anywhere near the most momentous part of that night

claiming he was your boyfriend to the guards, shining his sugary-sweet boxy smile and having access to follow you backstage was the best moment of his entire life spent on this planet!

he snapped some photos of you as you scrolled through social media on the leather couch, relishing in the way you so simply… lived

yeah, the guards nearly killed him for that one, but, having the privilege to admire you in your natural state made everything worth it

after all, if it was for you, anything was worth it.

━━━ 𝐉𝐄𝐎𝐍 𝐉𝐔𝐍𝐆𝐊𝐎𝐎𝐊

as jungkook lays sprawled out on dirty sheets, the voice of y/n l/n echoes and reverberates in his eardrums

this is what tranquility is; this is what peace means, even it’s only temporary

and god, there must be something laced with your voice because never in his life has jungkook felt something like this

floating through space, running on stars, dancing on saturn’s rings; this is the feeling that blossoms within jungkook’s chest

and for once, he can forget all the anger that lingers in the path of his past

trust me, these memories are not anywhere near pretty

from beating a boy to a bloody pulp for calling you a “dumb pop-star” to punching holes into the drywall after a drama channel gossips about a supposed new lover of yours,

jungkook is a complete psycho fan

and spending his rent on tickets for a fan-meet just proves how worthy you are to this stranger

words couldn’t do the emotion jungkook felt when he caught sight of you any justice

he might as well as stepped onto another planet because, god, he’s never seen a sight so astonishing

he finds stars in your eyes and finds himself lost in your smile which resembles a string of pearls

you are in every means perfect

and as his turns reaches near, you grasp hold of his hand to calm him of his nerves

alas, jungkook has found nirvana

he must have looked like such an idiot being so giddy and excited for the human who has never seen him in their entire life

but finally, he has the privilege to meet face-to-face with the love of his life, and you bet he savors every single second of the time spent with you

jungkook even went as far as to have the signature you signed on his forearm tattooed, so your touch would be imprinted on his skin forever

now, you’ll be intwined for eternity…

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mindthefool · 4 years ago

Text

The New Spectatorship

Once upon a long table in a timeline unframed, there is a banquet, dimly lit and dangerously alluring to the most tormented gluttons. The table is made from the sort of indestructible wood that’s been baked by time. It has bare iron legs and no varnish coat. The walls and the ceiling and floor are vast mirrors. They wink and yawn as generous prisms that proliferate candlelight. The chairs at the table are hollow and floating, suited for both the living and dead. Those who are alive and were invited to the feast are fluent among the immaterial. Perhaps they only walk through my earth because they choose to.

The group of glancing individuals, filled with eyes and beasts and starving, has assembled to discuss a tiny question. These figures have each demonstrated remarkable tendencies to shred tiny things and quilt them into cosmic apparel. They are cloaked in such garments like gods: shameless, dynamic, monstrous, and sweet like lumps of infant that fold into a chest.

Most of them are writers, except a few who like to watch but never become invisible. Most of them have eyes facing art in the places it love-pokes life. My heart pecks a clusterfuck melody against the temperamental hearts of the others, as though it is extending veins to weave into somebody else’s elsewhere. I typically don’t disperse into threads until at least half way through the conversation or after at least one cup of wine. This must be a particularly special occasion!

As steaming food is softly served from yawning platters into dark shiny bowls, a small disheveled pond of sound overrides the audible pattering of hearts. Antonin stumbles out from behind a cloud. His mind, quickly unraveling like eager water, escapes him as he takes a seat. It laps and smacks up the scaffolding of indecipherable notions. He chews on a limp cigarette, the great poetic creases in his face creep into me as mischievous muses. But he doesn’t want me to write poems anymore, so I keep this observation to myself as my eyes dream towards his bending picture that sits across the table. I’m really off my game tonight; I cannot tell how drunk he is or if I’m drunk at all.

Antonin mumbles, his utterance crisp. No one informed him in advance about the tiny question currently being passed around among piles of food and the eaters. We gather here today to discuss the new spectatorship, someone tells him with a defeated but official sounding bark from the foggier end of the table.

