#realizing just how many things from my childhood were most certainly bootlegs because my parents were weird about the internet and probably

[bluedrake121]

Just found out one of my favorite games as a child was bootleg diablo.

So when I was younger my father had a lot of games on the household computer that was from some weird company that made things like polar golfing and elf bowling as well as weird puzzle games, but one of my favorite game series that was made by them was called "Fate" and it had 3 instalments, "Fate" some other second middle child and "Fate the Cursed King" and I have been coming to the slow realization over the last week~ish that all of the Fate series was just about a 1-1 ripoff of the Diablo series except in my opinion the Fate series was worse in most cases. They were both rpgs where you got gear that went into certain body slots, (both had the exact same arrangement of gear slots) some items had gem slots for gems you could get of varying qualities, there were scrolls of identifying and scrolls of town portals as well as books of identifying and books of town portal that worked in the exact same way, there were keys that stacked in the inventory as well. I'm realizing it will be better for me to list the things so far that aren't the same between the games. Fate did not have a "Class" system, all characters started effectively the same besides some "racial" modifications that were relatively minor. Fate did not have "class abilities" that unlocked, instead there were spell scrolls you could sometimes find in the dungeon that let you learn new spells/abilities (though they were all just spells, not really abilities) In Fate you got a pet that could fight a little bit. Fate has fishing (I don't know if later Diablo games have it but so far I've not seen it) Fate had a second set of points you would get with levels that helped you define your class as the points would do amazing /sar things such as +10% attack speed while dual wielding, and +10% damage with fire spells. Fate also had Deeper dungeons that went down for like 100 levels before the main quest and kept going after that if you wanted for some reason (this may actually be a positive) and had generative side quests for you on the way down instead of certain hand picked/crafted ones. (this may also be a positive depending on how you feel about it) I legitimately can't think of any other significant differences between the games besides that and in my opinion almost everything else that Fate did it did worse than the old diablo games. The books only have room for 10 scrolls, there's more inventory clutter sense there were spell scrolls and fish to worry about, and they even had a "gambling" market that works pretty much the same as the one in diablo, so over all, huh, guess I'm playing diablo now till it falls off. (I think it falls off at some point unless I'm misremembering what I've heard about it) TLDR: Just read the title again.

[fallen-gravity]

awaken the stars, ‘cause they’re all around you

Stanford Pines never really believed in soulmates.

He can't imagine the idea that there's one person out there for him in the multiverse who would stop at nothing to love him for who he is, despite everything he is and everything he's done. He can't imagine that someone out there is meant for him, someone who will stand by his side until the end of time.

Or maybe he'd just been looking at it from the wrong angle.

Notes: 

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, @stariousfalls!!!!! I can't believe we've been friends for upwards of five years now?? You've been a huge inspiration of mine from my first day in the gravity falls fandom back in late 2014, and now you're one of my closest friends. I've been spending the last week and a half working on this behind your back, because I wanted to surprise you with a gift I thought you'd love!!

7.5k words of fluff was....not my original plan, but fluff brain wanted to go feral for you, I guess.

Huge, huge shoutout to @ariasofelegance  for helping me keep my mouth shut about this, I absolutely would've internally combusted without your help & support

AO3

Ford never saw the appeal of romantic relationships.

One night when he and Stan were kids, they snuck downstairs in the middle of the night after their parents were asleep to dig through Pa’s “Secret stash” of movies he thought he was good at keeping a secret. They’d thought for sure they’d be coming across bootleg cuts of action movies that were still playing in theaters, or documentaries about how all of the politicians in power were secretly aliens. 

What they actually found was much more…sensual. They were both horrified, to say the least, but each time Ford had to turn away to prevent himself from gagging, he’d hear Stan beside him struggling not to laugh. 

For years, Ford was convinced coming across those tapes before he was old enough to fully comprehend what was happening in them is what had turned him off to relationships altogether. It certainly didn’t help that he was never able to experience romantic relationships firsthand, as every time he tried asking someone out in high school he’d just be laughed at or called a freak.

Though college was another story entirely, his feelings towards romantic relationships never seemed to change. He went out with a girl from his dungeons, dungeons, and more dungeons club for a few weeks, a guy from his advanced physics class for almost two months, and even tried going out with Fiddleford for upwards of nine months, but he never felt that deeper connection with any of them, no matter how much he wanted to feel that connection. 

It’d be forty more years before he learned the term aromantic, but when he was still in college he would brush off his parents’ questions about his relationship status by telling them he was too busy working on his thesis, which technically wasn’t all that far from the truth anyway.

Still, the faint sense of yearning never seemed to leave him be. Whenever he found gaps in his schedule, he would spend hours in his university library reading up on the science of relationships and their place in society. Though he no longer remembers most of the papers he read, one scientific study that’s always stuck with him was a dissertation written entirely on the concept of soulmates.

Everyone has a soulmate, the paper claimed. Though it may be decades until you properly meet, your path always leads to the moment that you and your soulmate are finally united. Once finally together, not a single force on earth can tear you apart. Even if you are apart physically, the stars will always align to bring you together. Weirdest of all, the paper mentioned soulmarks, which were described as “the phenomenon that a person’s very soul is marked with a piece that belongs to their soulmate, which may appear as a physical anomaly on a person’s body, such as an oddly-shaped birthmark”. 

Ford had thought for sure that somebody must’ve moved a romance novel into the sociology section of the library as a joke. The only sort of anomaly he had going for him was his polydactyly, and thinking too much about how that could connect him to a single person who was destined to love him gave him a headache. 

Nowadays, though, Ford tries not to give it much thought. He’s perfectly happy right where he is, watching the sunrise from the deck of the Stan O’ War II through the steam visibly rising from his coffee mug. 

He sighs contently. 

“Mornin’” Stan’s voice sounds beside him, gruff with sleep. When Ford turns to look at him, he’s rubbing at his eyes with one hand while he holds a steaming cup of coffee in his other. He’s already donning one of the sweaters Mabel mailed to him, a deep blue with a tropical island and a treasure chest stitched across the chest.

Ford smirks. “You’re up early” 

Stan cocks an eyebrow as he sips from his coffee. “A’course I am. I always get up early when we’re docking to see the kids”

Ford blinks, the teasing smirk on his face melting into a gentle smile. “That’s today?” 

“Haven’t you checked the calendar lately?” Stan tosses a second handmade sweater at Ford. This one’s the same shade of maroon as his journal covers, and pictures an angry cycloptopus squirting ink towards the bottom left corner of the sweater. “The kids are on spring break. They talked to their parents about letting us have ‘em all week” 

Ford is quick to pull the warm sweater over his head. “All week?” 

He can’t help sounding like a broken record, but it’s been months since the last time he saw the kids face to face. Sure, they talk over video at least once a week, but nothing beats seeing their smiling faces and having them nearly tackle him to the ground in a hug in-person. 

“Heh, you miss em too, Sixer?” 

