#that isn’t what’s unique about the lark

[iiinkos]

do NOT like how some people r saying that the lark not being addressed with gendered terms or not having genders is “mystical” or whatever because it feels incredibly dehumanizing. i get it if they haven’t seen people use those kinds of terms before but it is REAL and it EXISTS. saying the lark is mystical and unique because they don’t have genders is just. i don’t like

[idle-skull]

@dead-philosophy asks: ‘A quick rundown on who he is maybe’?

Oh boy this is gonna be long, so let’s start at the beginning. Lark is from the planet of Wisterium, which around the 30th millennium was a large hive world & intergalactic trading hub for the Imperium. Wisterium is home to many different types of people, many of which are considered abhuman & rarely chaos mutants due to their more “deamonic” appearance; Most native Wisterians have deer, goat, or cow like features (ears, tails, etc). Lark himself is more goat-like, though he has a much longer tail. 

A lot of the mutation on Wisterium is due to an ancient being “hibernating” within the core of the planet. This being, known only as the ‘star-crawler’ caused the crust of the planet to start leaking a weird, toxic ooze, which prompted the early Wisterians to start building upward, leading to the planet wide multi-layered cities.

Wisterium is also home to Ursa Major, the 20th son of The Emperor of Mankind, & the leader of the XXth Astartes Legion, the ‘DreamStalkers’. Now Ursa Major, he technically has 2 legions, a Astartes one, & an unofficial on-planet spy legion. The astartes are simple enough (insert canon space marine lore here), but the others, The Ladies of Wisteria, or just ‘The LoW’, are a different bag.

Taken in by the Royal Wisterian Council,-led by Ursa when he isn’t crusading of course-, the LoW are trained for one very specific purpose from a young age: Espionage. A sole female organization, LoW elders will train young LoW in various skills & talents considered as feminine in the wider universe, whilst also training them in combat & the use of various deadly poisons. Despite having knowledge of how to perform assassinations, they rarely do perform assassinations, instead they simply observe & provide intel for the LoW, & by extension Ursa Major.

Before the start of the training for their first mission, LoW are made to drink the blood of the star crawler, which can have either 3 primary affects; They die, the become horribly mutated & are killed by their Sisters, or they gain certain powers or abilities. These powers are specific & usually unique to the individual—, Lark himself became a perpetual, but at the cost of a shorter term memory (he wasn’t designed to live as long as he has, by the 33rd milenium he forgot his earliest memories, & by the current day he has absolutely no idea who he was or what he’s done).

Anyway, so Lark has always been sort of ostracized by his peers, even when he was young, primarily due to his loud, boisterous nature & pure insistence on the fact that he wasn’t a girl; He also regularly pulled harmless, but petulant pranks on his sisters & the LoW elders, which didn’t help his case. He didn’t feel as if he fit in with them, & no matter how hard he tried he just couldn’t master certain skills, at least not to a degree that was deemed “good enough” by those around him.

This only worsened in his teenage years, & he eventually started going down a much more rebellious path; Talking back, purposefully rebelling, growing his hair out (considered masculine in Wisterian Culture), & getting tattoos (also considered masculine). This all eventually came to a head when the Elders, & even Ursa himself had enough of his nonsense.

Lark’s training for his first official mission was canceled & he was forced into a strict “re-education” program. This program lasted for a few years until it was deemed that he had ‘calmed down enough’ to be eventually sent out into the field. He was about 16 then. (896. 30m)

Through the time since his conjunction with the Imperium, Ursa Major trusted no one, primarily his brothers; This mistrust led to a decision that would change the course of many histories. Ursa would offer a ‘servant’, usually in the form of a body guard, maid, etc, to each of his brothers as a sort of ‘gift’. These servants, where in reality LoW agents who where meant to spy on their assigned Primarch for Ursa.

When the Primarch Konrad Curze was discovered in 896. 30m, it was decided by Ursa that he would eventually become Lark’s first assignment; Whether as a last resort, or as further punishment for Lark’s misdeeds in the eyes of the LoW, it is unknown. Lark wasn’t officially assigned, nor did he nor Curze know about Ursa’s “gift” until 902. 30m.

From the day they met, Konrad was determined to figure out how Lark worked, why he showed no fear at any sign of disapproval or danger. Lark quickly adapted to the new environment, & despite being awkwardly silent at first soon grew comfortable; His silence was not obedience of any form of authority, just pure confusion.

The two ended up growing genuinely close (a big no no in the LoW—). Curze, Night Haunter as he preferred to be called as Lark had discovered fairly quickly, would make Lark read to him on the regular (Head canon that Curze can read & write, he’s just really bad at it—), amongst playing the violin for him, & helping him dissect & torture those he deemed as wrong-doers. The latter of which Lark would usually complain about, citing plot holes & moral claims.

As they did grow closer, beyond just a professional relationship, Lark eventually started not only to realize himself more as a person, but also came out about his gender identity to Night Haunter. Night Haunter, unlike URSA (calling him out omg—) & the LoW, was surprisingly accepting. Despite starting out as an awkward mix of required servitude, back-talking and dissatisfaction, their relationship developed into a lot more, & they admittedly made each other better. (Konrad Curze does get better mental health for awhile in our AU, but following certain events his mental health does plummet again)

Following an awkward, unplanned exploration of their developing feelings (They had sex your honor, imo ), Lark cuts connection with the LoW, & confesses his original purpose to Night Haunter. At first angry, he tries killing Lark, Lark however is awkwardly accepting of this to a point where Night Haunter doesn’t really know what to do. The two eventually talk it out, although things are very tense in between them for awhile, & their interactions are much more rough than previously, they do make up. Lark convinces him to keep the information about the LoW a secret, for the safety of Lark’s sisters.

Following his confession, Lark no longer works for Night Haunter as a servant anymore; Leading to him becoming ‘The Huntsman’.

“You are no longer bound by the duty of your Order… What would you want to do now”?

“I want to kill for you”.

The Huntsman’s job becomes rooting out potential spies & assassins,-those who would wish to put an end to The Night haunter-, & taking their lives mercilessly.

Alright so that’s it for the technical origin story, there’s more that happens both in the modern day (41m), & before, during, & after The Horus Heresy, but that’s basically it for understanding who Lark is & why & how he got involved in drama with people 5x more powerful than him. Sorry for any typos, that took a hot minute to write. I also know it was meant to be a quick rundown, but there’s just so much stuff that needs context ;-;

Y’all should ask me Lark questions— Cause I’m kinda bored lol, ANYTHING is expectable

[pollyssecretlibrary]

“Anastasia”, by Sophie Lark

STANDALONE

Historical fantasy

5 Stars

“Nobody wanted us to dance together. Nobody but me”

If you are looking for a biography of Anastasia or a recount of the last years of the Romanovs in a photographic kind of way, this is not the book for you. Anastasia and the last Romanov Tsar’s family, as well as some other historical figures like the courtiers and, most especially, Rasputin, are the characters in an alternative coming of age fantasy story where some people develop magic powers. Anastasia inherited her powers from the Tsar, she can slow time for everyone except for herself. That is a very powerful magic talent and it was expected that the tsarevitch, prince Alexei would inherit that, but he didn’t.

History is what it is,There’s only so much Sophie Lark can change to keep the story still recognizable, and she does a perfect job of it. In the same manner of other favorite writers of mine who also do fairy stories, folklore and history retellings like Juliet Marillier or Katherine Arden, she doesn’t recreate history but the legend of Anastasia, which says that she was the only one of the Romanovs who survived the Russian Revolution. Being second to last amongst the Tsar’s children is hard, seeking for her parents’ attention and approval Anastasia isn’t the demure ladylike princess that the photos seem to portray. She loves being outdoors, wearing men’s clothes, flying her gyrfalcon with which she can communicate and she’s in love with a Cossack prince named Damien who is her uncle’s ward.

We also have Damian’s side of the story to complete the full picture of what is to come and why. Damien is the son of the king of the Cossacks, his father was at war with Rusya (alternate name for Russia) and then signed a peace treaty with the Tsar. One of the conditions of the treaty was that Damien became a ward under the Tsar’s cousin’s supervision but no matter how long Damien spends being educated and having a military career amongst the Rusyans, he will always be considered a filthy barbarian. Except by Anastasia, of course. So we get to know his thoughts and his feelings about himself, his life and the people around him.

Anastasia and Damien speak for themselves. Sophie Lark writes in the first person for both characters therefore she gives different approaches to the same story given that Anastasia is a Rusyan princess and Damien a captive, with privileges but a captive all the same. And then there’s this dark mysterious figure that is Rasputin. Rasputin introduces himself as a monk and a humble servant. He is a fortune teller of sorts but he also has some talent for curing people of their ailments and that is the key to his closeness to the Tsar and the empress; Alexei ails from t hemophilia. He has very painful episodes of bleeding or swelling in different limbs, and Rasputin somehow makes the illness retreat from his young patient. But to Anastasia something doesn’t add up in the man and she doesn’t trust him.

I’m pleasantly surprised by Sophie Lark’s fantasy writing because it is so unique to her, usually her books tend to be more plot driven but in this case the book is more character driven. Also despite the liberties she has taken, it is palpable that the research of the History, folklore and customs of Russia and of Europe during the first half of the 20th century has been exhaustive and probably exhausting too. The writing style is very lyrical in a way, it helped that the two narrators speak of their hopes, dreams, memories and ambitions. Of the five books I’ve read this is her only fantasy-retelling and her most recent work, the others were dark mafia romances that I liked a lot, even though the subgenre isn’t exactly my favorite. Fantasy however is my first love in literature. I’m impressed to say the least, that she wrote a book like this, and I’m sure she’s capable of writing whatever she wants and succeed.

What I loved the most is the complexity of her characters, They’re not just black or white, but multicolored, an aspect that makes them more real and believable, and that is quite an achievement especially in a fantasy novel. The plot and subplots are subtle but as complex as the characters, political struggles, intrigue at court, treason, uprising, war, revolution and the change of the times, which is the hardest of subplots humans have to face in order to grow. But the most important aspect to differentiate the genres is that Romance, especially mafia/contemporary doesn’t need a lot of world building since it’s based in reality while fantasy whenever involves magic, folklore and magical creature, needs to have a well crafted scenery to wrap and surround the characters and it needs a credible magic system. And boy does Sophie Lark’s writing achieve that and more. Her imagination and fearlessness is what sustains this book.

[astralbooks]

Bloodmarked by Tracy Deonn

Read: 07/10/2022 - 18/10/2022

Rating:5/5

Rep: Black main character, Taiwanese-American lesbian side character, bisexual love interest, Black side characters, achillean side character, various queer side & minor characters

CW: racism, death of a parent (in backstory), death of a friend (prior to book’s beginning), on page death, grief, violence, life-threatening injury, discussed rape (in backstory, not of main character), non-consensual drug use, non-consensual memory & perception manipulation, imprisonment

Review:

(This review will spoil the ending of Legendborn)

To put it simply, I’m obsessed.

The book opens a few weeks on from where Legendborn ended. Nick is still missing, and the Order haven’t given any indication that they’re all that concerned about trying to find him. Bree’s supposed to be their leader, their King, but you know how it is in both fantasy and through history with long time regents when the true monarch appears. At first they keep her identity secret for practical reasons that appear to be largely reasonable, but things soon take on a much darker tone.

The commentaries on generational trauma and institutionalised racism that were present in the first book haven’t gone anywhere in this one. Bree may be Arthur’s Scion, and the most powerful Scion there has ever been due to her own unique abilities, but in the eyes of many she is just a Black girl who needs to be controlled and possibly eliminated so that her power can go where they want it to go. Deonn doesn’t shy away from how horrific this is.

Bree learns a lot more about how the magic works in this world in this book and I really enjoyed that! Through the first book Bree met people who told her about magic that only works in a very specific way, and it was fun seeing Bree learn how these people were wrong, intentionally or otherwise. The magical world is a Lot bigger than Bree realised, and this isn’t always a good thing.

I liked Selwyn in book one but didn’t quite relate to the huge amount of hype centered specifically on him. It’s not incorrect to say that a lot of Sel’s hype stems from him being the mysterious hot white guy character who’s a bit of a jerk, and we all know that these are the characters that fandom likes to flock to. However, I get it. After reading this book, I get it. I’m surprised at how much I love him because he can be downright mean at times and I usually don’t like those characters at all, but this jerk does have a heart of gold and his meanness almost always stems from how deeply he cares about his friends, wants to keep them all safe, and doesn’t want them to worry about him. He’s not mean just for the sake of it, and he’s under a lot of pressure because a lot of people are relying on him. His relationship with Bree was So Good. There is an incident partway through the book involving him that has the potential to turn a lot of people off him entirely, but I think that his genuine understanding of what he did wrong and his genuine remorse, plus Bree not forgiving him right away due to how serious this incident is, has made me enjoy him and their relationship dynamic even more. 

Loving Selwyn does not necessarily mean that I’m rooting for him to ‘win’ this love triangle. Nick’s not in this book as much as he was in the first one, but with his limited page space he still manages to shine. Does this make me Team Nick? No it does not. There are a couple of scenes where both boys are talking to Bree at the same time and they were great and I would like to formally make it known that I think Bree deserves two boyfriends. I’m sure the boys would be down. 