No more masterpieces! Off with their heads! I read Antonin groan in his eyebrows. It’s too bad we are social distancing otherwise I’d kiss him right in that moving madness spot.

The group has assembled because the majority, and those adjacent, want many more eyes than they possess at present. So far there is no spectatorship established to suit such a need. Nobody is swaying yet, they have barely touched the first round of drinks. (Did I spike their drinks with magic formula? Yes. Also the soup. And the dipping sauces. All of it enchanted.)

After some time, the first little swarms of conversation bubble into smaller and smaller pockets; each guest sinks into quiet. In breath and its passage of realizations, we are seduced by curiosity about the room itself where we sit and chatter teeth. We study the walls and our eyes apprehend that the borders of the room are corridors that shrink into green. Glass mirrors face mirrors and mirrors.

Gloria chimes in immediately, “I don’t have enough eyes.” Her voice does not disrupt the lull but redirects its weight to uplift enunciation. She speaks again to mention the “agony of inadequacy.” She is so inescapably familiar. I adore writers who get me to smell their sweat. Hers is filled with magical, intricate gore. I want to ask her, how do I get more eyes? But hers are closed so I doubt she’d know I speak to her. I am silent.

She goes on, “A glance can freeze us in place; it can ‘possess us.’” Gloria, is this true? She speaks in multiple stories like a long stone skinny-window house in Paris, one of those that “do not seem made to be lived in, but are like stones set for people to walk between.” A contribution Trinh (seated near Gloria on the far end) has stolen from Walter (barely with us). I think into a deep sip of tinted water: thank you all for this delightful discourse; I am already comfortably lost.

I wonder if any of them are drunk. I’ve had quite a bit of bread so I’m feeling just fine. Then again, I see hundreds of my own faces in every direction. How will I be able to tell that I’m intoxicated if all my heads turn when I try to look at them? Why is it that the ones who turn away will have nothing to do with me? What makes them different from the other heads who return my searching gaze?

Mirrors are kind of a nasty problem. Especially when there are this many. My eyes reflect back little holes at me in the bottomless black bowl above my lap; they make the room a bit greener. If mirrors can happen in soup, does that mean I can eat them?

I can hear Gloria saying that mirrors reproduce images. No shit! Each of us is reincarnated one million times by the walls of this very room. I agree that mirrors eat things up like carnivorous sponges. I wonder if anyone among us feels robbed by this stealth of self for the sake of image and reproduction. I wonder if I can ever steal it all back from behind the glass, (and from patriarchy too, while I’m at it). But I’m snatched from this curiosity as the conversation unfolds.

The thing is, mirrors force you to look AT and trick you to believe you’re seeing INTO or THROUGH. And if you’re an idiot, you didn’t even think about it hard enough to get tricked. It is typical for some people to leave unexamined the destination of pulse, particularly when it self-identifies as a dimension rebel. Some of the dinner guests roll their eyes at this line. Gilles raises his brow, Minh-ha looks up in a puzzled diagonal glance, perhaps they contemplate whether I can play along with all the other wordsmiths. I continue, uninterested in my worth.

Viewers of mirrors understand a split self and if you don’t see the split then you don’t get the trick or the treat. Try being queer. It’s so tricky. The queers in the room and their inner queer crowds resonate, smile, or even chuckle. In mirrors, subjects are captured by their own gazes and reduced to images of their selves as outsiders. But the image bends and expands the experience of vision to the great worth of a metaphysical meat sample on a toothpick; an existential Ikea meatball, or if you’re vegetarian, existential tofu, or if you shop at Trader Joe’s, an existential shot of coffee to get you wired on why, why, why.

As viewers of our captured selves, we also see through subjectivity, the infrastructure of our eyes and cognitive performances. And thus, the accomplishment of the mirror is that sight is spit back out from the glass, backwards like a wave in rewind. The spectator does not move but is altered and must choose to enact more-than-picture. Now Gloria insists on the immobility of eyes. Yes ok, they trap things, but that doesn’t mean they can’t sing.