As little as two years ago, Ford would’ve flinched at the nickname. But Bill is gone for good, and Ford knows that Bill is gone for good, and Stan made a promise to do anything in his power to help him reclaim the nickname. He brings his mug close to his face without taking a sip, allowing himself to take in the warmth in his hands and the steam in his face.

“Not as much as you, clearly” Ford smirks, and Stan crosses his arms over his chest.

“You bet I missed them more than you. I’d been taking care of them all summer before you showed up and fell in love with them in half that time”

Ford smirks as he finishes up his coffee and heads into the navigation room to set their course. “By that logic, wouldn’t that mean that I miss them more, since I had less time with them?”

“Hey!” Stan groans as he follows him into the room. “It does not. It means that you don’t know them like I know them, genius. Everyone knows that it’s all about how much time you’ve spent with a person that determines how close you are with them” 

Ford laughs as he enters the coordinates they need to get to the seaport they were meeting the young twins at. From the looks of it, it’d be three hours before they arrived. 

“Mm, and who put that study together? Was it you?” 

Stan doesn’t reply with words, just a noise that sounds halfway between disgruntled and baffled. It makes Ford laugh even harder, and he wipes at his eyes with a wrist. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Stan’s overdramatic pout melt away until he’s laughing too. 

The sight of it makes the smile on Ford’s face widen. It’d been decades since the two of them were able to just be like this. It’d been so long since the last time Ford heard Stan’s genuine laugh that he’d gone and forgotten what it sounded like altogether. When he was still traveling the multiverse, he searched far and wide for a shred of hope, something to keep his anxieties and nightmares from catching up to him.

What a fool he’d been to ignore his childhood memories of home. 

The trip is a quiet but familiar one. Ford can’t talk much when he’s steering because he needs to be on constant lookout, but Stan remains in the room to talk at him and keep him company anyway. The sun is well over the horizon by the time they reach the seaport, and call it instincts, intuition, or something else entirely, because Ford spots the kids sitting on a bench in the near distance the moment he and Stan step foot onto the dock. 

They’re squished closely together, watching a video on Mabel’s phone. Whether they’re aware of it or not, they’re swaying their legs back and forth underneath the bench in perfect unison. On the ground beside them are their backpacks, overstuffed with so many things that both of them are popping open. 

Most importantly, neither of them have noticed that Ford and Stan are approaching them. 

Ford exchanges an amused glance with Stan, and clears his throat to catch their attention. 

The phone nearly stumbles out of their hands in shock when they look up and meet their eyes.

“Grunkle Stan!” Mabel squeals, standing to sprint past Ford to knock Stan off of his feet. Ford chuckles at the sight, but not quickly enough to hear Dipper’s “Great Uncle Ford!”, and before he knows it he’s hitting the floor too. The young twins are laughing messes, and stumble over each other as they try to stand to their feet and help their Grunkles up. 

Mabel spits out the hair that stuck to her mouth, and pulls a hair tie seemingly out of thin air to tie her hair up into a ponytail. It’s only now that Ford realizes that she and Dipper are also both wearing sweaters, and if Ford had to guess, it looks like Mabel made both of these sweaters as well. Mabel’s is a galaxy print with actual twinkling stars, and Ford makes a mental note to ask her later what she did to make it glow like that. Dipper’s is also space themed, though his pictures the big dipper splotched across a black night sky with a bright orange meteor shooting through the center.

“You have to tell us about everything you’ve encountered”, Dipper beams, once Stan finishes brushing himself off. 

Stan cocks an eyebrow. “Two years’ worth is a lot to get through, kiddo”

“Exactly!” Mabel beams, turning to pick up her backpack and put it on. “Which is exactly why you can tell us on the way to the hotel!” 

“Hotel?” Ford and Stan ask in unison.

“Surprise?” Dipper giggles. “Our parents rented us a hotel room for the week cause they figured you’d appreciate some time away from the boat” 

“It’ll be like our summer in Gravity Falls all over again!” Mabel grins. “But in reverse! You’re in our territory now” 

Stan laughs. “You’re the boss, kiddo”

“You bet I am!” She beams, and hands Dipper his backpack. “Now c’mon! If you tell us all of the horrors you’ve encountered out at sea, we’ll tell you about all the horrors we’ve encountered in high school!”

“I...think I remember those horrors pretty well already, thank you” Ford smiles sheepishly, adjusting his glasses. “But we’d be more than glad to tell you some of our own stories”

It’s a short walk to the bus stop, but Ford honestly wouldn’t mind if they walked all the way to the hotel on foot if it meant an extra half an hour with the kids. They’re just as eccentric as he remembers, attached at the hip but still wildly different people all on their own. Dipper’s still hanging on to every word he’s saying, and Mabel’s still skipping along like she’s in her own world. 

Once they reach the hotel and check in, Dipper collapses face first onto one of the beds the moment he steps into the room, groaning. 

Stan smiles. “Something bothering you, kiddo?” 

He turns on his side to look Stan in the eye, his face smushing into the pillow. “Mabel didn’t let me get any sleep last night. She insisted on getting to the seaport three whole hours early because she insisted that she had this gut feeling that you guys would have the same idea and we’d magically show up at the same time” 

Mabel pouts, and sits on the bed besides him. “Well it’s not my fault you stayed up late reading that dumb book of yours. Plus, would you rather have kept them waiting for three hours?” 

Dipper removes his hat and places it on the table beside him, exposing just enough of his forehead through his hair to reveal his birthmark. It has the same faint glow to it as Mabel’s sweater, and Ford wonders how the two could possibly reflect off of each other. 

“Their boat has beds and a fully stocked kitchen, Mabel. They can afford to wait. All we had were those strawberry pop tarts that you ate five minutes after we got there”

Ford can’t help but smile softly at their banter. He missed them so, so, much more than he could’ve ever imagined. He’s got half a mind to stow them away on the boat at the end of the week and homeschool them both himself so he never has to be apart from them again.

Apart. The word still feels like a knife twisted into his chest. There’s nothing he regrets more than trying to separate the young twins from each other two summers ago because he’d been so caught up in projecting his own fears onto the pair. He’d tried apologizing to Mabel over the whole ordeal, but she stopped him before he could even start to tell him he had nothing to worry about.

He only wishes he could learn to forgive himself as easily as she did.

“...Can we, Grunkle Ford?”

He blushes. Had he just said all of that out loud?

“Can we...what?” 

“Take the boat out! Not right now, since Dips is being a grumpy-grump and insists on wasting precious time with a nap, but we’ve been talking about it all week”

From across the room, Stan snorts. “Let me get this straight,” he takes his jacket off and hangs it up in the closet. At this point Ford swears his eyes must be playing tricks on him, because Stan’s old burn scar is glowing just as Mabel’s sweater and Dipper’s birthmark are. “All the time you spent groaning and complaining about fishing every time I took you in Gravity Falls, and now you’re asking to go fishing?” 