A bunch of new characters were introduced in this book! I especially liked the new friendly cambions, Lark and Valec. Valec was particularly fun, and hit on a very specific trope that I enjoy a lot. Valec is attracted to Bree, is completely aware that these feelings are not reciprocated and is content with that, and delights in making fun of the other person present who also has feelings for her. Valec is the transparent sort, and Sel very much isn’t, even if Sel likely doesn’t know the meaning of the word subtlety.

I wrote in my review of the first book that I had a prediction about Alice and I didn’t write that prediction down and for the life of me I have no idea what that prediction was. I will learn nothing from this. Alice was great though.

Of course, with all these cool side characters, the fact remains that Bree is the star of the show here! She spends the whole book trying so hard to do the right thing, even when it seems like everything is against her. She doesn’t put up with anyone’s bullshit, isn’t afraid to put boundaries in place and fight for them when needed, and is willing to do so so much if it’s for the sake of the people she loves. She’s an excellent protagonist and I love reading from her perspective.

Speaking of perspective, the climax near the end was SO COOL! Once again there’s something that looks like a non-sequitur but really really isn’t in my review on this series, but I can’t explain in any more detail without spoiling things. Just know that I was yelling.

For some reason I was under the impression that this was a duology, and this made the final chapters of the book significantly more stressful for me. If that ending had been the ending to the entire series I would’ve been so mad. I’ve never been so happy to learn that I was wrong. I know that at the time of this review being posted this book hasn’t technically been released yet, but please I am begging for it to be less than another two years before the third installment’s release.

I would absolutely recommend this book/series. 

Thank you to NetGalley and Simon and Schuster for providing me with an e-arc in return for an honest review.

[docholligay]

The Writing of Hill House

The Haunting of Hill House is, of course, based on a novel. Many movies and television shows are, so it’s hardly unique in that regard. Hill House takes a particularly loose adaptation of the story, in that it would be nearly fair to call it, instead of “based on” perhaps “I had this idea while I was reading Hill House.” Most adaptations forget that they were ever books. There’s no hint of it in most movies, the TV shows go on their own way and forget what made the book so god in the first place. 

But Hill House doesn’t forget that it was a book, and it uses the character of Steven as a writer in order to bring the novel back into the miniseries. All of the kids are, essentially, poor coping mechanisms made flesh more than they are people, and Steven is no exception, but with the additional task of being the narrative voice of Jackson throughout the the series. And, more than that, Steven is part of a conversation between Jackson and Flanagan. 

When people talking about Hill House, they often talk about the absolute BANGER of the opening:

No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality; even larks and katydids are supposed, by some, to dream. Hill House, not sane, stood by itself against the hills, holding darkness within; it had stood so for eighty years and might stand for eighty more. Within, walls continued upright, bricks met neatly, floors were firm, and doors were sensibly shut; silence lay steadily against the wood and stone of Hill House, and whatever walked there, walked alone.

I read The Haunting of Hill House when I was like….14? 15? I remember they had to go get it from the stacks below, it wasn’t even out in the normal stuff as our library was rather small, and the book was old and rarely read. I read this, the first paragraph, and it blew my hair back. There are few opening paragraphs in life even half as good, and we should all hope for it. 

So it doesn’t surprise me that Flanagan felt the need to put in the miniseries, as is, along with other Jackson bits, and it doesn’t surprise me that he put it in Steve’s hands. 

To the first point, Flanagan wanted to leave the Jackson bits in because they are objectively beautiful prose, striking and arresting. Shirley Jackson is one of the greatest horror writers of all time, and I imagine Flanagan came to her because he’s a huge Stephen King fanboy, who is himself a huge Shirley Jackson fanboy. It’s not a complicated idea. 

But to the idea of leaving her words to Steven. 

I am far more sympathetic to Steven than I think most viewers are--in my travels I’ve found that people hate Steve and Shirley but Luke and Theo get a pass on their absolutely shitty behavior because sexy and tragic I guess--but I know plenty of people who take on responsibility for everything, whether it’s their job or not, whether it’s their RIGHT or not. I can lean that way myself, in my old age, and maybe that’s why I can understand it even if it’s bad behavior. But mostly, I think I understand Steven because I understand the need to write. 

Writing is a unique art. Writing, especially Steven’s sort of writing, is the art of taking something real and making it beautiful. Making it more than real. We, as human beings, do not care for reality, as that opening paragraph said. I see this a lot in the story of history, where people need someone to cheer for, they need a firm side to be on, they need strong lines drawn, to say, “this person was this or that” with a clear voice, to know the answer. Reality isn’t so. It’s never so neat or so clear. 

We don’t want the acts. We don’t want the ugly, messy truth of it. We want the story. That’s what storytellers like Flanagan, and like Steve, give to us. In the opening episode, Steven tells us as much, that he doesn’t believe in ghosts, what he writes are “other people’s stories...I give them the right voice, that’s all.” But what you have to pull back the curtain to see is that Steven writes these stories because making the dark things that happen to people into something narratively satisfying, something beautiful, something otherworldly, is a sort of grief work for him. 

Think of that gorgeous line: “A ghost can be a lot of things. A memory, a daydream, a secret. Grief, anger, guilt.” I think of that all the time, that and his line about a ghost being a wish, because I think that gets down to so much of what ghosts are for Steven, for people like Steven. They’re a manifestation of all the things you can't express any other way, maybe don’t even know you’re expressing. 

But Doc, you may say fairly writing this stuff does nothing to help him believe it. If anything, it affirms for him that all of this is bullshit. Yeah well I can’t tell you how many times I’ve done my morning prayers in the firm belief that there is no God, so maybe I’m coming at this from a different angle. I see myself in Steven, in these moments. The writer doesn’t exist to convince herself. He exists to convince others. 

If he can make what happened at Hill House into something that benefits, into something that pays, into something that people find beautiful, than maybe it was all worth it, and maybe everything the family went through mattered. It’s the opposite to Shirley, who just wants it to go away. She wants it covered up, and it’s not unique in families with writers in them that someone takes umbrage to the way the writer casts a childhood, or a memory. 

Now of course, Flanagan takes the idea that Steven is wrong and the house is in fact haunted, which is both a serious departure from the ambiguity of the book, which asks the question, “Is it a haunting or is it mental illness?” without answering the question. It’s actually struck me as incredibly odd that Flanagan seems to have such a preference for taking stories with that intentional ambiguity--Turn of the Screw is very much the same--and make them into explicit stories where it’s 100% ghosty. Even though there are loads of actually explicit ghost stories out there. There has to be something to that, I think. 

But for all the Flanagan puts on him, and for all Flanagan makes the narrative disagree with him--I sometimes wonder how much he meant Steven to be the villain of the tale, whereas I hold Hugh much more responsible--I don’t think Flanagan hates him. As I said before, he’s a huge Stephen King fan, and I do not find it a coincidence that a character NOT from the novel is a writer named Steven. 

I think Flanagan intends for us to be much more in conversation with him, and to explore how writing can bring forth A truth. Even having watched Hill House as many times as I have, and even with Flanagan telling me what’s real and what’s not, I still am not sure I come down on the side that it was all ghosts, all the time. There’s a saying in groups I run in: “Genetics loads the gun and we pull the trigger” and I think that’s where I dry down to here. 

Flanagan isn’t as talented as King, so we don’t see the delicate interweaving of these two ideas like we do in The Shining, for example, but I do think he meant for that to be an aspect even if it isn’t carried off. 

Anyway, I’m getting off topic--even at the end, Steven can only understand what’s happened by writing it, and it leads to one of my favorite moments, the moment I think I’ve felt the most like I have a searchlight on my fucking face, and something I think is true of many, many writers, especially those of us who write diary type stuff or creative nonfiction:

“Because you haven’t written it yet. I mean, is anything real before you write it, Steve? THe things you write about are real, those people are real, their feelings are real, their pain is real, but, not to you, is it? Not until you chew it up and you digest it and you shit it out on a piece of paper. And even then, it’s a pale imitation at best. You take other people’s lives and love and loss and pain, and you eat it, Steve. You are an eater. You eat it and you shit it out, and then, and only then, is it real for you. Normal people’s lives are flesh and blood and muscle and bone, but not yours darling, oh no. Your life is plastic.” 

IT’s important to note that I don’t think Flanagan is saying this is true of writers in general, or even of Steven specifically. Remember, we’re in the Red Room, where our desires and fears coalesce. I think this is a thing that many writers are AFRAID of. That we can’t experience life except through the lens of the story it will make of us. I am only friends with a handful of other writers I would call “habitual” and I think all of us have experienced this to some degree, the running commentary in your head of how things go down on the page, how you’ll type or write this out later, what you will highlight and what you will downplay, and it’s then that the MYTH of your life becomes clear. I don’t think normal people experience life that way. But I think a fair amount of people with the writing bug do, and I don’t even think it’s a talent thing--God knows I write mostly drivel--but I think it’s an OUTLOOK thing. How do you SEE life, and how terrifying is it to imagine that maybe other people don’t have this lens? 

Writing is Steve’s heroin, his gloves and callousness, his control. It is the thing that allows him to separate himself from this reality, it’s not an incidental part of his history so much as it is a reaction to it. By writing what happens to you, by putting it in the mouths of others, you control it. You have power over it in a way that you did not when you were standing there as a child. The words can bring a monster to heel. Flanagan is a writer too, wrestling with the hell he’s putting the Crain family through to express an idea, a memory, a wish. 

ANd that’s why, I think, I appreciate Steven. I don’t think I’ve often seen a character where writing has been posited as a coping mechanism, as a way of controlling the narrative and your own life. I felt it in my bones. 

I am also very like Steven in that I enjoy the study of phenomena a great deal while not necessarily believing in it myself, and please know that if I could make mad money writing ghost stories I thought were horseshit, I would*. Though I prefer the term “paranormal” as “outside of the normal” just fine, I get his preference for “preternatural” to try and separate himself from people who think everything means ghost. 

*Actually I’m going to volunteer next year to write stories for the All About The Boos event at our local historic mansion. They could be leveraging the house SOOOOOO much better. You want your audience to go, “Wait, is that true?”

[shifting-lark]

hi lark! so I heard about shifting a few weeks ago and I've done a little research but I'm still new to the whole thing, so I'm sorry if this is a dumb question/a commonly known answer but I've only really been googling and nothing I googled was very clear! anyway, I thought I'd give the raven method a go (lay in a starfish, counted to 100, repeated affirmations between each number)- I counted past 100 because I was feeling sleepy anyway and I thought it might help me calm down to sleep and when I got to 200 it's like SOMETHING happened- I felt all tingly and like I was disconnecting/lifting up from myself and my heart was beating faster (it was SO weird but in a good way?)!! but then I wasn't sure what to do? I tried picturing a waiting room and like, getting to it so I could then shift to my DR but that didn't work/I also tried to fall asleep when I in this weird state but was unsuccessful. is there anything you'd recommend? or was I going about it in the wrong way? anyway sorry for the long message djdjhdjd I was lurking the shiftblr tag and your posts kept coming up and you seem so nice and encouraging 👉👈 thanks!!

Hello baby shifter!!

I’m glad you’ve asked! And don’t worry there are no “common” questions cause everyone has a unique journey! I don’t mind “re-answering” stuff either. I’ll always tell you to look over my masterlist post but I don’t think I’ve actually answered this specifically!

Short answer: you’re not doing anything wrong! You’re doing everything “right” and remember methods are just helpful tools there isn’t really a wrong way to do it!!

Longer answer: my recommendation after you count to 100 or 200, whenever you start feeling that tingly/floaty sensation is to just keep visualizing! Keep thinking of your DR, keep thinking about your DR family, and stuff like that! Sometimes for me imagining my “soul” floating and leaving my physical body can help continue the symptoms longer! ((If that makes sense))

Everyone is different tho! Shifting is a unique experience for everyone! So just kinda go with the flow and follow your gut! ☺️

Hope this helps!!

[musedblues]

Born To Love You [Part: 1]

summary: When Gwilym ropes you into a lie, the truth becomes painfully obvious. When Joe makes things harder, there's no telling if he even has a clue.

a/n: Welcome to my Joe and Gwil love triangle! I hope you're ready for the wild ride! Below, I'm tagging some lovely friends and mutuals who might be interested in reading and/or spreading the word❗I will not tag anyone in the following chapters unless you ask. As always any and all kinds of feedback are greatly appreciated 💖

w/c: 4k

Part 2

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

"Say 'bye-bye!'" You bounced Olive on your hip, encouraging the almost 15-month-old to practice expanding her very limited vocabulary. You stood facing Gwilym in a sunbeam stained train station, among a sea of comers and goers.

"Oh, no, don't make that face love," Gwilym whined when his daughter whipped her head between you and her father, wearing big sad eyes and the mention of saying goodbye. He reached out to brush away her curls, stoping her from fretting any further.

"Come on, it's just like every other day." You plead, giving Gwilym a similarly pitiful glance, a warning not to blow his parting out of proportion. There was a fifty-fifty chance that Olive might lose it the moment her father disappeared from her line of sight, and you didn't need him to make saying goodbye any harder. The sound of a train whistle cut through the air and a crackly announcement came over the loudspeakers. It was time for Gwilym to go.

"Right, but it's not is it?" Gwilym pouted, reaching for his suitcase and huffing a sigh. He was off to London to go live his dreams, acting in a film organized by real rock and roll royalty. It was the first time he'd spend so long away from his daughter, but did you forget to mention he was living his dream?

"We'll visit you in a month, Gwil! Try and have a little fun, huh?"