A friend of mine named Heidi G, has chorus in her eyes. They dart as though motivated in ballet. You are what you eat, I guess. Her laughter is a tickle-rifle, it washes people. Her writing traces the activity of puppets and the lifeless and she contemplates quickly; chatter as excited as chewing. I’m swept stuck in her stubborn asking. She has asked me before about disappearance, how to enact disappearance, how do the lifeless move?

Meanwhile Gloria babbles in a bedrock lullaby voice about mirrors as doors for spirits to pass through. Some glances are exchanged as people consider the placement of moving spirits on the lifelessness graph. A few take generous swigs from their beverages. My chest tightens with expectation.

Why is it that those among us who are no longer alive can also be seen in the mirrors? The lifeless do not reflect or express any less than the living and me. Gloria’s eyes bleed open and she softly frowns to the side. I recall her saying, “I can tell how others feel by the way they smell” and I roll my neck low and discreet to secretly sample my armpit. Sure enough, my perspiration is the perfume of fixation: trance energy, fixation on the dead, the harshest and littlest concentration pushing deep into things. I can smell my fear and my longing.

I look into my own eyes in the mirror all the time. From all my years of being a girl I got quite obsessed with my face. When I stopped wearing makeup and curating hairdos for esteem-protection, I began to notice my eyeballs. They are rather large. If I wait long enough, they will show me how afraid I am. Afraid of nothing in particular and of everything. If I wait longer, they will show me the desperation of being caught in my own gaze because I love myself so much and know myself so little.

I’m fortunate to be the person becoming the “person” inside the mirror whenever I look at myself in trance. Most people are mystery pictures. I can always tell when someone switches from looking and seeing to feeling seen and being seen through. It is a small performance in the eyes. A tiny violation, recession, a turn away, a closing up, no more gift of unafraidness. But my eyes landing on another’s will not make them any less private unless they choose for that to happen. Spectatorship really does fall short of its presumed desires sometimes.

“In vain your image comes to meet me...” Louis, one of Heidi’ guests has also perhaps caught a whiff of my body odor.

I am that wretch comparable with mirrors

That can reflect but cannot see

Like them my eye is empty and like them inhabited

By your absence which makes them blind.

Gloria smiles, “the mirror is an ambivalent symbol” she coos with wet vowels. A puzzle again; my cheeks make fists around my eyes. Gloria, I ask gently, aren’t symbols the faces of feelings? You said it yourself on page 60. How can feelings and their faces be ambivalent? Aren’t they trying to say something?

In rising unison Gloria and Antonin melt body and voice, as though their minds have collided with mine, almost as if my voices have stolen their words. But what on earth would give anyone that impression?

I feel their shared eyes inquiring. I continue my train of thought. Choo choo: ambivalence is double possibility and duality rearranges desire. If both options are possible and present, despite any contradictions they contain, what prevents anyone from noticing the branches of possibility within the two initial ones? An ambivalent symbol is a whole alphabet, so feelings are certainly never contained in mask, voice never contained in words, space never contained in walls.

The privilege of ambivalence is that it will not presuppose authority; yet it holds the great power of soft, steady eyes; the sort of eyes that do not claim to be superior but everyone who looks into them feels less-than. Ambivalence borrows the likeness of clouds or horizons of fog. It might also fashion itself into steel and grow legs like an ornate industrial bridge. Ambivalence is difficult to face because in order to move, you must feel. Many who walk this earth do not like this about our condition; so our condition evolves to distort its constraints, we get drunk on the mainstream bizarre. Our only hope is to find circumstance, doses of disaster; better to seek situations than confront the great condition which begs to be destroyed by science and thought; better to do magic. If we’re fortunate, someday we may stumble into a set of circumstances (they often come in sets) where we look into a mirror and do not see ourselves. Or, perhaps we look at a wall and find our own strange sets of eyes watching from the surface as though glowing through projectors onto screens.

I’m nearly voiceless. No one at the table receives me at first so my voice gets involuntarily small. My head buzzes lightly from drinking but I can tell Antonin is further gone. He keeps looking at the space above my head when I speak, like his eyes refuse tangible.