“I was thinking more along the lines of a joy ride,” Dipper yawns from under the covers. “But if agreeing to go fishing is what gets you to say yes, then sure” 

He’s smirking under the covers, Ford can tell, because he inherited that expression from Stan.

Stan’s about to bite back, but Dipper must not have been exaggerating about how long he and Mabel were waiting for them at the dock, because he’s already out cold. Stan smiles at him, gently ruffling up his hair before he takes a seat on the adjacent bed, kicking his shoes off so he can kick his feet up on the bed and relax. Ford sits beside Stan, and Stan slings his arms behind him to support his head in his hands as he glances over at Ford. 

“They make you wanna retire the whole ‘treasure hunting’ thing and move into the city to be closer to ‘em too?”

Ford chuckles. “I’ve already considered hiding them away on the boat twice today already.” He taps at his chin. “Though I suppose that moving in with them would go over better with their parents then taking them away to live on a boat” 

“Hmm…” Stan taps at his chin as well. “Being stuck in the same stuffy high school for four years, or living on a boat traveling all over the world whenever they feel like it? I dunno about you, Sixer, but I have a pretty good idea on what the kids would prefer”

“Grunkle Stan? Grunkle Ford?” Mabel’s voice suddenly chimes in, and Ford blushes, wondering how much of that she just heard. 

“What’s on your mind, pumpkin?” Stan asks. 

“Well, uh, Dipper was right about us only eating once really early this morning, and I was wondering if you’d be willing to, uh” She twirls her hair between her fingers. “Cook something for us? For old time’s sake?”

Okay, it’s settled, Ford’s never letting these kids go again. 

“Sure, kiddo. Soon as your brother’s up we’ll head right back up, okay?” 

“Okay!” she beams, and crawls back into her side of the bed, staring at Dipper like she can will him into waking up on command. 

Though Ford would’ve been okay if they’d had to wait hours for him, it’s really only about twenty minutes before Dipper opens his eyes again and nearly shrieks in surprise at Mabel’s face hovering three inches from his own. He smacks his hand into her face to shove her away, and she giggles as she rolls off the bed and onto the floor. 

Beside Ford, Stan smirks. “Better get up before we leave without you and all our food goes to Mabel, kiddo. You’ve got plenty of time to crash in Ford’s bed on the ship, since he never seems to use it anyway”

Dipper yawns, rubbing at his eyes as he kicks the covers off. “I hadn’t even realized I’d fallen asleep”

“I didn’t realize you were even capable of sleep, bro-bro” Mabel punches him in the shoulder as she walks past him to put her shoes on. He glares at her wordlessly, and Ford has to cover up his snicker with a fake cough. 

This time, the bus ride and the walk back to the ship are a quiet one. Ford never really lets himself let his guard down and relax for an extended period of the time, so he cherishes any moment he can get where he finally feels like he doesn’t constantly feel the need to check over his shoulder for signs of danger. Most of the time, if you asked him about his heightened senses, he’d call them a curse. But on days like these, when he can hear the birds chirping and the waves smacking gently against the boats in the seaport, he’d almost go as far as calling it a blessing. 

The kids take a seat at the dining table as soon as they enter the kitchen, and Stan grins at them from over his shoulder as he clicks the stove on. “Whaddya say, Stancakes?” 

Dipper and Mabel grimace in unison. “Ewwww, Grunkle Stan, you promised lunch!” Mabel scrunches her nose, and Stan’s grin only widens. 

“Ah, ah, you said like old times. That means I get to decide what to make, and you have to eat it because I’m your legal guardian”.

“Well I wasn’t even awake when you were talking about old times, so I’d say that cancels out” Dipper crosses his arms over his chest, and Ford can’t help but smile warmly at the three of them as he reaches into the cupboard for his favorite coffee mug. The younger twins clearly had just gotten two copies of the same mug, but crossed both of them out so they’d say #1 GRUNKLES on them instead of #1 UNCLE. Stan has the other one, of course, but he keeps it on his bedside to hold small treasures and keepsakes because it’s, in his own words, “Too special to waste on something as ordinary as coffee”.

Ford sits himself in the seat between the younger twins at their okay, and after some back and forth banter between the four of them, they end up settling for burgers. Truth be told, this is the first time Ford’s eaten a meal in a group larger than two since the last time he and Stan visited the young twins in the winter, and he can’t help but smile into his food at the thought. The closest he’d come even remotely close to eating with others in his research years was his very, very brief time at the truck stop diner, and the experience had soured his view of...well, other people for near decades.

Now, though, he’d burn his own research dozens of times over before he’d even consider eating alone.

Stan’s chair scraping across the floor as he stands pops Ford out of his bubble of serenity. 

“Now that that’s taken care of,” Stan cracks his knuckles, smiling mischievously at Dipper and Mabel. “I think I remember a couple of kiddos finally promising their Grunkle Stan he could take them fishing”

“Promise is a strong word-” Dipper starts as he stands to place his plate in the sink, but Stan’s already placing a fishing hat on his head before he can finish his sentence. 

“Course you did! You wanna take our baby for a joyride, you gotta earn it first”

Dipper turns to Ford, like he’s expecting him to back him up.

Ford chuckles. “I don’t know, Dipper. That sounds perfectly reasonable to me”.

Dipper scoffs, sitting back down at the table. Mabel laughs. 

“Aww, C’mon, Dipper! Aren’t you all about the supernatural? For all we know, Grunkle Stan and Grunkle Ford could be harboring magical glowing bait that only attracts, like, magical talking fish men, or something!” 

Dipper raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t you just receive a bottle message from Mermando last week?”

“Exactly!” Mabel flashes a grin. “That must mean that he’s in the area!”

Stan laughs. “You tellin’ me you only agreed to go fishing so you could kiss and make-up with your long-distance fish boyfriend?”

“Grunkle Stan, what kind of person do you take me for?” she gasps. “He’s married! You know I would never want to break apart such a loving couple!”

Ford’s smile only warms. Where else could he partake in such a conversation that doesn’t turn heads and result in judgmental whispers? Where else can he just be like this, surrounded by loved ones who are just as weird, just as out of the ordinary as himself? In his younger years he thought for sure his place would be among the monsters and cryptids everyone in his childhood made him out to be, but even in the weirdness capital of the country he felt more alone than ever. 

“...Don’t think you’re immune, Sixer” Stan’s voice cuts into his thoughts, and before Ford can ask what he means Stan is smacking a homemade fishing cap on his head. “It may ruin your badass image when we’re monster hunting, or whatever, but we’re fishing with the kids.” Stan gestures to them with his thumb. They’re already outside, leaning over the railing to look out at the water in a perfect mirror of each other.  “If they have to embarrass themselves by humoring me for a few hours, so do you” 

Ford waits for Stan to join the kids outside before he takes his hat off to admire the stitch work. It’s not perfect, and nowhere near the fancy embroidery he and Stan have found in various markets across their world travels. But it’s personalized, and Ford knows it comes from a place in Stan’s mind that’s been stuck behind lock and key since he was seventeen.