///

Back at the loft you shared with your best friend his boyfriend, neither of them were home yet. So it was easy to settle Olive down for a nap. The weight of her father's absence hadn't set in yet, so with the miraculous bit of quiet, you started in on a long list of chores. But it wasn't long before one of your flatmates came to disrupt the silence.

"And, how's the happy couple?" James asked with a teasing smirk as he shut the door, meandering to meet you in the kitchen. You hadn't seen each other in a couple of days since you'd stayed with Gwilym, per his request to spend as much time with Olive as possible before he'd left.

"Gwil and I are not a couple." You reminded in the tone of a breaking news anchor, though this was the billionth time you had to say so.

"Then why, when people ask how long you've been together, do you answer with a date?" James pestered, shifting to help you finish putting away the dishes.

"You know it's not worth explaining to every odd passer-by the strange details of our co-parentship. And when we do have the time, no one believes us anyway."

You and Gwilym had given up the long spiel ages ago. Now, when people asked how long you'd been together, you just estimated how long you'd known each other and gave the years out like the prized answer each old woman in line at the grocery store was anxious to hear. Then you'd go off, together. You always seemed to be together.

It started when Gwilym moved in down the street to the home large enough for its own groundskeeper. You greeted your new neighbor with an invitation to one of James' big weekend parties. Gwilym showed up and chatted with everyone like the oldest friend of all. So, you invited him back to the next get together. And the one after that. And more often than anything, you and he would wind up sharing a laugh on the kitchen floor over a bit of leftover takeaway while the parties raged on in the living room.

When you'd had a rough go of a certain day ahead of one of those regularly scheduled parties, Gwilym managed to make it to your home before you did. In his clutch, a bottle of fancy liquor he'd saved for emergency over the top terrible days.

That was the night you discovered that when you were drunk enough, there was something about Gwilym Lee you couldn't resist. His icy blue eyes filled you with an extra bit of warmth. His usually fond smile turned sultry. He followed you to your room, and a tradition of hooking up after one too many shots was born. It happened enough, in fact, that you decided to give it a go when you weren't plastered. But try as you might, the fire between you and Gwilym proved only to rage when alcohol aided it, so you called the whole thing off.

But... then you missed your period. And Gwil was right down the street. And he was always over anyway. And he was thrilled to bits when you told him how you'd planned to keep the baby- his baby.

"Well, it's been a couple of years now, love. Baby or no baby, he's always one step behind you."

"And we tried, James. Gwil wants the same kind of love I do. And we tried for it. You know that." You defended, getting rather upset only on account of how your attempts to really be together never worked. How as desperately as you tried to force it, you and Gwilym couldn't seem to fall in love. Of course, you were glad he was around, and you were moonstruck by the little girl you'd gotten out of the deal. But damn if you weren't a little lonely at night.

"Alright, alright..." James came away from his playful teasing and shifted with an idea blooming in his gaze. "Let's go out! Like we used to. Come on, I'll get Andy to babysit. You know there's nothing he loves more than your child." James chuckled, coaxing you to have a little fun.

"You, James. He loves you." You dreamed of the day someone looked at you the way James and Andy looked at each other. Witnessing their connection was the only reason you hadn't lost hope that romance existed at all.

"Well, he and I are moving away the first of the year and there's no one I love more than you. So let's go out before we're too far to terrorize the same city."

James got his way. The pair of you waited up for Andy to agree to surprise babysitting duty, and then you went straight to some local dive bar.

Your best friend spent the whole car ride there inflating your ego. With one hand on the wheel, James took his other to curl his long dark fingers around your shoulder that he shook while repeating mantras like "You're so hot no one will care about your baggage" and "You'll find the right guy who isn't put off by your familial facade." and "You will find your love."

You'd always longed to fall in love. The romantical kind of love you'd seen idiots slip into and cry over on the movie screen. But it wasn't at the bar that night. There, James only yammered on about his homemade jewelry and the shop he planned to open next spring in the heart of London. How he'd miss you. The sickening scent of fireball overwhelmed the air and a bunch of lonely looking girls lined the bar top, happy to throw themselves into the arms of the first guy who looked their way.

After lingering at a high table with your best friend and shouting conversation over the 80's music blasting from the jukebox, you called it a night and went home to your darling daughter.

///

Finally, it was September. Gwilym had begged you to bring Olive to London for a month-long visit once he'd settled into the swing of his new job. And you weren't going to pass up the mini-adventure.

Gwilym was a sight for sore eyes, smiling warmly as he greeted you at the train station. Though Olive was too busy sleeping to partake in the reunion. She looked so much like him, even with her matching blue eyes shut to dream.

"You have a beautiful family!" An elder chimed on her shuffle out of the train station, waving a boney hand toward Gwilym as she walked away. You weren't opposed to thanking her because it was true. Just because you weren't really with Gwilym didn't mean anything. You and he had this co-parenting thing down to a science by now, and you were eternally grateful he was around.

The ride to his Airbnb was very short, time enough for you to brag about how easy it was to take so much time off work. Before you knew it, you arrived at the quaint flat with Olive still out cold. You carried her inside behind Gwilym who politely offered to manage your bags.

You pushed past a brilliant blue front door to posh one-room flat with an open floor plan. You could see the kitchen from the living room you'd entered into, and passed by a completely black and white tiled bathroom on your way to the bedroom. There, was a cozy-looking king-sized bed, and you found Gwilym had already set up Olive's travel cot in the corner. You rested her in the raised bed, feeling a twinge of gratitude for Gwil's thinking ahead.  

"Do you think she'll be good to go out, soon? We've been invited to dinner. I'm very excited for you to meet everyone." Gwilym grinned, settling onto the comfortable navy blue sofa where you kicked back, too weary from travel to begin unpacking just yet. You decided if Olive woke up in time, you'd go. Low and behold that's what happened.

Only after she crawled delightedly into her father's lap, clearly surprised to see him in the new strange setting. Everything seemed settled into place, with your family back together. Olive was happy as a lark on the car ride to dinner, Gwilym laughed most of the way there, too.

You were miles away from home, but there wasn't much to be missed among such sweet, familiar company.

When you made it a casual brewery, you slipped into the loo around the corner to give your fussy daughter a change.

Then in what seemed to be a blink of an eye, it was time to meet the castmates Gwilym hadn't stopped talking about since your arrival. At a comfortably large table in the back of the restaurant, two strikingly beautiful faces held the space to themselves.

"I see a baby!" A man with dark curls spoke up in a unique lilt. It was easy to put his name to his face with the way Gwilym had gushed over his castmates on the ride over.

"And you must be Rami."  You nodded his way with a grin, you would have shaken his hand if yours weren't full. There was something magnetic about the fellow, something about his presence that made you feel as if you'd already met.

"It's lovely to meet you, y/n." Rami drew, turning his warm glance from the baby in your arms, to you.

"We've heard so much about the two of you!" The girl at the actor's side spoke up, in a genuine tone. She had to be Lucy. They way Gwilym explained her earlier with words like "sparkling" and "radiant" seemed flirty but you saw now, they were honest descriptors.

You greeted her kindly, saying something about how you'd also heard a lot of good about her and the man she stood just near.

Rami was leaning close to shake Olive's little hand, and to think they said chivalry was dead. Olive took the invitation to lean away from the hold she had on you to place either of her small hands on the sides of Rami's face. He peered at the babe in wonder, as if he might burst into tears.

"She's precious," Lucy spoke up while Rami tousled your daughter's curls.

"Are the others on their way?" Gwilym asked, pulling out a seat for you as your party came away from the greetings.

"Yes! In fact, before they get here..." Lucy spoke up, settling across the table from you as Olive clamored into Gwilym's lap. The charming woman started digging around in her absurdly large tote, pulling a small sparkling gift bag from it, like Mary Poppins might have.

"A welcome gift, for you!" Lucy extended the present with a smile that matched the sparkle coming from the glitter-covered package.

"Oh, my God." You let out a stunned breath of a laugh, hesitantly taking the gift from her clutch. You'd literally just met the girl and she was already a better friend than some you'd known for years.

"My sister is a designer..." Lucy explained as you unveiled a modest faux leather clutch. There were gemstones peppered across the broad stitching that reminded you of opulent fossils.

"This is so incredibly kind, you shouldn't have-" You gazed up to the sunbeam of a girl across from you.

"Actually I picked it out." Rami boasted, leaning over on his elbow with a stretchy grin. Olive took the chance to snatch the glittery gift bag from your loose clutch.

"You've won them both over, it seems." Gwil smiled, raising a brow your way, everyone chuckling in response.

"My best friend makes his own jewelry," You explained, admiring the delicately designed accessory. James would adore the way the gems were stitched onto the fabric. "He'll be jealous of this no doubt." You giggled, catching Lucy's eye as you felt for your phone in your pocket. You were anxious to take a photo and show it off to him, but...

"Oh, I think I left my phone in the loo." You realized, standing as your dinner guests excuses your brief leave. With Olive happy in Gwils lap, you shuffled off to fetch your phone.

Luckily it was tucked away in the corner of the baby changing station where you left it in a haste. You spared an extra beat to check your look in the mirror, feeling a bit overwhelmed by the ultra-pretty company that had made up your dinner table so far.

On your way around the corner to join the party once more, you were too busy pulling up James' contact in your phone to watch where you were going.

You apologized right as you'd run into someone on the other side. The figure reached a hand out to steady the both of you. But as soon as your apology died down, the person you collided with spoke up.

"Holy shit... you're pretty."

The statement wasn't coy, or sultry. It seemed to be stated as though the person had just found something they'd hadn't even known was missing.

As your eyes traveled up a well-dressed figure, you decided the man in question was an actor. You'd come to know many since being acquainted with Gwil. Actors were a breed much like zoo animals, nice to look at but wild and totally unpredictable.

You responded with a nervous laugh.

But when your eye's landed on the mystery man's, something happened. It wasn't phenomenal, or unnerving, but something, somewhere, shifted. His were like smokey quartz, a deep color with a twinge of clarity that reminded you of a fossil. Just like the stones on the clutch you'd been given minutes ago. There was a soft smile on his lips that reached his eyes, and his sculpted face was almost eerily familiar to you. You couldn't help but stare.

You watched his face focus on yours with no sign of any motive besides expressing his interest in you. Somehow, even having just met, you realized there was something more he was trying to say. So with a small nod, you encouraged the words from the tip of his tongue. With a great deal of care, the man said,

"You know how they say your life flashes before your eyes when you're about to die? Well, right when I looked at you, I'm like, pretty sure I just saw my entire future."

Damn, that would have been cheesy if he wasn’t speaking so delicately. Was that a shiver up your spine? Before a decent enough response could escape from your frozen brain, the energy around you shifted dramatically.

All of a sudden, the dark ball cap placed on the stranger's head flew off, and Gwilym's familiar laugh broke your stilled timewarp.

"Look, he's got a perm!" Gwil was clutching the stranger's ball cap in one hand, holding Olive in the other. Your baby was giggling, reaching for the hat Gwilym had stolen with real true laughter.

The man with gemstones for eyes grew a frown and batted Gwilym on the shoulder. His auburn hair was a collection of soft springs, sticking out in all different directions. You were staring again. The stranger snatched his hat back as Gwilym let out a comical sigh.

"I see you've met Joe." Gwilym smiled.

"Joe." You spoke. It took more effort than you'd care to admit to tear your gaze from the beautiful stranger who you realized was meant to join your dinner party all along. He turned his gemstone eyes back to yours and offered a watered-down version of the smile he gave you moments ago.

"This is Y/N." Gwilym held his hand out to you, and normally you would have taken it, and eased next to Gwil. But something about lying to Joe's innocent and remarkably shaped face made your heart lurch. "And this, of course, is Olive." Gwil went on.

Joe's happy expression shined bright as you'd seen it yet, when Gwilym coaxed his daughter to manage a wave. Then he directed his friend back toward the table where the rest of the cast could be found. As you followed close behind Joe, Gwil turned to speak to you.

"She kept trying to eat the glittery gift bag, so we took a trip to throw it away." Gwilym explained, bouncing Olive a little as he told you his story, "Have you got any emergency toys on hand?" He wondered as you moved back to the table.

"Are you kidding?" You chuckled, approaching your spot. Under your seat you retrieved your bag, unveiling Olive's prized possession. A plastic toy bat, with one red eye missing. She never left it out of her grasp for long, and where it even came from you could never quite recall.

That's when the last of the group arrived. Another blonde called Ben. He looked like a fallen angel with messy hair and striking features. You were in intimidating company all around, but somehow, conversation flowed with ease....

"Rami is amazing I can't believe we are lucky enough to work with an absolute legend." Joe burst, falsely bowing to the castmate he raved about.

"A legend, huh?" You wondered, looking to Rami who was already shaking his head.

"No, no. A children's movie franchise, some popular television series, and a handful of B movies do not make me worthy to be here at all." He meant it. You pursed your lips in surprise. He seemed to have a decorated history, and a humble heart all the same.

"Our resident movie star is actually Joseph. Do you know what he was in?" Ben smirked, his clover colored eyes glancing hopefully at you.

"Uh..." You stalled, feeling that same unexplainable shift in the universe as your eyes lock with the man's in the ball cap. You glanced at Joe's gently upturned lips and wondered if his smile was shaped perfectly to cast a spell on you. Thank God Ben mistook your lingering stare on Joe as a sign that you were clueless to his acting history.

"Joe was in the legendary, groundbreaking, tear-jerker that was the very first Jurassic Park."