All of a blink-sudden Gloria is soft and charged. Yes, she winks between her lips and her teeth. I am soothed, only slightly, and I turn a damp palm towards the walls that are mirrors. Condition is framed, made of pillars. All of its content exists in-between so I’m shocked when its subjects don’t attend to the liminal bits.

Everyone here knows the liminal bits. Otherwise we wouldn’t have received invitations to this event. Quite exquisitely liminal indeed. There isn’t even a host to thank. We compose amongst ourselves a structure of witnesses, imagination, and danger; in one moment bitter, another too sweet, an overall nomadic taste in teary mouths and drooling supper.

Gloria spends her time with snake people. Heidi watches dancing puppets and bodies that imitate the dead. Antonin likes when the theater storms. He likes danger-hypnosis. Liminal spaces with borders that bleed mean vision is never complete. Such spaces will fragment the language of edges and morph stolen time.

〰

Dinner is accompanied by a spectacle, of course. Fancy occasions always include snob chefs and opera— this is my impression having been to a few weddings in my day. Oh, but this will be no opera, Antonin booms in a silver snail voice. I still cannot tell his age. Nor can I place the blank serenity and frantic power that swap places like restless greedy tourists, all over his perky dead body.

A snake oozes out of a crack in one of the mirrors and all of the mirrors because they saw it happen. The snake is one million snakes but most of them are behind the glass in captivity with our flat and greenish mirror-selves. I suppose each dimension gets its own snake. Fine.

Our snake is thick and low and stiff. Its body manipulates weight and substance with a belly and spine that swell down to lick the floor. Felix from France lets go of the tight grip of his playmate Gilles. They were holding hands this whole time, seated across from each other and mostly keeping to themselves, quite focused and delighted by the drinks before them. Felix pulls out a wide wooden flute from his coat and it shines. Everyone breathes in their fear of the snake and breathes out an acceptance of serpents. Felix is a psychoanalyst, so the music he plays is real good and might get you to vomit some trauma. Mmm.

From the flute pours a buzzing rhythm and it curves into my nervous system. All of my spaces shake. The mirrors quiver and so do the millions of glass selves, my vision reverberates almost as if mocking me. My heartbeat is interrupted by the heartless flow of sound. It washes me ambivalent, maybe as an instrument or as meat; I cannot tell if I make sound myself or if it passes through me. Thus utterance is rendered pointless, sourceless, destinationless. My organs defy themselves as movement consumes me but shaking hands are able to lift my glass to sip.

The snake stiffens and raises a swaying body. The bodies of the guests sway too like tender wooden ghosts, all of us more tipsy than the unmovable table where the booze has been spilled. The mirrors wave like mischievous seas and my million selves mix their own sauces with monsters. Gloria will not give me her eyes anymore, the snake has trapped her attention. Antonin roars and Heidi is dancing and others surrender to storm.

I am drunk and I feel an insufferable warmth. That’s it! I always knew I was too big to be loved, I could end it all now if I purchase this watch. It’s made of fool’s gold which I’m told is indestructible and who cares if it tells me the time. I just need it to look fancy.

Well fuck, I’m being watched. And I only wanted the watch to change how I look. It’s not fair, I can’t see straight or stand still in this room that’s so tolerant of illusion. These are such perilous walls. I do not like the hall built of my own faces for I cannot tell, am I sea-sick or regular sick?

Oh Seamstress of the Sea! If you piece together swooning flakes of disobedient water with the hope that it will make the sky more comprehensible, you will quickly unravel yourself and your sewing project! And since you equip yourself with needles, not oars, you will soon slip under indistinguishable waves or clouds, whichever you prefer! Ultimately, they are the same since neither can resist the wind! The distinction between sky and sea was a comfort I had not recognized before they joined and I expanded like threads of molasses, one of the most reluctant liquids!

So here we are my friends! Angels cannot fly, the band is out of sync. I didn’t bring a metronome. Maybe I’ll bring one next time if the spectacle doesn’t die before next week. Alas, it has already died before our very eyes. No more masterpieces! There are too many cooks in the damn kitchen.