Ford runs his hands along each individual letter, which reads POINDEXTER, before placing it back on his head to join the others outside. 

Stan has, miraculously, already pulled out his joke book. Stan’s laughing too hard at his own joke for Ford to really make out what the punchline is, but the younger twins’ collective groans is all he needs to know about it. When Mabel notices him stepping out of the doorway, though, her expression shifts entirely. 

“So…” she draws out, stepping towards him. “Is there a trick for attracting merpeople to your boat? I mean, asides from being super cute, obviously” 

Ford chuckles, taking a glance behind her to make sure that Stan is out of earshot. “Stan’ll kill me if I tell you this, but they’re really attracted towards shiny things. If you tied one of his gold necklaces around a fishing pole and dangled it into the water, the boat’ll be surrounded in minutes” 

Mabel offers up her pinkie finger. “I won’t tell him if you won’t”

Ford interlocks his pinkie with hers, smiling. “I think he’ll notice when a whole family of merpeople show up”

“Hmmm…” Mabel taps at her chin with her free hand, visibly mouthing a plan to herself. “Oh! I know! Come with me,” she beams, and before Ford can even open his mouth to respond she’s already dragging him back into the kitchen. She kneels down on the floor and opens the cupboard below the sink. “Got any empty bottles I can use?”

Ford blinks. “Empty....bottles”

“Yeah!” Mabel pulls a neatly folded piece of paper out of her skirt. “If I can send out my response letter the same time we throw Stan’s necklace over, he’ll never be able to tell the difference!”

“Wait, wait” Ford shakes his head. “You really are dating a merperson?”

“Listening skills, Grunkle Ford” she taps at her forehead, folding the letter back into her pocket as she continues to dig through the cupboards. “Used to date. We met at the Gravity Falls Public Pool, where he was stuck, but then I drove him to the lake in a golf cart I stole from the pool grounds because he really missed his family, and then he was my first kiss, and then we were in a long-distance relationship for like, two months, and I kept every single bottle he sent me, but then we had to break up because he was arranged to marry to prevent a big undersea war.” She picks up a bottle, shakes it, and puts it back when it’s too full for her liking. “I know it sounds, like, super complicated, but it’s all okay, because we’re still pen pals!” 

Ford laughs, shaking his head. “No, Mabel, I had to ask because I, uh…” his cheeks warm, and he clears his throat. “Before I...came to term with my orientation, I...dated a merperson too” 

The bottles in the cupboard rattle as Mabel’s head smacks against the doorframe. She’s rubbing the spot where her head hit, but there are stars in her eyes. “Really?” 

Ford’s cheeks burn even hotter. “Yes,” he whispers, and takes a knee so he can get at her eye level. “Technically he was a siren, but yes, we dated for about a month. He promised me he wouldn’t entice anyone else while we were together, but I guess there wasn’t anything...there.” He turns to help her shuffle through the cupboard, and finds a near-empty bottle of olive oil that’s definitely been sitting down there for at least a year. He hands it off to Mabel, smiling. “I’m glad that things worked out with you, though” 

To his surprise, Mabel drops the bottle and throws her arms around him in a hug. “I can’t wait to introduce you! He’s gonna love you”

Ford huffs a quiet laugh, and pulls her close as he winds his arms around her as well. The hug only lasts for a few brief moments, but it feels to Ford in those moments that time itself had stopped. Mabel stands, taking the bottle in one hand and offering to help Ford up in her other. 

Mabel places the bottle in the sink and turns the water on to rinse it out before she turns back towards Ford, stretching her arms up in the air as if she were warming up for an exercise. “Alright, here’s the plan. You tell me where Grunkle Stan keeps all of his jewelry, and I’ll sneak in and take his necklace while you distract him. Got it?”

Ford smiles. “Got it”.

As Mabel splits away for Stan’s bedroom, Ford heads back out to the deck. Dipper’s leaning over the side of the boat pointing at something jumping out of the water, rambling excitedly to Stan beside him. He’s holding his fishing hat in his hand to stop it from blowing into the water, and his hair is bouncing in the breeze. It’s just enough for the edge of his birthmark to poke through his bangs, and even in broad daylight it seems to be emitting a faint glow.

“I found it!” Mabel cheers, bounding up from behind him. She’s wearing the chain around her neck, and for some reason the gold seems much dimmer in contrast to her sweater. She takes it off and hands it to him. “You wanna do the honors while I go and throw this overboard?”

Ford smiles, ruffling her hair. “Sure thing.” He walks over to where Stan and Dipper are chatting and picks up one of the extra fishing rods. Making sure that Stan’s too engrossed with his conversation to notice, Ford starts wrapping the chain along the line, and at the signal from Mabel, he tosses his line as far from the boat as he can manage.

Five minutes pass before Mabel squeals so loud that Ford’s afraid his glasses might shatter. He reaches for the gun he knows he’s got stashed in his pants pocket, but when he turns to run to her aid she’s leaning halfway over the boat wrapping her arms around a young merman in a tight hug.

“...so good to see you again!” She’s beaming. “I didn’t think you’d be able to find us so quickly!”

“Yes, well, you were easy to track down after we figured out the coordinates to the seaport” the young man says in a thick Spanish accent. “It is good to see you too! My family was so excited to meet you”

“Your family?” she gasps. “Did they all come with you?” 

“Of course!” he grins. “We merpeople are very family oriented. Wherever we go, we go together” 

Ford winces at the uncanny familiarity of the statement. Mabel must recognize the statement too, because she responds with “Oh, that reminds me! There’s someone I want you guys to meet! Wait right here,” she says, and comes bouncing back over to Ford. Taking his hand in her own, she starts to drag him back to where she’d just been leaning. “C’mon! He’s the one I was just talking about!”

Three more merpeople emerge from the water when she gently knocks on the side of the boat again. “Grunkle Ford, this is Mermando!” she grins, gesturing to the young merman she’d just been conversing with. “He’s the one I helped reunite with his family after they were separated by tragic circumstances.” She wraps her arms around Ford in a side-hug. “Mermando, this is my Grunkle Ford! He was also separated from his family by tragic circumstances, but I helped with that too!” 

Mermando laughs. “Even when you think it’s the end, family always finds its way, doesn’t it?”

Ford laughs, shaking his hand. “It always seems that way to me”

“Awwww!” Mabel squeals. “I knew you’d get along!” She grins, and turns her attention back towards Mermando. “Before I forget, though, did you see where Grunkle Ford threw that gold necklace? If I don’t get it back my Grunkle Stan’s gonna kill me”

Mermando laughs again. “I was wondering if that belonged to any of you!” He takes off his shell necklace to reveal that he’d put Stan’s necklace on around his neck. He takes that off, too, and offers it to Ford. “I much prefer this one, anyway” he clicks his shell necklace open, revealing it to be a locket with a picture of his family inside.