"And the second!" Rami pointed out.

"Oh my God?" You asked through surprise, suddenly snapping your gaze from Joe's lips to the rest of his face as it turned a dusty shade of pink.

"He's a star." Ben prodded. Rami was casting an overblown lovestruck gaze to Joe, who made some sly remark to his co star too quiet for you to hear.

"I used to love those films growing up." You happily admitted.

"Well, how come your lover has never seen any of them?" Joe gave Gwilym a playful nudge, smiling to the child in his lap even though Olive's focus was on the dirty plastic menu she couldn't quite reach. Before you could explain how you and Gwilym were hardly lovers, and scold him for failing to have seen a classic in the same breath, you were cut off.

"You've never seen Jurassic Park?" Lucy asked Gwilym in shock.

"I was the kid who kept almost dying." Joe smiled, his perfect American teeth flashing your way for the first real-time ever. It was quite a sight indeed.

"Spoilers!" Gwilym whined, swatting at Joe.

"I'm glad to see you made it out alive." You laughed. He was still smiling at you. "I'll have to watch it again very soon, with this nugget of knowledge."

"Yes, she's at the perfect age to learn about the animal kingdom, it's fun for the whole family you know?" Ben spoke, reaching over to poke your daughter's arm. Olive giggled, just as taken by all of her new admirers.

"I think we're off to a good start." You informed. " She's obsessed with birds. That thing is her favorite." You pointed to the plastic bat with wide bony wings between your daughter's hands. She'd lose her cool when the old toy wasn't within reach.

"I'm just gonna go ahead and say it. I love that kid." Ben declared. Gwilym tickled Olive's side, causing her to let out another sweet little giggle. And from then on everyone was glued to conversation about your darling daughter. Gwilym's new castmates seemed more like lifelong friends as they tried to get Olive to say each of their names. She almost got Ben's, and you could practically see his heart melt.

You took Olive back at the end of the night, making your way to the doors of the restaurant as everyone started saying goodbye for the evening. Gwilym was busy listening to Rami do some impression as you parted ways with Lucy, who was quickly on the rise to becoming your new best friend. As you approached the entrance doors however, Joe was blocking your leave. He was stood out of earshot of everyone else, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Hey I'm sorry about earlier- I really didn't mean-" The guy started to apologize as you approached him.

"No! Don't worry about it. I thought it was cute." You admitted a little too quickly, but started to stammer a different response when Joe furrows his brow "Like, funny. But not like I was laughing at you, just- it's okay. Okay?"

You awkwardly smiled, adjusting the hold you had on Olive. You cut him off because you didn't want him to take back what he'd said. No one had ever said anything like it to you. Especially not anyone like Joe.

"Okay." Joe agreed nervously, grinning all the while.

"So... see you tomorrow?" You asked in a hopeful tone- clearing the air and crossing your fingers to see him again.

"Yeah. Of course." Joe nodded, watching as you slowly started to move away from the interaction.

///

On the ride back to the home Gwilym was renting, he was unusually quiet. You thought he'd want to rave about his newfound friends some more, but figured he was probably just exhausted by all the fun.

But even as you shifted topics to chatter about and eventually shuffled into the Airbnb, Gwil was still rather silent. Something was off, and you were worried enough about his unusual disposition to ask what the matter was.

Gwilym nodded as if he'd been caught, and suggested you had a talk after Olive fell asleep for the night.

You tried to stick as close to her normal routine as possible while you put the babe to bed.  Thankfully as your worry mounted over Gwilym's odd demeanor, Olive fell asleep.

You eased into the softly lit living room, admiring the decor until you spotted Gwilym wringing his hands as he paced, waiting for you.

"I fucked up." Gwilym turned to you, somber in expression as you stalled in the entryway.

"I... I panicked and well..." He went on, "Lucy and Ben think we're married."

"Married?"

"Tonight, when we were leaving Lucy asked how long you and I had been married and- and it was a reflex to answer how we usually do when strangers ask how long we've been together. Only I understood after the fact that Lucy was asking something very different."

Gwilym's face contorted into something you'd liken to worry as you stood gaping at him.

"And Ben was there and... they just kept asking these questions. And, well, I dug myself in too deep to take any of it back. I feel so stupid." Gwil fretted, pacing over toward the navy sofa and resting on the arm of it.

While you stood taking in the shocking new info, a more heavy realization settled over your thoughts. You might as well have been married to Gwilym Lee. He was always around, and you always seemed to want him to be.

"Gwil... what the fuck?" You asked, boggled. A little angry, but mostly confused.

"I don't know why I just kept lying. I don't know what to do now, I'm sorry," He hung his head as you went on processing his confession.

You couldn't really blame Gwilym, the two of you had been basically lying to acquaintances for years now. But anyone who took the time to actually ask was always given your long confusing backstory. Actually lying was new. But you just couldn't blame him. So... so what if his new castmates thought you'd vowed to each other till death parted you? They'd fade from one screen to another, like most of all of Gwilym's former castmates had before; coworkers who barely took the time to understand the inner workings of your relationship with Gwilym. Because you were always together. What was the use in trying to explain that away?

"I guess..." You sighed, stepping close to Gwilym as you thought out loud. "We'll just say that... Olive kept trying to take our rings off. If anyone asks why we don't wear any." There wasn't much of a different choice, was there?

"We... we will?" Gwilym lifted his head and peered confusedly up to you.

"Well, it's either that or I explain you lied and embarrass you in front of everyone." You let out a humorless laugh, hating the way your comment made Gwilym cringe.

"And there's no use in that. So, if anyone asks, that's what we'll say." You decided, submitting into the spot fate carved out for you alongside Gwilym.

"Thank you." He nodded meaningfully, daring to shoot you a look that relayed just how much he meant what he said.

"Looks like we'll be sharing a bed to top it all off." You chuckled sleepily, spinning away from the main room.

"Well the couch can-" Gwilym sounded pitiful as you drifted away.

"It's a big bed, Gwil. Come on." You sighed, shuffling toward it.

As you silently unpacked and settled your things into the places they'd remained for three more weeks, you came upon the gift Lucy had greeted you with so selflessly. You admired the clutch and the little gems in the sticking that reminded you of fossils, that in turn reminded you of a certain set of eyes.

When you floated to bed with the simple thought of Joe's gaze locking on yours, your chest filled with feathers.

As you closed your eyes to the long day, a dreadful realization settled the flutter in your stomach.

You'd finally found the man you'd been looking for, but you'd signed up for so much more with another.

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

@imtheinvisiblequeen​ @im-an-adult-ish​ @sonic-volcano​ @joemazzmatazz​ @almightygwil​ @inthedayswhenlandswerefew​ @slutforbritdick​ @drivenbybri​

[limologic]

Vincent van Gogh suicide note

At 37, Van Gogh shot himself and died in his brother’s arms, but before his death, he struggled with philosophical concepts of identity, purpose, and searching for a moral compass. His art became his outlet to find peace, although his profoundly unique and controversial artwork was only truly appreciated after his death... In his lifetime he only sold one painting. He traveled learning new techniques but remained fixated on painting an atmosphere of brooding darkness.

Apart from painting, Van Gogh expressed his thoughts and ideas in letters to his brother encompassing the philosophical concepts tackled by even the most elite philosophers such as the nature of existence and understanding how to live. His revelations and perceptions shed light on how he wanted to lead his life and work towards finding peace.

At 25, his letter to his brother explains eloquently something we all struggle with— working for a lifelong goal rather than becoming successful overnight.

This letter was written in April 1878:

I’ve been thinking about what we discussed, and I couldn’t help thinking of the words ‘we are today what we were yesterday’. This isn’t to say that one must stand still and ought not try to develop oneself, on the contrary, there are compelling reasons to do and think so.

But in order to remain faithful to those words one may not retreat and, once one has started to see things with a clear and trusting eye, one ought not to abandon or deviate from that.

They who said ‘we are today what we were yesterday’, those were honnêtes hommes, which is apparent from the constitution they drew up, which will remain for all time and of which it has rightly been said that it was written with a ray from on high and a finger of fire. It is good to be an ‘honnête homme’ and truly to endeavour to become one both almost and altogether, and one does well if one believes that being an ‘homme intérieur et spirituel’ is part of it.

If one only knew for certain that one belonged among them, one would always go one’s way, calmly and collectedly, never doubting that things would turn out well. There was once a man who went into a church one day and asked, can it be that my zeal has deceived me, that I have turned down the wrong path and have gone about things the wrong way, oh, if only I could rid myself of this uncertainty and have the firm conviction that I will eventually overcome and succeed. And then a voice answered him, “And if you knew that for certain, what would you do? Act now as though you knew it for certain and thou shalt not be ashamed.” Then the man went on his way, not faithless but believing, and returned to his work, no longer doubting or wavering.

As far as being an homme intérieur et spirituel is concerned, couldn’t one develop that in oneself through knowledge of history in general and of certain people of all eras in particular, from biblical times to the Revolution and from The odyssey to the books of Dickens and Michelet? And couldn’t one learn something from the work of the likes of Rembrandt or from Weeds by Breton, or The four times of the day by Millet, or Saying grace by Degroux, or Brion, or The conscript by Degroux (or else by Conscience), or his Apothecary, or The large oaks by Dupré, or even the mills and sand flats by Michel?

It’s by persevering in those ideas and things that one at last becomes thoroughly leavened with a good leaven, that of sorrowful yet always rejoicing, and which will become apparent when the time of fruitfulness is come in our lives, the fruitfulness of good works.

The ray from on high doesn’t always shine on us, and is sometimes behind the clouds, and without that light a person cannot live and is worth nothing and can do nothing good, and anyone who maintains that one can live without faith in that higher light and doesn’t worry about attaining it will end up being disappointed.

We’ve talked quite a lot about what we feel to be our duty and how we should arrive at something good, and we rightly came to the conclusion that first of all our goal must be to find a certain position and a profession to which we can devote ourselves entirely.

And I think that we also agreed on this point, namely that one must pay special attention to the end, and that a victory achieved after lifelong work and effort is better than one achieved more quickly.

He who lives uprightly and experiences true difficulty and disappointment and is nonetheless undefeated by it is worth more than someone who prospers and knows nothing but relative good fortune. For who are they, those in whom one most clearly notices something higher? — it is those to whom the words ‘workers, your life is sad, workers, you suffer in life, workers, you are blessed’ are applicable, it is those who show the signs of ‘bearing a whole life of strife and work without giving way’. It is good to try and become thus.

So we go on our way ‘undefessi favente Deo’.

As far as I’m concerned, I must become a good minister, who has something to say that is good and can be useful in the world, and perhaps it’s good after all that I have a relatively long time of preparation and become secure in a firm conviction before I’m called upon to speak about it to others. It is wise, before one begins that work, to gather together a wealth of things that could benefit others.

Do let us go on quietly, examining all things and holding fast to that which is good, and trying always to learn more that is useful, and gaining more experience.

Woe-spiritedness is quite a good thing to have, if only one writes it as two words, woe is in all people, everyone has reason enough for it, but one must also have spirit, the more the better, and it is good to be someone who never despairs.

If we but try to live uprightly, then we shall be all right, even though we shall inevitably experience true sorrow and genuine disappointments, and also probably make real mistakes and do wrong things, but it’s certainly true that it is better to be fervent in spirit, even if one accordingly makes more mistakes, than narrow-minded and overly cautious. It is good to love as much as one can, for therein lies true strength, and he who loves much does much and is capable of much, and that which is done with love is well done. If one is moved by some book or other, for instance, just to mention something, ‘The swallow, the lark, the nightingale’, The longing for autumn, ‘From here I see a lady’, ‘Never this unique little village’ by Michelet, it’s because it’s written from the heart in simplicity and with poverty of spirit.

If one were to say but few words, though ones with meaning, one would do better than to say many that were only empty sounds, and just as easy to utter as they were of little use.

Love is the best and most noble thing in the human heart, especially when it has been tried and tested in life like gold in the fire, happy is he and strong in himself who has loved much and, even if he has wavered and doubted, has kept that divine fire and has returned to that which was in the beginning and shall never die. If only one continues to love faithfully that which is verily worthy of love, and does not squander his love on truly trivial and insignificant and faint-hearted things, then one will gradually become more enlightened and stronger. The sooner one seeks to become competent in a certain position and in a certain profession, and adopts a fairly independent way of thinking and acting, and the more one observes fixed rules, the stronger one’s character becomes, and yet that doesn’t mean that one has to become narrow-minded.

It is wise to do that, for life is but short and time passes quickly. If one is competent in one thing and understands one thing well, one gains at the same time insight into and knowledge of many other things into the bargain.

It’s sometimes good to go about much in the world and to be among people, and at times one is actually obliged and called upon to do so, or it can be one way of ‘throwing oneself into one’s work unreservedly and with all one’s might’, but he who actually goes quietly about his work, alone, preferring to have but very few friends, goes the most safely among people and in the world. One should never trust it when one is without difficulties or some worry or obstacle, and one shouldn’t make things too easy for oneself. Even in the most cultured circles and the best surroundings and circumstances, one should retain something of the original nature of a Robinson Crusoe or a savage, for otherwise one hath not root in himself, and never let the fire in his soul go out but keep it going, there will always be a time when it will come in useful. And whosoever continues to hold fast to poverty for himself, and embraces it, possesses a great treasure and will always hear the voice of his conscience speaking clearly. Whosoever hears and follows the voice in his innermost being, which is God’s best gift, ultimately finds therein a friend and is never alone.