I don’t want to watch a play that has too many cooks. I will never be hungry again. The cooks should NOT be making theater. You cannot eat theater.

The ensemble is clumsy. It is not honest with life.

The human body is scandalously insufficient!

Actor is neither savior nor giver of life. If actor is to speak the unspeakable, it is not the sanctified word of god but rather an affective glimpse of something unsayable-- something even the old man-god himself could not conjure adequate words for up in his ever holy sky.

I can tell how others feel by the way they smell

excruciatingly alive to the world

they encourage us to kill off parts of ourselves

the unsavory aspects of ourselves

the supra-human, the god in ourselves.

it must be destroyed, it is necessary for all actors and actresses to die of plague… for it is they who render art impossible.

This frenzy to be lifelike can only be our mythic denial of an apprehension of death

Answers to heard and unheard questions enabled by its vanishing.

The compulsion to repeat,

The compulsion to repeat, which is now replacing the impulse to remember,

If only the saturated fragments of mainstream bizarre landed deeper than the hairs on my skin, if only these bits knew how to be tender and microscopic, if only they visited me for years and years until I began to deeply trust

the art of living, which here appears more like an organic art of war, Emptied of drama and emotion

He was grinning. Nobody else could have sensed it. He started laughing now. Nobody else could have sensed it.

Open bodies, bleeding wounds, dissected abdomens, and missing limbs

little things with dramatic consequences.

The body is “hot” again, but the spectacle of the altered or wounded body is much hotter.

You can only visit it in time, a place that happens during, the vocabulary of space just won’t get you there.

The sky can still fall on our heads. Right Anto?

Hhey Anto thiz iz kinda weird bud how ol dar you? Wowwhh. Really? Cool cool, thaz scool. I’m thiss many. Yeww don’t belief me? I think your wOrk is scool... it so cool, yur so smart howd you have thoze ideahs? I’m like... really fuck withem you like say my brain and what it says? Anto? howd you get in... hahaammfuck I cannnttake. Aww no no no, talk. I’m talk. id doesn’t madder. id doesn’t madder.

〰

And what remains is the new spectatorship; the spectatorship that lines demand if you slip and fall inside of them. I cannot find Anto or Heidi. Gloria is gone. Felix and Gilles and the others are nowhere to be seen but definitely, probably present. The snakes have disappeared, or at least I do not recognize them. My millions of mirror selves search in their respective dimensions.

My attention is captured by a pair of wide eyes with a red nose between them. Moimus? I call to him, he is somewhat familiar. My voice wears a little coat and a fuzzy hat. I’m careful not to frighten him if I speak too cold. He watches me as he is suspended in time, still dry despite the crashing waves of wet sound that rock us and bite at our windy limbs. He speaks with only his eyes and their silence is noisy, a bit demanding, and reaching right into my skull brain. Moimus has vision like the reckless and tender hand of a child over the stem of a wildflower about to be plucked; he offers objects the touch of an elderly lady picking up broken shards of her favorite teapot that until now had lasted a lifetime. Her husband gave it to her as a gift way back when she could still see and remember.

There is in-between space among hands and their touches by the way, not to mention the gaps between eyeballs and sight. It hurts a little to be touched or looked at in these in-between ways; when eyes project too loudly and scream, I want to touch, touch, touch! That’s how eyes can grow hands and do touching themselves. Eyes that want touching are always afraid and hungry at the same time, looking to fill something because the alternative is ambivalence.

No one has ever gazed at me as fearlessly and as simply as the little clown does now: not hungry, not wanting to touch, not concerned whether I am a picture or a person or a lifeless pouch of pulp because all of those would be wonderful to him. I am not an imposter though I do not belong. I am no more or less dangerous than the next mystery or the one before me. I am present as many things and also between things; this is more present than I could ever choose to be. How does he do it?

Between watching and speaking is the gaze that gazes back; it doesn’t proclaim itself more important than sound, touch, taste, or smell. Oh, my self-righteous eyes must acquaint themselves with the back burner before my other five senses are caramelized without me noticing!