Ford takes the gold necklace back, and he means to thank him, but a bell ringing from elsewhere in the port interrupts him before he can open his mouth. Mermando turns to Mabel, taking her hands in his own. “We must go. I’m so sorry we have to leave so soon, but we merpeople recognize the sounds of fishing boats very easily. We’ll try to come back later this week” He opens his arms for her once more, and Mabel wraps his arms around him in a quick hug before she watches him and his family swim away. 

“I am so glad that all you were doing was hugging,” Dipper shudders as he and Stan approach Ford and Mabel. “I’m not sure my stomach could handle witnessing you two kissing a second time” 

“Awww,” Mabel punches him playfully in the shoulder. “You’re just jealous that I had a boyfriend before you did!” 

Dipper cringes. “If you having a boyfriend before I do means I didn’t have to be the one dating a fish, then I’m glad you were the one who got stuck with him first” He punches her back, and gestures at Stan over his shoulder with his thumb. “But anyways, I came over here because Grunkle Stan says he wants to get out on the open water before everyone else gets the idea, or something”.

Ford pockets Stan’s necklace and makes a mental note to put it away sometime later tonight when Stan is too distracted to notice. “Tell Stan I’m going to untie the rope from the edge of the dock, and when he sees me back on board we’re all set to go.”

Nodding, Dipper bounds off towards the navigation room where Stan must be waiting, and Ford steps off of the boat to take care of everything else. On the way to the bow, he traces a hand along the white painted STAN O’ WAR II, and a feeling of warmth sprouts in his chest. Once back on board, he waves to Stan as he passes besides the navigation room once more, and takes a seat on one of the beach chairs they liked to keep aboard. 

Most days, Ford prefers to be the one at the wheel. But every once in a while he just wants to be. All he wants to do is lean back in one of their beach chairs and let the sun warm his face. It’s a good kind of warm, the same way spending time with the kids and heavy rain hitting his bedroom window and planning new escapades with Stan feel warm. After so, so long of only knowing unbearable burns, it feels indescribable to have a constant back in his life that heals, rather than hurts. 

“Mind if we join you?” Dipper asks, and Ford glances over to see both of the young twins dragging a chair behind them.

Speaking of healing constants.

“Sure,” Ford says, and can’t help the warmth spilling through his tone. They pull their chairs up on either side of him, and curl up to enjoy the warm breeze. Dipper places his hat on his lap to let the wind blow through his hair, and Mabel stretches her arms out behind her head to act as her own pillow. Ford chuckles silently at the pair, and closes his eyes to let himself relax.

All is quiet when Stan finally finds them a spot out on the open water without a single other boat in sight. The water is nearly still, save for the occasional small wave that gently sways the boat. The sun is at its afternoon high, turning the water beautiful shades of teal and aqua. Fishing is tedious, but it’s careful work, and gives Ford something to put all of his focus into. Two whole hours pass before any of them catch a thing, and Stan laughs himself to tears when it’s Dipper who pulls up a single sardine. 

Typically Ford prefers much more immersive activities, but right now there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. The sun is starting to set before they realize they aren’t going to have much luck catching anything, and instead decide to take the boat for another ride around the harbor to look for a better place to eventually watch the stars. 

“...Great Uncle Ford?” Dipper approaches him shyly once they’ve anchored the boat.

“Yes?”

He tugs shyly at the edge of his sweater. “I…” he starts. “I know you’ve told me that the multiverse was dangerous, and all, but...was there ever anything you enjoyed about it?” He pauses. “What were the sunsets like?”

Ford chuckles, patting at the seat beside him, and Dipper’s eyes light up as he sits down.

“You’re right,” Ford starts, folding his hands together. “I wouldn’t wish what I went through on even my worst enemies, Dipper. It was practically impossible to get any decent amount of sleep and even harder to find food digestible by human kind. I lost some of my best years to the multiverse when I could’ve gone on to become the most renowned scientist in the world.” Ford turns his gaze away from the sun setting on the horizon to meet Dipper’s eyes, but he’s frowning, eyes cast downwards towards the deck of the ship.

“But,” Ford adds before the poor kid can get too lost in his own head, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “It definitely had its perks.” He smiles. “The sun in Dimension 18.2 would emit a sound that mimicked a lullaby every night as it set. Dimension 47’23 had three moons that would shift phases before your very eyes. I haven’t told Mabel because I’m afraid she’ll try activating a portal of her own and run away, but in Dimension 25-12, everyone and everything looks like a watercolor painting. There’s danger in the multiverse, but there’s beauty in equal measure”

“Do you ever miss it?” Dipper fiddles with his hands, like he’s trying real hard not to say the wrong thing. “I mean, I know you don’t miss being lost, or having no idea if you’re ever going to see home again, but...is there any dimension...where you could’ve seen yourself staying, if you thought you couldn’t make it back?” 

Ford shifts in his chair so he doesn’t have to twist his neck so much to look directly at his nephew. “Occasionally,” he muses. “I met the most friendly faces in Dimension 52, so my mind does tend to wander there from time to time” he smiles. “But rest assured, there is something in this dimension that makes it my favorite”

“Oh yeah?” Dipper’s eyes light up. “Over every other dimension you’ve passed through? What is it?”

Ford gently nudges Dipper’s shoulder. “You and your sister”

Dipper’s cheeks turn bright red, and he looks as though he’s struggling not to bury his face into the collar of his sweater and disappear. “Really?” his voice squeaks.

Ford nods. “Everything I had in those other dimensions were fleeting, Dipper. At a moment’s notice everything I grew to love could disappear in the blink of an eye. The very thing happened to me in Dimension 52. When I fell asleep, I woke up in a new dimension I didn’t recognize. Things may have been more advanced, and there may have been dimensions crafted to give you your greatest desires, but in the end nothing ever lasted.” 

Now it’s Ford’s turn to divert Dipper’s eyes, gaze casting towards the floor. “Stan was cut from my life completely in the dimension that claimed to be a perfect world. I had nobody. Even in dimensions that actively worked towards my happiness, I was all alone” Ford shakes his head, and turns his gaze once more out on the horizon. The sun is still touching the horizon, but it’s dipped just low enough that some of the stars are beginning to show in the sky. 

“But...here, at home, everything is consistent. I don’t have to worry about waking up in the morning to find that everyone I love is gone. I can keep everyone in arm’s lengths, even when Stan and I can only communicate with you and your sister over a video call. I’m…” Ford gently squeezes his hands to reassure himself that this is real and now. “...happy. Happier than I’ve been in decades” 

Beside him, Dipper yawns, and when Ford spares a glance over at him he’s smiling at him sleepily.  “We’re really happy you’re here too, Grunkle Ford” he murmurs, and his eyes slip closed. Ford’s cheeks flush pink, and he has to choke back a laugh because that’s one of the first times Dipper’s felt comfortable enough to call him Grunkle. 