Happy is he who has faith in God, for he shall overcome all of life’s difficulties in the end, though it be not without pain and sorrow. One cannot do better than to hold fast to the thought of God and endeavour to learn more of Him, amidst everything, in all circumstances, in all places and at all times; one can do this with the Bible as with all other things. It is good to go on believing that everything is miraculous, more so than one can comprehend, for that is the truth, it is good to remain sensitive and lowly and meek in heart, even though one sometimes has to hide that feeling, because that is often necessary, it is good to be very knowledgeable about the things that are hidden from the wise and prudent of the world but that are revealed as though by nature to the poor and simple, to women and babes. For what can one learn that is better than that which God has put by nature into every human soul, that which in the depths of every soul lives and loves, hopes and believes, unless one should wilfully destroy it? There, in that, is the need for nothing less than the boundless and miraculous, and a man does well if he is satisfied with nothing less and doesn’t feel at home until he has acquired it.

That is the avowal that all great men have expressed in their works, all who have thought a little more deeply and have sought and worked a little harder and have loved more than others, who have launched out into the deep of the sea of life. Launching out into the deep is what we too must do if we want to catch anything, and if it sometimes happens that we have to work the whole night and catch nothing, then it is good not to give up after all but to let down the nets again at dawn.

So let us simply go on quietly, each his own way, always following the light ‘sursum corda’, and as such who know that we are what others are and that others are what we are, and that it is good to have love one to another namely of the best kind, that believeth all things and hopeth all things, endureth all things and never faileth.

And not troubling ourselves too much if we have shortcomings, for he who has none has a shortcoming nonetheless, namely that he has none, and he who thinks he is perfectly wise would do well to start over from the beginning and become a fool.

We are today what we were yesterday, namely ‘honnêtes hommes’, but ones who must be tried with the fire of life to be innerly strengthened and confirmed in that which they are by nature through the grace of God.

May it be so with us, old boy, and I wish you well on your way, and God be with you in all things, and make you succeed at that, that is what is wished you with a hearty handshake at your departure.

Your most loving brother,

Vincent

The Essential Letter is an anthology containing 265 letters written by Van Gogh, which contains about a third of all the surviving letters he wrote.

Image Sources:

biography.com, uploads2.wikiart.org, blogs.elpais.com, feelgrafix.com

[sedge-and-sanctuary]

The Sanctuary Pack: Names

Like I said in that ask, I’ve been workin on Wolf Names!

Seeing everyone actually “doing worldbuilding” for their packs instead of just having them lie in a ditch & cuss like humans has inspired me lmao so. Baby’s First Wolf Worldbuilding: How do the wolves of Sanctuary get their names?

If anyone wants to use any of the names or conventions I mention here, please go right ahead!

[this ended up extremely long so. it’s under the cut]

Naming Rights:

Typically, the mother of a litter names the pups. 

Usually, the breeding male only contributes his genetics, and doesn’t raise a litter himself. Mothers are therefore considered closer to the pups, and get naming dibs. 

This rule isn’t set in stone, however! A breeding male who does help raise the pups may sometimes get naming rights, or an especially strict pack-leader might demand to name all pups born into their pack (this is a pretty huge infringement in wolf society, and would point to an unjust or even tyrannical leader).

For litters with no mothers or multiple mothers, naming rights go to the birth parent(s), if applicable, and/or are split between the parents. For instance, Harvey, Eight, and Bella’s litter had two moms (they were adopted by Rover and Seven), and they split naming rights! Rover named Harvey and Bella, and Seven named Eight.

As a sign of goodwill, the mother may grant naming rights to another animal.

This right is almost exclusively given to animal that was important to the pup’s birth or early survival. For instance: Seven let Finch name her pup, Rime, because he agreed to be a surrogate for her and Rover. 

This contribution doesn’t have to be so direct, however! If a cougar shared its kill with a pregnant wolf, or a lone-wolf shared their den to shelter a whelping mother, the mother might choose to grant naming rights to the animal involved. Between wolves, this is considered a pretty big deal: In a way, it’s like welcoming the namer into your family, or at least your pack.

Other animals don’t always understand the Naming Right, and frequently decline (very offensive in the wolf world), or else name the pups something that’s normal to their species, but strange by wolf standards (for instance, owls are usually named in short, soft sounds that a wolf would find nearly impossible to produce).

Wild vs Captive Names

Captive Names

Because many of the wolves in The Sanctuary Pack were born & raised in captivity, they have names a wild wolf would probably consider pretty strange! Captive names follow no strict convention; whatever the humans (or other captive animals) around decided the wolf should be named- that’s what it is!

For example:

-Seven’s litter were all named in birth order; "Wolf One, Wolf Two” etc by the wildlife conservationists who raised them. She was Wolf Seven out of eight.

-Rover claims to have been nameless until adolescence, when she escaped captivity and was given a name by a feral dog in the human settlement she lived in afterwards. Honestly, who knows if that’s true.

-Hat Trick was named by the human who reared her: she was the third in a litter of three (a hat trick is when a player scores three goals in a single hockey game) (Hat Trick definitely doesn’t know this. She does not know what hockey is).

Wild Names

Wild names, on the other hand, are names wolves might typically have if they were born & raised in the wild. Broadly, wild wolves are named after things that exist in the natural environment, but I think this varies a lot from pack-to-pack! Different packs packs will follow different naming conventions, and some packs may follow multiple of these conventions, or none at all!

If names are passed down family or legacy names, the name almost always passes matrilineally. 

Some different wild naming conventions include:

-Pups are named after their appearance (Dacite is a grayish wolf; she was named for a type of grayish rock).

-Pups are named following the same theme as their mothers-- lineage can be traced back through these names. 

For example: Oriole named her daughter Grackle: both of these are species of blackbird. 

-Pups are named for a trait/virtue their mother wants them to have.

 For example: Dace is boisterous and confident; a bit of a bully. Her mother Saturn wanted her to be a less of a jock, so named her after something small and unassuming

-Pups are named after some element of the time & place they were born. Many packs also give each pup a nickname, derived from the birth name, that shares a common sound across a family. This gives the otherwise random birth names an element of connection/legacy.

 For example: sisters Vulture, Carrion and Incisor might be nicknamed Renvul, Orion and Sorin, with the ‘rin’ sound being universal across the family group.

-Pups are given multi-part names. This is especially common in larger and older packs, where many shorter, common names have already been used. Parts of these names are usually ‘legacy’ names, passed on like human surnames, or shared pack names. These wolves may go by their full names, or just a nickname. you’ve read warrior cats, you know whats up w this one

For example: in a pack called the White Pines pack, a wolf might be White Hawk’s Claw (they likely go just by “Hawk”), where ‘Hawk’ is unique, “White” is shared between pack members, and “Claw” is shared between family members. A sibling could be named White Sharp Claw, and an unrelated pack member might be called White River Rapids.

Wolves may also only have a two-part name, usually consisting of a unique name combined with either a pack or family name. Like-- Squirrel Flight, or Yellow Fang, for two completely random examples.

-Pups aren’t named until adolescence or adulthood, and are named for a feat they have performed, or trait they’ve proven to posses. Rarely, these names are changed later in a wolf’s life, as a mark of either great shame or great honor.

Trait names can be simple or more complex, and may list traits directly or metaphorically (eg, by comparing to an object or animal with a certain trait). Wolves with these usually don’t go by a nickname.

For example: Keen-Eye, Swift, Light-Step, Valor, Lark-Tongue, Headlong

Feat names are usually compound, and vary in length. Wolves with these mostly go by nicknames. There’s some power-play here, however: high-ranking wolves are more likely to be called their full name, uptight/prideful wolves might insist on being called their full name, and wolves named after an impressive feat- or horrible crime- might be called their full name as a mark of respect or shame. 

For Example: Brings-Down-Bears (likely called by full name, honorable) Bone-Carver (”Bone”), Flood-Swimmer (”Flood”), Mends-Wounds (”Mend”), Flees-The-Fight (likely called by full name, shameful).

Significance

Wolf-names signal more than just who an individual is.

 At a minimum, both wild and captive names say a lot about where a wolf comes from; a captive wolf’s name obviously betrays their background, but a wild wolf’s name also says something about them! 

Even setting aside differences in naming convention and pack culture, a desert wolf might be named Dune, Saguaro, or Fennec, and if they travelled to the mountains would stand out among wolves named Trout, Lichen, and Cedar. 

Names can also, as mentioned above, signal who a wolf’s family is (legacy names), the circumstances of their birth (gifting name-rights), and the culture of their birth pack. There’s a lot of history wrapped up in them!

On a meta note, this is why I have a rule never to change the names of wolves I get in trades (if they’ve been named). Their names tell a story about the packs they come from, even if their previous owners didn’t write them lore!

Changing Names

Wolves sometimes change their names, or the naming schemes they follow, after a serious life event. This is a pretty big deal; as discussed above, wolf names have a deeper significance than just as identifiers. As a wolf, changing your name- or even just the things you name your pups-  essentially represents cutting yourself off from your family or your past and declaring a new affiliation.

For example:

-Finch hated his time in captivity. He changed his name from Fincher when he escaped to the wild. While only a small variation, this switch between what was clearly a captive name to a plausible wild name was Finch’s way of declaring himself free of human control. This is also why, when he was given the change to name Seven’s pup, he gave her a wild-sounding name: Rime. He doesn’t want to pass on the legacy of his captivity.

-Saturn and her siblings were all named after celestial bodies. While she kept her own name, she parted with her birth pack on ugly terms, and no longer considers herself a part of that family, so doesn’t use their naming conventions. She named her own pups, Dace and Grayling, after fish.

[theholycovenantrpg]

CONGRATULATIONS, PHOEBE! YOU’VE BEEN ACCEPTED FOR THE ROLE OF SALOME.

Admin Rosey: This was incredibly difficult. Both applications were stunning and shined in the limelight - but there were these small details, Phoebe, that you included that had us absolutely captivated. Salome, I think, is a difficult character to encompass so wholly while not overlooking the details. But you managed to do that, to tie her all together while not putting her in a package. The application was such a joy to read from beginning to end - the way that you tied so many different characters into her, into her future. It was an absolute thrill to read because I was able to see so much while still being tantalized by possibilities. I can’t wait to see how Salome shines on the dash! Please create and send in your account, review the information on our CHECKLIST, and follow everyone on the FOLLOW LIST. Welcome to the Holy Land!

OUT OF CHARACTER

Alias | Phoebe

Age | 22

Personal Pronouns | She/her

Activity Level | Pretty active (6/10?) due to a national lockdown, but I’m a postgrad student so some days are busier than others.

Timezone | GMT

Triggers | REMOVED

How did you find the group?  | I check out the ‘new rpg’ tag a few times a year & your graphics and then everything drew me in

Current/Past RP Accounts | Masha Vetrova @ ProchnostRPG

IN CHARACTER

Character | SALOME

What drew you to this character? |  Typically I tend to go for characters who have a fundamental moral alignment of ‘good’ (even if it’s been a bit corrupted) so at first I was really drawn to Gabriel/Abaddon/Isolde. I even brainstormed them a bit before moving onto the demon bios.

But then I read Salome’s bio, and I really couldn’t get her out of my mind. There is something so delicious about her, so dastardly poetic. In a way, she’s as pure of heart as many morally good characters - patient, steadfast, true to herself. It’s just that her heart is a blackened one. A nature so rotted that even eternal damnation in Hell’s Abyss was not enough. The only fitting destiny was a demonic one, and the wings tore out of her body as if they’d been there, dormant, all along.

I know the story of Salome (thanks Oscar Wilde) & I just adore the way in which the bio weaves the biblical story into this world and this character. Salome the Temptress, unflinching as she demands the head of John the Baptist and damns all around her to Hell. This one line in particular from Rosey really, really captured it all for me:

No, the minute her mortal heart stopped beating and she opened her eyes to the fires of Hell, there was only laughter to be heard – pouring from her lips as melodic as a lark’s song, a stark contrast to the wailing and grinding of teeth.

Salome feels young and charming and spoiled and light and warm and content and this image - her descending into Hell, disrupting it with her peals of laughter - sums it all up. She is arrogant and uninhibited with her sins plain for all to see. But she is also clever. She is a girl who dances with the dead; demon through and through. She lets them openly see it so that they do not think to look closer. For if they did, surely they would see Salome was more damned than they’d ever envisioned? See that the open delight she projects - the laughter and fevered dancing, - all distract from a mind capable of cold, calm strategy? See that her hands are beautiful because they are stained with the first blood of this new world?

…All of which is to say that Salome the Temptress has worked that tempting magic of hers on me too - hook, line and sinker.

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? | If it serves your guys’ plotting vision then absolutely! I’d just ask to write the death scene/have some say in the way it went down. (The person killing her off better be prepared for the fight of their lives).

FUTURE PLOT IDEAS

• (small) PLEASURES •

Grand plans and power grabs are all very well, but day to day (on the dash lol) Salome is ruled by small pleasures and indulgences. What was the point of forging this new world if not to luxuriate in it?

01. I’m very curious to see how her relations with all the other demons play out. Salome is by and large a solitary creature - the natural result of her arrogance - but I think there are some demons she favours more than others. I could see a potential friendship (or the lesser version of that bond) with ORIAS, for one. There were those who saw something akin to witchcraft in Salome too. There had been envy, when Orias was hailed the Original Witch, but even Salome has come to recognise the ungodly power that resides in them. They are one of the only creatures that Salome has any real respect for. She understands that there is value to learn in what Orias can teach.They call them the false prophet - it seems poetic that Salome is drawn to her. (So ! Much ! Potential ! Witchy ! Power !)