I learned sight from the people who watch me, both desired and undesired audiences. I learned this particular spectatorship because many things that I look at tell me how they want to be seen, especially if it’s internet food and I’m young and snacky; also if it’s organized according to patriarchy taste and I’m young and snacky. My former spectatorship never allowed me to decide how to be seen. Like the millions of mirror-selves in the banquet hall, the new spectatorship won’t let me have all the information! It’s quite annoying. But of course, I have five more delicious senses to research experience with.

Moimus, the darling, tells really obvious secrets and never gives instructions on what to do once you’ve received them or what they may behold. The secrets drip from clouds post-collision and mid-disaster; or from residue on beaches that are trickled upon by chaos and its charming reappearances across quotidian dissonance. It is appealing to crash into the violent force of condition. It’s quite loud and clumsy and such crashes are like hollywood so we’re supposed to want them and find love at the end or die. Remember the pillars? Why headbang the pillars? The in-between space is just as exhilaratingly horrible.

You may encounter a masterbatory courage that you meet for the first time, or devastating nostalgia as you mourn five different child iterations of self. Circumstance can direct you to very beautiful things, small things, that have no other way to reach through the pillars but long to visit our world and the dimensions that mirror it: elsewheres-within-here, spaces you can only listen to, the way my body odor reveals how I’m feeling.

The new spectatorship is nomadic, sometimes it may even abandon the spectators. It is ambivalent towards apocalypse and pop culture, it does not use disaster to comfort people. It does not seek to move them. Moimus did not come here to watch, nor did he come to perform. Decide for yourself why he brought you along. I mentioned earlier, I’ve been hoping for more eyes and that’s why I’m here.

Do you want to know what I used to spike the soup? Salt water. From the sea. Not magic formula, I lied. It was only water from the sea. The sea understands that the point is never to mirror, the point is to look. The point is to face unknowability in unending blankets, to react to the void-quilts and apprehend their stitches and mimic their seams. The point of mimesis is to deterritorialize pointing; it is enunciation of the hand that has no message, direction severed from intention. And this is how Moimus holds the universe together. Occasionally he uses tape, but it often gets stuck to his butt, so usually the new spectatorship does most of the work for him.

〰

As I leave the banquet hall, a pair of dark glasses falls into my hand. I recall Antonin and his alluring deadness and I imagine him saying, the sky can still fall on your head. That’s right, I should wear the dark glasses. It will be bright when the sky falls and I’m pretty hungover. I depart with shade on my eyes and forget about light. I pass by a window on my way out and shrug at my reflection thinking only that I look cool and hot. But don’t worry yourself! The purpose was to forget everything all along, I am no conqueror of dreams. One day, if any of us diluted visitors manage to remember the banquet, we will experience it again for the first time, amplified exponential and possibly blind. The spectatorship we enact in that moment will be new once again.

Anzaldúa, Gloria. "Entering into the Serpent." In Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza, Third Edition. San Francisco: Spinsters/Aunt Lute, 1987: 47-61.

Anzaldúa, Gloria. "The Coatlicue State." In Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza, Third Edition. San Francisco: Spinsters/Aunt Lute, 1987: 63-73.

Artaud, Antonin. “No More Masterpieces.” In The Theater and its Double, Trans. Mary C. Richard. New York: Grove Press, 1958

Deleuze, Gilles and Félix Guattari. A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia, vol. 2. Translated by Brian Massumi. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1987.

Gilpin, Heidi. “Lifelessness in Movement, or How Do the Dead Move? Tracing Displacement and Disappearance for Movement Performance,” in Corporealities, ed. Susan Foster (New York/London: Routledge Press, 1996), 106-128.

Gómez-Peña, Guillermo. "Culturas-in-extermis: Performing against the cultural backdrop of the mainstream bizarre." In Ethno-Techno: Writings on Performance, Activism, and Pedagogy, edited by Elaine Peña. London and New York: Routledge, 2005: 45-64.

Minh-ha, Trinh T. “Other Than Myself, My Other Self.” In elsewhere, within here: immigration, refugeeism and the boundary event. New York: Routledge Press, 2011: 27-34.

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