Ford stands, so as not to wake Dipper from his nap. A small glance to his right and he catches a glimpse of Stan and Mabel leaning against the side of the boat watching the sunset just outside of earshot of his current conversation with Dipper.

“You finally bore him to sleep with all your nerdy science talk?” Stan asks as he approaches, sparing a glance behind him at Dipper. “Was starting to think that the poor kid would never get a nap in” 

“Yes, well,” Ford smirks. “I’m sure it helped plenty that you bored him to death by taking him fishing first”

Stan gasps in mock offense, and slugs him in the shoulder. “Hey, at least I’m engaging them in something they can actually interact with, unlike your kooky alien stories, or whatever”

Ford can’t help the laugh that escapes him. “Bold statement coming from the man who dedicated thirty years of his life rescuing me from said kooky aliens” he says, returning with a punch of his own. Stan opens his mouth to argue back, realizes he has nothing to say, and closes his mouth. The sight of it makes Ford laugh even harder, keeling over and slapping a hand on Stan’s shoulder to support himself. It must be contagious, because it’s not long before Stan is laughing too.

Ford removes his glasses to wipe the tears from his eyes, and cleans off the lenses with the edge of his sweater. Once his eyes adjust after he puts them back on, his throat nearly catches in his throat when he glances back out towards the water. He’s just able to catch a shooting star before it disappears over the horizon, and the boat’s just far out enough on the water that there isn’t an ounce of light pollution obscuring the rest of the stars in the sky.  He takes a few steps back so he can look up and admire more of them at once, and if he looks close enough he can see them twinkling. 

Before he can ask the others if they’re seeing the same thing, a bright flash of light coming from somewhere on the boat cuts into his thoughts. He turns, to make sure that none of the lights in any of the rooms are on, but no, they’d turned those off when they’d started fishing. Scratching at his head, he turns to Stan and Mabel to ask if they have any idea where the light is coming from, but that question catches in its throat as quickly as it formulated.

They’re the ones emitting light.

Or, rather, Mabel’s sweater and Stan’s shoulder, approximately where his burn scar should be. Those are emitting light. 

...Surely it must just be the reflection of the starlight on the water, right? That same bright light must have woken Dipper from his nap, yes? 

He turns heel to ask Dipper the same question, but freezes in his tracks before he can take a single step forward. Dipper’s forehead is glowing too, the same way it has since he and Stan docked the boat this morning. 

It...It can’t be, can it?

Gripping his forehead, Ford takes a number of steps backwards until his back hits the wall. Maybe...maybe he just needs to call it a night. He’s been awake since sunrise, maybe his vision is just blurring because he needs to lie down? 

He waves his hands in front of his face, but no, those don’t look any different. He squints, to make sure his hands aren’t shaking, but no, they’re perfectly still.

He squints at Stan and Mabel, just to try and see if his eyes are watering, and-

He gasps. 

Mabel’s sweater, Dipper’s forehead, Stan’s shoulder; they’re not glowing; they’re twinkling like the stars. It was hard to tell in broad daylight, but now that they’re surrounded by a thousand shining stars, the resemblance is unmistakable. 

But...that’s not possible. If he can see them twinkling, but none of them have said anything about it, that could only be if those were…

...soulmarks. 

Ford suddenly feels like he’s going to pass out. 

He slides to the floor.

Is...Is that even possible? Ford thought for sure that study he read years ago was nothing but a joke. Someone...who does everything in their power to bring you two together, no matter the cost? Someone who, even though you may not meet for decades, will feel as though you’ve known each other their entire lives? Someone who will do anything for you, no matter the personal expense?

Someone...someone like Stan, who spent a painstaking thirty years teaching himself quantum physics to rescue someone that anyone else would assume dead? The man who sacrificed his very mind, his very life, so he could be spared physical torture?

Or...someone like Mabel, the first friendly face he saw after emerging from the portal? The one who forgave him so easily after he tried to separate her from her brother? The one who insists on calling him a good person, despite all of those he knows he hurt? 

Or...Dipper? His kindred spirit in all things supernatural? The one who, alongside his sister, sacrificed himself as bait for the most dangerous being in the entire multiverse? Who saw memories of him at his very worst, and apologized to him for snooping?

After everything he’s been through...could things really work out that well in his favor? To not have one soulmate but three, and the guarantee that they’ll never leave, because they’ve already expressed how they love him so? 

There’s a tear streaming down his cheek at the thought, but he’s too distracted by a fourth light suddenly emitting from...himself to really notice.

He spares a cautious glance downward, and notices a pulsing light emerging from his chest in perfect time with his heartbeat. If he looks closely, he notices that the light travels down his arms and ties itself into a translucent bow around his fingers. If he looks closer still, the light looks as though it’s slinking faintly across the deck of the boat and reaching towards the gentle twinkling of Stan and Mabel’s marks.

Ford places a hand to his forehead, throws his head back, and laughs his throat dry, paying no mind to the tears pouring down his face.

[dustedandsocial]

One thing and an Other thing

The One Thing:

After many failures in the world of responsible adulthood, I decided in 2010 that I would go full throttle into music distro and record label management. And for a fleeting moment, things were working out in my favor.

But let me back up. I had been having bizarre sleeping patterns going all the way back into my childhood, that no insomnia or depression diagnosis nor medication could ever fix. I never got an answer from a doctor that explained my sleep problems.

Essentially, my body and brain think that a day is 25 hours long. If you pause on that fact for a second, what becomes clear is that my sleep schedule rotates around the clock in a never-ending cycle. This had been the case for me from the age of 10, but clinical research studies were few and far between for most of my life.

Then in the summer of 2011 I learned for the first time that my vague sleeping issue was in fact a disorder, although I didn’t yet know the full extent of the limitations it imposed. Which is why for years I kept thinking there would be some way for me to keep working, despite being fired every time I tried to do so. I mostly lived on an annuity until I was 20 ($1047 per month), which came from a court decision when I was little (my mother committed suicide in a hospital and a court found them responsible, granting settlements to each of my family members). I kept thinking I could dance around extreme sleep fluctuations and pull myself up from the ground by my bootstraps, but I only ever fell back on my annuity.

When I was 12, the cops would show up at my house, wake me up, and drive me to school (my dad was a welder and made an early exit to work at 4:30am). Those near-truancies — as well as all the successful truancies! — along with my insistence on bringing alcohol in my backpack to school, smoking in the bathroom, getting high before school with friends, and stealing car stereos from the high school parking lot, all led me to multiple arrests, finally getting me the boot form junior public high school. There was also the despair of losing my mother at the age of 9, which was certainly an important aspect to all of this maladjustment, if not the most central factor. 

But without a cop showing up at my house, I’d wake up around 5PM.