02. So too can I imagine Salome having a particular curiosity towards MAMMON. Hungry and dark and empty, Mammon is probably Salome’s demonic ideal. With mortal origins herself, they represent a different kind of demon – one she thinks is utterly beautiful. Their future ambitions could align, both with a deep, aching appetites, but I can also see her purely enjoying the unique company of them. Salome does not treat her ability with any real respect or caution; she sees the dead as a game. think she’d genuinely delight in Mammon mimicking her gift and the amusements that could follow. (Ok not to say I’m suggesting deal body party games but it’s very that)

03. Salome gets equal pleasure (if not a great deal more) from less-than-friendly relations. She pushes purely because other people’s irritation amuses her. I think her relationship with AZAZEL in particular could be very, very fun. Of all the demons, I can see Salome having a particularly petty dislike / jealousy of Azazel for a few many reasons.. A) they are both products of indulgence, daughters of parents (literally and figuratively) who spoiled them rotten. Similarities repel and all that. B) Azazel is part of the de facto royal family, favoured by JUDAS.. and DAMIEN .. and ABADDON .. and Salome has not ever handled that well. She watched on as they, along with the rest of hell, fell for her and thus a time-old grudge was born. C) Azazel forms part of the Holy Land’s rulership. A land that was won because of Salome (in her mind) and one she feels has rights of ownership too. I imagine that Salome genuinely despises that the role was given to Azazel of all demons. I - I just sense so many great opportunities for both bickering and battling.

04. Salome draws great pleasure from her own magnetism. Devotion has followed her throughout the stages of her life, but it too has come to wax and wane. It is there in BASTIEN though, and it’s one of the connections I’m most excited for. He satisfies her addiction, and in return she is both doting and cruel. There is some value in him politically, bu it’i more of a .. personal connection. That could change though. Or, perhaps a genuine fondness might develop, in the same way that other celestial beings seem to be fond of their animal companions. A muted form of possessiveness over his gaze and his wonderment (which may well manifest in Salome having a particular resentment towards EVANGELINE) . If he were to share out his devotion, or if it was curtailed by any harm coming to Bastien himself, Salome would not be happy. Perhaps his attentions have come to somewhat satiate her appetite and tentatively restrains her darkest needs - a fact that neither of them have realised. (!!!!!)

• (medium) OPPORTUNITIES •

05. There are some things she keeps to herself - at least for now. There’s a lot of potential for self-paras or connections with the wider RP plot. To me, Salome has something akin to true addiction inside of her. It was there from the moment of her mortal birth, and it worsened with each hit. Essentially, I think an inescapable plot point is that Salome is a lil’ bit bloodthirsty. I think this would largely be developed through my own musings and mortals who are just ‘extras’ to this RP, but I’d love to deal with the intricacies of Salome having to cover this habit. Maybe she continues to use others as scapegoats; maybe she chooses her victims with careful attention so that they go unnoticed; maybe she does it in such a way that implies the presence of a beast or daemonium.

( In fact, the concept of the DAEMONIUM is verrrrrrrrrry intriguing. Creates who inhabit corpses and do nothing but feed their hunger? Sounds like a character I know. This is a potential plot point that relies on your guys’ vision and some collaborative world-building, but I think there is definitely exciting potential to explore these creatures through Salome. Imagine the carnage of her trying (successfully or unsuccessfully) to out-possess them.)

06. I think Salome would take any opportunity to poison Infernum’s highest-ranking. This isn’t so much be her political ‘end-goal’, but an opportunity for some real entertainment. It would be a game, try and crack the kinship that exists among  AZAZEL, JUDAS, DAMIEN and ABADDON; injecting a few words here, a few doubts there, and see if their loyalty lasts.. She knows Judas from a past life and has watched him oh so carefully overtheir many entwined centuries - I imagine she is a gnat to him, pushing all the right (and thus wrong) buttons. It would a sport to try and make his familial dynasty crumble. Perhaps she might attempt this by throwing doubt on to Abaddon in particular, whose aura contains a flatness that Salome cannot read. Salome doesn’t know of the goodness that lies in her, but perhaps she might find out. Regardless, I think Salome’s worst imaginable fate would be being locked in the Black Cells, unable to dance and revel in the world, so she harbours dislike for Abaddon anyway…

07. EPHEMERA is an opportunity that Salome had not anticipated. And let me tell you, boy do I adore this connection. It strikes me as a true clashing of teeth and spirits, but not as simple as one born from pure malice or hatred. Salome feels many things towards Ephemera, but she certainly doesn’t hate her - even if the ferocity between them implies otherwise sometimes. There’s a thin line between love and hate, as they say, though perhaps neither of those terms sum up Salome an Ephemera. It seems to be pure passion and temptation. I can’t say where this could lead without the thoughts of a possible Ephemera writer, but I’m sure it will be nothing short of explosive. I think this connection is the most Salome has ever felt towards another being, and that in itself is curious to her.

• (great) AMBITIONS •

The possible destinies of Salome. The following are all ways in which her story could play out, and all of them are quite dramatic. Who’s afraid of the big, bad plots….

08. Infernum technically has no throne. In order to thus claim it, perhaps one first has to be built? Salome would have no qualms choosing a side in another demonic cvil war. Why, if DAMIEN were to stake the claim of his birthright against JUDAS, he could count on Salome for support. If Judas were to live up to his title and betray the antichrist, he could count on Salome for support - if he got there before the other. Salome will happily help them consolidate a throne through bloodshed and betrayal. In fact, it will be her pleasure.

For through it all, Salome will be the demon who has thought to use MICHAEL. They are insufferable and righteous and (quite literally) archangel incarnate - really, if she had the chance, she knows that their blood would be the most utterly divine to spill - but they are useful. Undeniably powerful. Salome knows she must be careful here, but she enjoys the undisguised exasperation on their face. As if they have not yet thought to recognise the ambition that lies in both of them. If they helped her ascend to the throne of Infurnem, she would be a far more acquiescent to Caelum’s interests than the current leadership. Why? Because Salome would not act - would not even pretend to act - on behalf of demonic interests. If the best chance of her claiming ownership of the world depended on sharing it with Michael, then perhaps she would be willing.

09. But power can manifest in more than one way. She could follow such dreams, or she could become the world’s nightmares. And wouldn’t that be more indulgent? Where others hold power or peace as their prime ambition, Salome would get equal pleasure from the simple decay of all things. The world could rot and she would laugh - the dead are often better company than the living. Ultimately Salome would start another war without hesitation; she would sacrifice everything and everyone for the beautiful carnage of utter destruction. It had been so easy with the War of the Last Rites, but she had been disappointed when it ended in peace. That will not happen again; she will be ready next time. When all factions are suitably engaged, she will raise her own force and strike them all down together. — Such are her thoughts anyway. Thoughts that started developing when she met RYUK. To her, the power Ryuk holds is breathtaking. There is no other ability she desires quite as much. For if she were to contain both of their powers within herself, she would have dominion over a force so great that no living creature - mortal or immortal - could ever hope to defeat. The dead. It is a delicate strategy, but she has the patience for it. And if there was any who would spill the blood of a horseman just to see what happened, then it would surely be Salome.

10. Where there are mortals, there is faith. The relationship between Salome and the faith of the HUNDRED-EYED GOD intrigues me. In her mortal life, faith was an amusement. Its believers has been her playthings - perhaps they are again in this world. ISOLDE is as all prophets are; tempting. I think that Salome could potentially decide to join the faith – or give the impression to do so. Such a deceit would be fun and far from difficult - already she joins in on their rituals, her feet unable to stay away from any form of rhythmic movement, even ones more gentle than her usual tastes. A demon of relative influence, perhaps her faith would be welcomed amongst those most holy, perceived as a positive development in the faith’s recruitment. Perhaps she finds a currently unknown fellowship in the form of ESTIENNE, whose manipulation of the shadows surely speaks of some rot in his heart.

And all for one simple reason. Where there is faith, there are the faithful. Where there is the faithful, there is the potential for bloodshed so rich - so intoxicating - that she would play this long, patient game just to taste a singular drop. She has never been able to recreate the electrification of that first diabolical deed, when she claimed a saint’s head as her prize. She had danced and damned and thirsted ever since; the blood of an ALL-SEEING PRIESTESS might just quench such a need.

• (potential) DOWNFALLS •

Ah, but all of the above are just potential ideas. It is just as likely that Salome would be subject to some downfalls and some .. rude awakenings. I adore the fact that both MICHAEL and RYUK have such different perceptions of their connections. They are both far smarter than she gives credit. Michael is, ultimately, more powerful than Salome on more ways than one - they will surely outplay her as they have everyone, though she might be of some use to them too. In Ryuk, Salome has started a war she might live to regret - one she hasn’t even realised she’s fighting. She has perhaps been a little naive here, and it will be quite something when she realises.

There are other possible connections that could prove Salome’s downfall – or at least a be a hindrance. In my mind, it is GABRIEL, ZADKIEL and CAPHRIEL that she is most weary of. They each have a light to them that she does not care for, along with the arrogance present in all angels. I say in the following section that Salome has no fears; they represent the closest thing she has to possible concerns. I don’t think she yet knows any of them particularly well outside of the War, but she has thought of their powers. The latter two in particular harbour gifts that could, potentially, expose Salome, and thus she has developed a specific distaste for them. And of course, she probably finds them particularly fun to antagonise.

IN DEPTH

Driving Character Motivation | [TW: Implied suicide in section I ]

I think a large part of my attraction to Salome is that she isn’t really driven by an external force. Partly she is driven by the deep appetite within her (which I’ve mentioned more in other parts of this application) but I also think her motivations stem from her own intrinsic nature; she is pushed by her own heart towards ambitions that are mere extensions of her character. I think there are three central aspects of her character that best explain her motivations and actions: a complete lack of fear, an overwhelming self-adoration and a deep, petulant intolerance of monotony. Together, they’ve created a woman - a demon - amply motivated to do any of the above listed plot ideas.. One who simply does as she wants for no reason other than want itself. Below I’ve given three early examples (set in BP) of these traits taking root (and rot):

I • For what use is fear to those who are damned?

It was said that Jesus’ tomb lay empty. Through the wind Salome heard whispers of women who’d gone to mourn and found nothing - only stone and airwhere a pierced and bloodied body should have lain. It seemed the proclaimed child of God had evaded corporeal death yet again; that the words of the old, tiresome preacher whose head she once cradled had proved true. Their claims and their preachings were not false as her father had accused - but really, had not Salome always known that? Was it not she who had delivered John’s salvation, cast him up to his venerated Heaven? And as it happened - as both the head and the soul of John his body - had not she felt her own moment of pure, divine bliss?

It brought clarity; there was no hesitation in her now. She stood alone, looking out upon the depths of the Galilee Sea with an unconfined grin spread wide upon her face. She had known, always known, that the boredom of this life was only temporary. The adoration she received on earth had grown dull, she sought new, greater opportunities for her talents. There had existed a deep craving inside for as long as she could remember, one that had become increasingly difficult to satiate. It told her that her destiny lay outside of Heaven, that both the prophet and her father the king had been right to look upon her with fear. For if John and Jesus had ascended upwards, could she not leap down into her own descent? The idea of it felt so simple, so natural, so potentially powerful. Neither death nor the the promise of damnation brought her anything but intrigue. She thought of the wicked and the cruel, of the infernal depths to which she was bound, and felt only satisfied.

Mortal though she was, Salome was not afraid. Why should she fear her own destiny? Why should she fear for those she left behind? Fear had no place in a heart without hope. With a simple step, she threw herself into the icy water and waited to reach the blackest depths below.

II • For what use is love to those who are satisfied?

Where there was Salome there was laughter - her own, that was - sharp, loud and melodic. When she first opened her mouth it had sliced through Hell and turned all of its eyes onto her. Rightly so, for she she had laughed as she’d evaded Abaddon’s grasp, clawing herself out of the Abyss of mortal souls and claiming a rightful place in the depths of Hell. The Morningstar, sat above all, had not yet even spoken when Salome had started to dance.

She could feel Hell’s eyes on her, and what better way to greet such attentions than with that she did best. She had reaped rich rewards for it before, and she would do so again. A fleeting glance at her naked body showed her this realm had not dulled her beauty but made magnified it, her skin aglow with the fiery light of hellfire. And so Salome danced, feverishly but deliberately, losing herself in the spirit of the moment. What could anyone do but simply bask in the splendor of her new existence? As she raised her arms above her head, a pair of wings cut through her flesh and slowly tore out of her. Iridescent, they unfurled as if they too had felt the call of her movement.

A feast of celebration had followed. Salome could only laugh in delight as she looked upon demonic faces of adoration, gazes more alike than different to those she had received on earth. Seated at the left-hand of Lucifer himself, she had slotted into the natural order of Hell as if it had been her descent that had been prophesied on earth. How many in Hell, with all its angelic origins, had the blood of a true holy man on their hands? Perhaps just herself – and, she supposed, the man sat to the right of the Prince. Judas Iscariot. The Great Betrayer. A man she had known of in her mortality, a follower who’d wrought a downfall more entertaining than any Salome had otherwise witnessed. He looked on at her with a hard glint in his eyes and she merely smiled back - for Salome understood why. Here she was, a fellow mortal in Hell with infernal wings protruding from her back where Judas had none. It all made such perfect sense; Salome was truly different. Truly transcendent. Made and marked by forces darker then most of Hell could stand. In that moment (and all moments thereafter), Salome was acutely aware of the true power that resided within her, spilling out through her beauty, allure and wretched talents. Why, she was utterly glorious.