At 13, I was placed in an “alternative school” (aka a program for trouble makers and drug dealers). Most students would sail though towards a diploma, being graded on video game scores, pick-up basketball games, and honest-to-god fantasy basketball gambling leagues (that I several times created for school credit!). We had smoke breaks twice a day in school, and I even sold one of my teacher’s pot. I only showed up half the school year, yet somehow graduated a half-year early at the age of 17. Basically, our ”alternative learning program” was a way for the school district to fudge numbers and make it look like they had rehabilitated kids. I managed to graduate High School easily without my disability playing a major factor. It all felt like being home schooled but with no parents or curriculum to help. Hence why five years into a dedicated leftist education, I can still barely understand Marxist arguments around value theory.

It would still be 11 years from my graduation until I learned about my sleep disorder, so the following years would be spent tossing and turning, going to work and class after being up 24 hours, often crashing at hour 40, then sleeping 24 hours straight to make up for massive sleep deprivation. I’d get fired left and right, girlfriends and family members had no idea what to express to me other than their lack of faith that I could ever get my shit together (and I believed as much myself, because what other explanation was there?)

I decided to work online in 2010 as I began 80/81 Records, as well as work part-time in physical space, all just to scrounge up enough money for distro items and record pressings. I started off with some relative success. I was the first in the US to distro Australian titles like Deaf Wish, Woolen Kits, Mad Nanna, Teen Archer, etc (all even before Bruce’s Easter Bilby!). I had a plethora of reissue releases from the Memoire Neuve label, as well that beautiful Les Olivensteins reissue LP. I even sold a sketchy Chosen Few bootleg to True Anon’s own Brace Belden (aka PissPigGrandad). 

By the age of 30, my body started to fall apart.Within a few years, despite a few solid releases on 80/81, I had to give up on a slew of planned record releases and call it quits. All were thankfully rescued by a couple of friendly labels, with masters sent off to a few others. These were: Mosquito Ego’s “Plomb” LP (thanks @ever-never-records), Pustostany’s “2012″ LP (shout out to the great Sweet Rot), Shovels S/T (thanks to Homeless Records), and Expert Alterations 12″ (Slumberland), and the Virvon Vavron EP, later taken care of by Girlsville Records. There was also the Human Hair "My Life As A Beast And Lowly Form” LP, which came in lieu of a 7″ I had planned for them (still streamable on the 80/81 Bandcamp). Sorry to all these fantastic bands! There was no label in the last decade better at not releasing records!

Nearly as long as I’ve been using this tumblr, I’ve been disabled. However, I didn’t realize I was *officially* disabled per the US government until last year, nor did I know that my condition was an incurable neurological disorder. In fact, it’s technicality not a sleep disorder. If earth had the rotational position of Mars, my circadian rhythms would be perfectly in sync. I've never brought it up here, I never wanted it to be a factor in how I presented myself, and I never wanted this to be a personal blog about my plight. But I can't in good conscience hide this aspect of myself any longer, while so many other disabled folks are engaged in fights for all of our rights, including those beyond the disabled community. 

Oh, and the other thing: 

I figured out last month that I am NOT a heterosexual guy. Queer? Omnisexual? How about "not straight”? Why did it take me so long to face up to this? Well, growing up in a poor and violent neighborhood meant that I needed to latch onto anything at a young age in order to keep myself safe. I could under no circumstances continue to endure the abuse that happened when I was very young, that I thought would come back my way if I opted out of a "straight"  “tough” identity. And even with that identity, I felt an inexplicable terror at all times, that seemed like it was seeping through the air, like it was the blood gushing from behind the hotel walls in “The Shining”. In order to avoid the terror, I had to act out in an extreme way so no one would question me. I’d always be the first to tell adults off. I’d always be the one to break into a house. I always be the first to steal, or mouth off to a cop. I did get choked by a cop once, which was also tame compared to the beatings my black and Hispanic friends received. But I also hated fighting, so that style of acting out was mostly a dodge and redirection of attention.

But so many toxic ideas overtook me over the years. While I may not have been outwardly homophobic as an adult, I no doubt policed my own behavior for decades, not allowing myself vulnerability, not allowing myself comfort, robbing myself of joy. And it took me three decades to shake that straight identity loose.

I think this straight identity I adopted though trauma is common for men, even though whose childhoods weren’t as traumatic as mine. That isn't to say that those who adopt it are closeted, but the ideology driving performative straight male expression can cut off naturally heterosexual men from understanding themselves and what it is that they most desire, who they want to connect with, what makes them complete. Heterosexuality as ideology is a giant fucking scam. You get nothing out of it, maybe an early death from a heart attack.

But I’m also happier now than I’ve ever been. When I gave up the straight identity, I completely gave up fear, and in ways far beyond matters of sexuality. That straight identity also policed how I though of women, and since I’ve been free of it, my relation to women has changed significantly. 

And now

I’m fighting month after month to get on disability and food stamps (I’ve been denied for disability seven times in eight years, and food stamps were just cut in RI). When all is sorted I’m going to join radical orgs in Providence. From here to there and beyond, it’s class struggle.

Had our welfare state not been decimated, or had we decommodified health care and housing, I would have never had to jump through so many hoops for ultimately no help. When I lacked diagnosis, I could have lived with dignity while I waited for an explanation of my issues, if only the society had a non-bureaucratic solution to personal crisis. I’m a “lumpen” of a sort, but I’m also now a committed small-c communist and queer. Sorry apolitical people, but the fight will be intense for the remainder of all our lives.

[donnerpartyofone]

#3

I don’t ever remember feeling good. I don’t mean to say that I’ve never had moments of happiness, that I don’t love my friends, that I regret getting married; I’m not denying that I’ve had the opportunity to pursue passions in life, or that I feel incredibly lucky to have led my privileged life. I mean that I wanted to kill myself when I was a really little kid. I suffer from an incredibly detailed long term memory that goes back before I reached the age of two, and what I remember about childhood is the scathing heat of embarrassment, itching under a layer of cold sweat, revulsion at the hideousness and impracticality of my own body, horror at a world that was ugly, dirty, cheap, boring and airless, a world that was all these things and that required mandatory participation, a factory that makes nothing. I vacillated between mindless rage, and violent sobbing, which I indulged on purpose in pursuit of catharsis. There wasn’t much that I wanted, because everything seemed so repulsive. The main thing was that I wanted to be left alone, and unseen. Each morning I would wake up gripped by panic, because I knew that once I left my bedroom to come to breakfast, everyone was going to look at me. It would take me what felt like hours to work up the nerve to open the door, and when I did I would begin to scream “DON’T LOOK AT ME! DON’T LOOK AT ME!” like a toddler version of Frank Booth. It’s pretty hilarious to think about, but the truth is that I still feel like doing that every time I show up somewhere.