III • For what use is peace to those who are bored?

Eternity stretched out in front of her; memories of the wouldn’t fade. Of all the differences between immortal and mortal existence, it was only the nature of time that had ever frustrated her. To Salome, the centuries had passed by in both unfathomable speed and agonising monotony, the linearity of earth dead and gone. It seemed that in the face of an infinite future, even Hell could drag. It operated in a stasis that had begun to suffocate her and, gradually, had awakened once again an appetite that had only been temporally satiated. Lucifer dictated balance and moderation where Salome saw no reason for restraint. He had given her duties like none earth had ever dared, and she didn’t care to fulfil them. She had even grown tired of her puppetry, tired of dancing amongst such frustratingly passive bodies. There was, in a place of corruption, nobody left to actually corrupt; no opportunity to taste innocent or holy blood.

Over time she came to sense the quiet seeds of unrest in Hell, and she was gladdened by them. Once again a wicked smile graced her face, once again she twirled around the pits of Hell in anticipation. There was no better cure for boredom than chaos, and once she’d caught the scent of it her hunt could not be stopped. It had proven easy to have the whispers diverted and delivered to her ears - so many were under her spell, either terrified or infatuated. So Salome came to learn of plans of razing Hell against its master, ripping through worldly divides and claiming the earth she once lived on. At last - she could have wept from delight. And most entertaining of all, Salome had snatched the dice into her her hands.

How easy it would be to join the dissenters, to war with them against the order of Hell that had shackled her. How tempting it was, to dash their plans by raising her own blade to the Morningstar and plunging the world into carnage without warning. How fun, the thought of taking all she knew to Lucifer and laughing as he rained down revenge on the demons he had been foolish enough to trust. Impatient with monotony; patient in the face of action. Salome did not yet know what she would do, and she found utter delight in the potential of it all.

PARA SAMPLE

The Holy Land was not suited to revelry. It lacked the vitalityand decadent excessthat a true celebration required. And really, wasn’t this her domain? Nobody got more unadulterated pleasure from a celebration than Salome - she doubted that even the festivities of the Stygian Moon would be of renown without her inputs. This particular affair was proving even more tiresome than she’d foreseen. Every year she stands under the Triune Moon and watches as solemn vows are sworn; every year she wonders why they could not just be done so in private, sparing them all this tedium. She had said as much to Damien before as they had departed the comforts of the Black Palace, and had received little more than a scowl in response. But she knows her point has more merit than they’d care to admit. How long before these promises of harmony are exposed as a farce? At least that year promises some true entertainment.

Salome thinks all this as she watches the stage in front of her, eyes lazily switching between the three figures who stand upon it. The Sun, the Moon, the Stars; every pair of eyes in the sweeping crowd are trained on them. Salome can feel them. Or rather, she can’t feel the usual warmth of infatuated gazes on her own skin. Here she stood amongst hoards of mortals and beings more lowly than herself, and none were paying her their usual bouts of attention. The only thing that prevented a quiet tantrum was the knowledge that she was far from alone in feeling this agitation. Her stare flickered from the stage towards the figures of both Michael and Judas, and she could not help but smile. To eyes that had repeatedly examined them over centuries, the rigidity of their bodies betrayed them. She was far from the only one who felt the absence of centrality, and that, at least, brought her some pleasure.

Still, she only has so much patience for ceremonies not directed at her.  Yet no sooner did she shift to exit the crowd than did words delivered on the stage give her pause. Azazel’s voice, suitably haughty, repeating the typical sentiments of the Holy Land. This was the ‘Age of Peace’, Salome hears her say. Only the ‘cooperation of all factions and the formation of the tridium’ had rendered them ‘triumphant against the heretics who would cast all into darkness.’ This time she cannot hold in the delicate laugh that ripples through her. If only the annual repetition of such statements made them true. If only they knew of the true origins of the War that brought this so-called peace, of where the credit should rightfully lie. Though she knows it would be foolish - more than foolish - Salome can think of nothing but how simple it would be to stand above all and confess. She’d let them savour the details of her sins and her glories. She would laugh as they wilted under the weight of her revelations.

‘I’ve never seen you look so engrossed off of the battlefield.’

Her imaginings are cut off by quiet words from behind her. She needs not turn to identify the voice of Ephemera, familiar as it has come to be. Salome had, of course, seen her across the crowd - when did her eyes start to automatically seek her out so? - but marked her presence as an occupation for later. That Ephemera sought her out first is not necessarily unexpected, but certainly thrilling. There is no other presence that can so easily bring Salome out of a petulant mood, just as there is no other who can so easily put her in one. But she has found that where there is Ephemera, there is entertainment to be had.

“You have not seen me do many things,” she replies easily, as if they had long been having this conversation, “though I do believe I’ve offered.” And she has, more than once, tried to entice her with offers of dancing and hunting and enjoying all the vices of the world they fought for. She turns her head slowly to meet the watchful gaze of her once fighting-partner, a smirk on her lips as she widens her eyes in faux-innocence. They are two alike; mortals once but mortals no more, the first of their kinds. She knows Ephemera will not rise to her bait within the presence of other Angels, which only heightens her simpering expression. Salome has no such qualms about the thoughts of her own kin; their talk excites her, their gossip only confirms how many pay her heed. She has found no simpler joy than that of walking into the Black Palace and leaving excited whispers in her wake.

“I’m sure you’ll agree that celebrating won wars is less fun than waging them’, she continues, amusement ringing clear through her voice as she returned her gage purposefully to the stage. “I asked Azazel if she might add some zeal - perhapsmake those hounds do some tricks - but she seems to have ignored my good wishes”. Salome can feel the rolling of Angelic eyes next to her without even looking. It was so easy, so predictable, and yet anything but boring. That was the real curiosity of Ephemera, so easy to reel in and yet so resistant to truly jumping off the edge. She seemed halfway caught between accepting Salome’s allure and running from it, and the resistance only increased her desire. “Though your one is the more dull, I believe. So earnest - it’s quite exhausting.”

It is clear that Ephemera is acting advisor and strategist rather than - what? Friend? Enemy? Something in between? - whichraised the question as to why she had approached her in the first place. She thinks to ask, but when she opens her mouth to do so the crowd erupts in an applause more loud than she thinks the show was worthy of. Still, she brings her own hands together for the sheer relief that it is finally over. Her feet ache from standing bored for so long, her wings want to stretch open and wide. She wonders if a large enough quantity of alcohol might loosen Ephemera a little, but when she turns to declare this she finds that her companion has disappeared in the movement of so many people. A pity, but no real matter. She has never needed the company of others to create her own sport.

EXTRAS

[ My (WIP) pinterest for Salome can be found here. ]

Salome keeps no animal companion, for she has never felt much love for the nature of the earth. She finds it amusing that some Angels and Demons belittle themselves by keeping one. However, it is not an uncommon sight to see Salome walking with crows flying above her. Only on closer inspection would one realise those animals are but corpses, a puppetry Salome (alone) finds humorous.

Like all parts of herself, she harbours great love for her wings, and not only for the damnation that they represent. They are formed of what resembles a netting of fine, golden spider’s web. They seem to constantly change in the light, appearing to be more transparent than they are solid. Regal and beautiful, they are as Salome sees herself.

She is a fierce fighter and a connoisseur of bloodshed. Her weapon of choice is a trailing point blade, forged on the day of her arrival in Hell. She uses it exclusively for more.. intimate situations, and favours instead a simple longsword on the battlefield. She is however, proficient with most weaponry, as the corpses she can make fight use the same weapons they died wielding against her.

Though Infernum is the home she helped carve out, Salome spends a great deal of time in Sanctus Terra and travels to Caelum whenever the opportunity presents itself. Both locations amplify an itch deep within her soul, worsening her desire and thereby bringing greater satisfaction when she finally acts on the urge. She has not spilled any angelic blood in Caelum, though the temptation is strong, for she knows Michael has become astute to her presence. She has left a fair few victims in Sanctus Terra, a pursuit which has become less satisfying overtime. Still, Salome is careful. For all their talk of kinship, she is not sure that her fellow demons would refrain from locking her in the Black Cells if they had just cause.

[ aaaaaaand I leave you with the last verse of ‘Salome’, a poem by Mary Lamb. I honestly can’t describe it as anything over then *chef’s kiss*. I don’t know if Rosey read this when she was writing Salome’s bio, but I thought the writing style and tone and vibe and all beautifully mirrored each other?? Stunning. On that note, regardless of whether of not you think I’m right for Salome, thank you for the obvious amount of time/thought you’ve all put into this because it’s been really (really) fun to explore. ]

When painters would by art express Beauty in unloveliness, Thee, Herodias’ daughter, thee, They fittest subject take to be. They give thy form and features grace; But ever in they beauteous face They shew a steadfast cruel gaze, An eye unpitying; and amaze In all beholders deep they mark, That thou betrayest not one spark Of feeling for the ruthless deed, That did thy praiseful dance succeed. For on the head they make you look, As if a sullen joy you took, A cruel triumph, wicked pride, That for your sport a saint had died.

[musicollage]

Lali Puna. Faking The Books, 2004. Morr Music.  ~ [  Album Review |      1) Pitchfork  +  2) Tiny Mix Tapes  +    3) Stylus Magazine  ]

1) Even now, amidst this international shitstorm of laptop-meets-okay-musician circle jerks, the Weilheim, Germany supergroups-- The Notwist, Ms. John Soda, Lali Puna-- have maintained fairly unique personalities. Let's oversimplify: The Notwist remains the camp's darkest shade, preoccupied with melancholy and perhaps the most electronically involved. Ms. John Soda straddles rock and pop equally, coaching chocolately sweet vocals and the camp's most peppermint hooks. By analogy, Lali Puna is to riffs what Ms. John Soda is to melodies-- this is Weilheim's face of rock, its most outwardly energetic outfit and the closest this town gets to sweaty basement shows and fucking shit up wholesale.

Which doesn't say much, as Lali Puna's idea of fucking shit up on their 2001 release Scary World Theory seemed to be, at worst, breaking into a building and rearranging the furniture. Still, at the time, the album's gruffest tracks offered the most aggressive sounds Weilheim's palatable pop spectrum had yet delivered. And then last year, Ms. John Soda released their heavily rock-oriented While Talking EP, which, though only marginally enjoyable, branched out into harder terrain. Now, with Faking the Books, Lali Puna snatch the Weilheim riffing crown back from Ms. John Soda-- and thankfully, even top their labelmates melodically.

After a pleasant but ultimately faceless title track opener, Lali Puna provide a double-shot of well-wrought rippers: "Call 1-800-FEAR" is the first, boasting a no-nonsense drive, tight instrumental harmonies and undistracting electronic loops that bolster the song's pulse. Atop it all floats bandleader Valerie Trebeljahr's underwater vocals, processed enough so as not to sound incongruous or (gasp!) bedroomy. "Micronomic", the album's second single, follows in similar temperament, and while not my favorite track on the album, speaks to Lali Puna's ability to cradle their listener gently in melody for one second, and to punch him in the face with a dirty riff in the next.

"B-Movie" and "Left Handed", however, are without a doubt the album's standouts, and maybe the best rock songs in Lali Puna's catalog. "B-Movie" pulls off the Kim Gordon sing/speak that Ms. John Soda attempted to lesser success last year: Trebeljahr just nails that been-there-done-that apathy which works so well with the song's contrasting manic rock groove and pointed bass pulse. The loud, guitar-heavy chorus of "Left Handed" steps further away from Weilheim's distinguished trademarks than the band's other material. Its roaring rock factor was a point of contention when it was released as the album's first single, but in the context of the album it doesn't seem out of place at all: The song sports similarly atonal-to-tonal lyric deliveries as "B-Movie", and remains anchored firmly by the nervous, high-pitched synth line that opens the song and rides it out to the end.

As for the rest of Faking the Books, it's pleasant, and hardly unrealized, but it falls just a bit too close to the IDM pop lark that takes up so much space on CD racks and FireWire drives. And on an album on which this band so beautifully exceeds itself with songs like "B-Movie" and "Grin and Bear", tracks like "Geography-5" and "People I Know", which are content to simply be pretty, are just further proof that the gimmick of pairing electronic and traditional rock instrumentation has lost its edge, and that the genre must now rely on stronger songwriting to succeed. That said, Faking the Books is a confident stride in the right direction, and proves that, even within the confines of a tired concept, a great hook still goes a long way.

2) The history of brilliant electronic efforts fronted by mind-altered, bot-driven avatars is not a short one. From Kraftwerk to Devo to Miss Kittin, electronic music has always had a soft spot for people who can sing just like computers can. And, admittedly, it is all pretty cool. There is a certain awesomeness in imitating computers, a turn of the tables from trying to get computers to act like humans (which has never worked out very well).

Problem is, Lali Puna's latest effort, Faking the Books, isn't really going for fun, and there is hardly a wink in Valerie Trebeljahr's vacant, utterly sterile delivery; not even a raised eyebrow. We're talking about corporate takeover in "Micronomic," political corruption in "1-800-Fear," and cheating (!) in title track "Faking the Books"; and that's just the first three cuts. In an album heavy on concept, it all comes off as a trick, utterly unconvincing and disturbingly jaded.