My earliest memory is of my mother trying to take my picture. It took place in an apartment I couldn’t exactly place, so at first I thought it must have been a dream. I was very little, but I understood enough about what the camera meant--that I was being stared at. I turned away, and was repositioned; then I tried to run away. My mother chased me, increasingly infuriated, until I was cornered behind the hilariously prison-like bars of my crib, where she could photograph me whether I liked it or not. I eventually found the resulting picture of myself agonizing behind the crib, confirming that I remembered being about one-and-a-half, living in an apartment before the house I grew up in. The memory serves as something like a metaphor for everything I have been afraid of--helplessness, captivity, surveillance, and of course, my mother.

There is no doubt that I had a serious chemical problem that caused my catastrophic rages and suicidal ideation, even so early in life. (I would find out about that...well, just a few years ago) But, lest I fall into the trap that therapy so often creates--the belief that everything that is wrong with you is within your own power to change, that sadness and anger are only the result of your own bad attitude, which just needs an adjustment--I have to admit that there is something within all this about my mother. I have traditionally categorized this particular woe as a void of maternal relationship. My mother and I “didn’t get along” or “didn’t really relate”, and then before I was old enough for us to have our first adult conversation, she was dead. As I teased out some anecdotal details of our absence from each other’s lives with my first therapist, that doctor once started one of our sessions by blithely declaring, “So you say your mother hated you!” Actually I never said that, but thanks for illuminating things so brightly, you...fucking asshole. Ironically, one of the things I didn’t like about this young, attractive, waspy therapist was that her Kelly Bundy-ish work attire made it impossible for me to bring up any anxieties I had around my own attractiveness, or my alienation from the rest of my gender. The alienation from the rest of my gender that had certainly begun with my alienation from my mother.

I don’t remember a single nurturing, initiatory experience with my mother. I had my first period young, and when I naturally went to her for help--well, to be fair, I probably told her that I more or less understood how things went, but I still think we probably should have had a longer conversation than just her telling me not to flush maxi pads down the toilet, and coolly dismissing me. I remember the first time I tried on makeup, her makeup of course; as soon as she spotted me, she asked “Are you wearing makeup?” in this razor sharp tone, and scowled at me until I followed her unspoken instruction to go to the bathroom, wash my face, and send myself to my room. Again, no further discussion of makeup, clothing, or general womanhood issues ensued. Similarly, I remember a day when I had become just old enough to pick out some of my own clothes. We went shopping for underwear, and every model she suggested, I just wanted in black. I didn’t realize what kind of rage this was stoking in her until she suddenly snapped, “DON’T YOU WANT ANYTHING OTHER THAN BLACK?” and spun away from me. I had no idea what rule I was breaking to deserve this, although the truth is that probably some primitive part of me understood that it was kind of a sexual problem. In the following years I developed into a huge comic book nerd, spending almost all my time copying what I didn’t really know were pretty sleazy pinup images of female characters out of X-Men comics. I had an inkling that these were sort of horny-looking, but I was really attracted to the drawings, which were heavily cross-hatched and compulsively detailed, according to the predominant style of the '90s. That kind of intense, microscopic linework has always attracted me, and one day I stupidly asked my mother, an artist herself, what she thought of a certain drawing I was studying. Most unfortunately, it was of the White Queen, a really idiotic character whose costume is essentially lingerie. What really interested me about it was the linework, but my hopes of discussing art were dashed when my mother spat “I THINK IT’S BORDERLINE PORNOGRAPHY!” and promptly stormed off. That probably would have been a pretty good time for her to talk with her insecure, confused eleven year old girlchild about feminism, body positivity, or any of the other facts of being a woman that I desperately needed to hear. I didn’t get any of that either when, around the same time, I started trying to talk to her about feeling fat and ugly, and she just threw a diet book at me. When I remember my mother, I most immediately remember the back of her head.

This all makes my mother sound like some sort of tyrannical throwback housewife, but none one would have told you that about her. Mom was “cool”. A playfully subversive hippie painter from Brown who loved kitsch and camp, she filled our house with old pulp novels, 3D horror comics, bootlegs of Mystery Science Theater 3000, tapes of Warhol’s Frankenstein and Dracula. She was a striking dresser, imperiously intelligent, and brutally funny. She was outrageously popular among everyone who knew her. The strange truth, though, was that while she had the outward appearance of a mischievous hipster on the cutting edge of culture, on the inside she had a rigid resistance to anything she considered psychologically or emotionally abnormal. Sadness and frustration were unacceptable, antisocial qualities, inconveniences that were grounds for rejection. So, as if she’d been cursed by a spiteful witch, instead of having a fun, affectionate, curious, creative mini-me, her first born turned out to be a taciturn suicide case, constantly quivering with fear and rage--the ultimate in uncoolness. I have a recollection of being around 12 and complaining to her about a friend of mine who was (also) sort of a drip and a drama queen. My mother’s advice to me was to say to my difficult friend, “I’m sorry you feel that way,” which is a clever way of expressing sympathy while giving no credit at all to the sources of the person’s pain. Even at that young age, I kind of thought...hey wait a minute, that’s exactly what she’s been saying to me!

Lest anyone think of her as some sort of roundly superior specimen, I can also say that she was sort of a nerd. She had a huge number of allergies, and also asthma, which she passed on to my brother and me. (And ironically, my lifelong snorting and snuffling and sneezing became one of the many things about me that visibly disgusted her) This, combined with my father’s amorphous environmental illnesses (see: the brilliant Todd Haynes movie SAFE), compelled my parents to try to move house. When I was about 11, we moved across our grimy, depressed city to a much bigger house in a nicer neighborhood. Shortly after we got settled, my mother was diagnosed with stage 4 lung cancer. Her doctor’s advice was to go home and make her peace, immediately, but she shocked everyone by surviving for at least another three years. When people hear that, they always respond as if it must have been some sort of beautiful miracle. No one who has lived with the dying could think this. Our lives turned into NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAD, quickly and consistently, every day a frank, unromantic confrontation with mortality, until it was over.

What could I possibly feel? This person who was a virtual stranger to me, who didn’t like me, who turned into a rotting corpse in front of me, had died in agony. Instead of trying to raise a happy, healthy person, she had sat back expecting me to seduce her, and I had failed. So, I didn’t know what the loss of her really meant. I would never understand anything about maternity, and I would never figure out anything about being a woman that I didn’t ultimately make up for myself. The only thing I really knew about first hand was death. I didn’t understand much of anything about my mother’s actual biological reality, because no one really communicated with me about it, but I knew for sure that the human body is a bunch of bullshit and there is just no reason to be precious about it, ever. Unfortunately, one is never left in dignified solitude with their own interpretation of death. Death is a curse that befalls the living, who are then suddenly and disproportionately responsible for each other’s feelings. This is never more true than when you physically resemble the dead. You become everybody’s confessor, the person with whom they try to relive their experience with the living, and you better be nice about it--even if you are technically more entitled to grief and resentment and anguish than anybody in the room. And of course, this was never more true than with someone who had always frightened me more than my mother: my mother’s mother.