To be sure, Faking the Books is still a worthy effort, and contains some undeniably beautiful moments. A lean string section on "Crawling by Numbers" serves as perfect counterpoint to spare, haunting keyboards. The driving percussion of "B-Movie" is as close to a rock-out track as bastardized IDM has ever previously achieved. And throughout the album's twelve tracks, an unlikely confluence of sound often gives way to the kind of sonic landscaping that few electronic acts can approach.

It's just hard what to make of all of it. Listening to Faking the Books makes you feel utterly alone; and maybe that's the whole point. It's difficult to play the album through and not recall Markus Acher's striking vocals on The Notwist's Neon Golden (who also provides guitars here); he's sullen, fairly quiet and not particularly dramatic, but entirely convincing. I want to believe Lali Puna. I just need for them to believe, too.

3) Lali Puna is one of the myriad groups putting out consistently intriguing material without taking the final step toward a defining masterwork. Their first album, Tridecoder, was often sterilized by their Stereolab-worship, and though they progressed towards a Teutonic amalgam of their own with Scary World Theory, they were still hampered by peculiar translation barriers. Often the lyrics came out deadened and awkward, as though misled by a translator fond of cruel pranks (the title track and its allusion to the ‘cookie monster’ was particularly strange). On their newest album, Faking the Books, Lali Puna move one step closer to triumph. They touch greatness at several points, if never truly digging their nails in and grabbing hold.

Opening with the gorgeous stuttering vocal samples of the title track, Lali Puna establish the same vague working area as previous works, but there is a distance in the similarity. It’s as though you’ve just met a good friend’s identical twin, and he’s posing as your friend. His voice sounds different, and he parts his hair wider of center. He doesn’t use the same expressions, and there’s a gleam in his eye that tells you something’s up. The driving organic rhythms of “Call 1-800-Fear” remind of much of the first album, but just as you become accustomed to its propulsive thrust, the drums fade into quick-stepping electronic beats and a solemn piano muffles the song into a deep restless stirring. “Micronomic” uses a similar mechanical breakdown to cool down its squelched sax blurts and lively drums.

Perhaps the greatest difference is Valerie Trebeljahr’s improved emotional range. At times in the past, she was content to play the heroin-dead heroine, reclining with sang froid and cold Germanic grace into an emotional deadpan. On many of Faking the Books’ best songs, Trebeljahr reaches beyond this detachment to an impassioned query, giving the album a greater sense of depth and development. Suddenly, even in the face of vague uncertainty, Trebeljahr seems more confident, more willing to put her ego on the line and risk a sullen retreat. “Geography-5” finds her alluring and come-hither, and since the song is built upon one of the album’s simplest arrangements, her voice is the necessary focal point. Atop a simple bass-drum part and twilight chimes, she sweats out a sexuality that doesn’t bring to mind black leather, dog collars and torturous candle wax. On the gorgeous closer “Crawling by Numbers,” she similarly warms up the chorus with a beautiful reach—the juxtaposition of her voice with the song’s dirgeful strings making for a mesmerizing finale.

For the first time, Lali Puna’s control doesn’t seem so absolute. It’s possible that they aren’t cooler than you are (though it’s still likely). A few cracks have spread in their frozen facade, and that sudden vulnerability, glimpsed in the desperate “Do you?” on “Alienation” and the minimal aquatic squiggles and tribal drums of “Small Things,” makes the group that much more compelling. They work under the protective hush of simplicity at times, and this sparseness allows the broken-nosed shatter of their more propulsive material the intended effect. They aren’t there yet, but the maturity on Faking the Books serves as notice they may only be one album away.

[cristalconnors]

BEST SONGS of 2019

20. “MOTIVATION”- Normani

“Why would we ever do something instead of falling into the bed right now?”

Watching the 2019 VMAs, it was easy to feel despondent about the current state of mainstream pop. And then Normani descended from a basketball hoop, breaking up a string of lifeless performances of cookie-cutter top 40 with a preposterously physical tour de force that harkened back to an era when pop fame felt like something closer to a meritocracy, when talent mattered more than spectacle. It felt like a major arrival: at last another pop goddess that truly had all the goods. The public may not have caught up to her quite yet, but “Motivation” is a statement of purpose for Normani: I’m here, I’m very fucking talented, and I’m not going anywhere.

19. “SO HOT YOU’RE HURTING MY FEELINGS”- Caroline Polachek

“I cry on the dancefloor, it’s so embarrassing”

The charms of “So Hot You’re Hurting My Feelings” are seemingly endless. First, there’s that title that makes you chuckle the first few times you hear it. Then, there’s the pre-chorus that title is effortlessly plugged into: a crystal clear image of lovelorn insecurity placed atop a sublimely simple melody that builds into a harmonious, show-stopping chorus. But the song’s zenith has got to be that bridge, marrying a mind-bending, distorted vocal solo that more closely resembles electric guitar with the singsongy refrain “show me your banana,” effortlessly striking a balance between the highbrow and the silly, casting Polachek as the carefree pop diva she perhaps always should have been.

18.“WAY TO THE SHOW”- Solange

“Candy paint down to the floor”

“I want it to bang and make your trunk rattle.” I think about that quote a lot when listening to “Way to the Show,” the grooviest track on When I Get Home- the one whose meandering funk bass line and countless key changes build to an explosion of synth runs and gun cocking, showcasing Knowles’s growth as both a songwriter and curator of mood as she crafts a singularly hallucinatory, heavenly vision of Houston and the sounds that raised her.

17. “WONDER BOY”- ARTHUR RUSSELL

“I’m a wonder boy. I can do nothing”

The back catalogue of notorious perfectionist and genreless chameleon Arthur Russell is so vast, so varied that even 27 years after he was taken from us, we’re still being treated to new material. Every single song of his that’s been released posthumously, including all 19 tracks of Iowa Dream, feel like their own revelation, each of them a uniquely dazzling bucking of all your expectations of what a song of his should sound like. “Wonder Boy” is unique in how tidily its melancholy, frosty images of impermanence sum up the tragic story of Arthur Russell the man- the brilliant artist who never found success and only ever managed to put out a single album while he was alive- the wonder boy who could do nothing.

16. “I THINK OF SATURDAY”- Moodymann

“I called you on Thursday... I called you on Friday...”

“I Think of Saturday” starts simply enough, listing the days of the week almost as a gimmick, evoking soul and early rock filtered through a house lens, until halfway through the song when the beat drops away, introducing a brief sample of Joe Simon’s “With You in Mind” that’s followed by the reintroduction of the beat, but now accompanied by a recurring distorted, dissonant chord that reframes the song as a sinisterly rousing account of unrequited desire and delusion that refracts itself over and over again. 

15. “SOFIA”- Clairo

“I think we could do it if we tried”

The opening bars of Clairo’s “Sofia” sound like a really good Strokes knock off, but the song quickly reveals itself to be something vastly more interesting, unfolding itself steadily over the course of three minutes as she and producer Rostam Batmanglij subvert well worn pop tropes to craft an exquisitely textured, soul-baring, and ultimately hopeful anthem for young wlw everywhere.

14. “LARK”- Angel Olsen

“What about my dreams?”

Olsen’s widescreen, abstract vision of a break-up song is thrillingly unbound from the constrictions of song structure and narrative, favoring instead the visceral power of strings and drastic dynamic contrast to craft a symphony in miniature, a “journey through grief” as Olsen herself describes it, that announces the bold, panoramic vision of her fourth album.

13. “WALK AWAY”- (Sandy) Alex G

“Someday I’m gonna walk away from you. Not today...”

“Walk Away” evokes the sense of being trapped, stuck in a cycle of recognizing unhealthy relationships or habits and being unable or unwilling to do anything about them, looping the simple two line refrain over and over and over again to weave a hopeless, woozy tapestry of crunching beats, acoustic and electric guitar, mournful piano and harpsichord, and distorted vocals.

12. “THIS COUNTRY MAKES IT HARD TO FUCK” (BJÖRK REMIX)- Fever Ray

“That’s not how to love me!”

Björk isolates the most memorable line from Fever Ray’s “This Country”- “this country makes it hard to fuck!”-and explodes it, distorting it and stretching it across a fearsome sample of the droning, discordant flutes from “Song of the Alféreces and Dances of the Chinos,” evoking a kind of tortured funhouse mirror image of the current state of reproductive rights that rightly recasts Fever Ray’s song as a horror film.

11. “ABOUT WORK THE DANCEFLOOR”- Georgia

“I was just thinking about work the danefloor...”

“About Work the Dancefloor” is Georgia’s ode to the cathartic, restorative powers of the dancefloor, where your worries fall away as you melt into the crowd and language abstracts itself, as evidenced by that perplexing chorus that doesn’t seem to mean anything- and why should it? When you’re lost in her pounding bass and gurgling synths, that incoherence is strangely comforting. You can cast whatever meaning you want onto it and work through it physically, together. 

10. “GONE”- Charli XCX & Christine and the Queens

“I try real hard, but I’m caught up by my insecurities”

The jelly squiggles that criss-cross Charli XCX and her collaborator’s faces on the artwork released for the singles from her latest album Charli suggest a kind of symbiosis, a cosmic intertwining of sorts. But only “Gone” achieves a true melding of the minds, where Charli and Chris’s best and boldest instincts collide, complimenting one another seamlessly in this dizzying vision of insecurity and isolation that unravels into a stunning pop abstraction. 

09. “CELLOPHANE”- FKA twigs

“Why don’t I do it for you?”

Usually for FKA twigs, more is more. Her songs are busy, even the slower ones, packed to the brim with glitches, unusual rhythms, and a million little details that pull attention, giving them texture and making them extremely immersive listening experiences. “Cellophane” pares those idiosyncrasies back. They’re still there, but the focus is twigs’s voice, which bends and cracks and really emotes in a way we’ve never heard. Her voice is naked and unvarnished, allowing her to be truly vulnerable in a way we’ve never heard either, and it’s heartbreaking. 

08. “CINNAMON GIRL”- Lana Del Rey

“If you hold me without hurting me, you’ll be the first who ever did.”

“Cinnamon Girl” is the culmination of every other ballad she’s ever written. They were practice and this is the real deal- a painterly missive on tumultuous love that reads like a pained confession whispered in confidence, something Lana’s always done well, but her composition has never been so exquisite or immersive, so beautifully in concert with her poetry or her velvet voice, or so flawlessly constructed, effortlessly building toward a show-stopping finale that asserts Lana as the postmodern princess of Americana.

07. “COOKIE BUTTER”- Kim Gordon

“Industrial...metal...supplies...”

“Cookie Butter” has got to be the most stunning showcase of the power of Kim Gordon’s voice, as she drags out some vowels, muffles others, attacks consonants and bends words until they don’t sound like words anymore, all atop a trance inducing beat drives towards the song’s unlikely climax- Kim Gordon saying “cookie butter” in the most impossibly distinct way you could imagine that carries the weight of an EDM drop, leading the track into it’s disorienting second half that both clarifies and obscures the half that came before it. Haunting and addictive. 

06. “CATTAILS”- Big Thief

“You don’t need to know why when you cry.”

To hear Big Thief talk about the process of writing and recording “Cattails” on their episode of the Song Exploder podcast, one is struck by how organic it was. Adrianne Lenker describes it as a “magic wind” that swept through the studio, the song kind of falling out of them in one take. That sense of life comes through in the song, the simple, sublime repetition, bounce, and build of it sounding like a transmission from deep within the soul, a cosmic image of nostalgia and grief that is as cathartic as it is heavenly.

05. “GOD CONTROL”- Madonna

“I think I understand why people get a gun.”

“God Control” is ostensibly about gun control, though you’d be forgiven if you had a hard time discerning what exactly she’s trying to say. Like some of her best work, it’s provocative and maybe a little empty, but damn if it isn’t supremely interesting and compelling as hell. Madonna taps into a sense of apocalyptic malaise and skepticism of authority that feels at times remarkably in tune with the public consciousness, at others a grotesque caricature of it, to uniformly fascinating results as she spins a deranged disco yarn that, once those swirling strings hit, is downright euphoric. 

04. “GOLD TEETH”- Blood Orange, ft. Gangsta Boo, Project Pat, & Tinashe

“We gon’ rumble in this ho!”

Blood Orange takes Project Pat’s “Rinky Dink II/We’re Gonna Rumble” and explodes it, gifting it both playful levity and added depth with a rollicking beat minor chord synths respectively, effortlessly criss crossing Hynes’s many disparate strengths and interests in the most effortlessly rousing and joyful track in his entire ouevre, elevated by the powerhouse Three 6 Mafia reunion verses of Gangsta Boo and Project Pat himself.

03. “INCAPABLE”- Róisín Murphy

“I don’t know if I can love, in all honesty.”

“Incapable,” Róisín Murphy’s virtuosic disco epic, stops time. That indelibly simple bass line loops over and over and over again until you’re lost in it, the song slowly building itself on top of it, adding claps here, hi hat there, rising towards a stunning sequence backed by whooshing synths where the song really comes alive, where an almost boastful breakup anthem morphs into a glamorously melancholy self-indictment in which she ponders that maybe it’s her there’s something wrong with, creating a dazzling dichotomy between the pitfalls of introspection and the bliss of the dancefloor.

02. “MOVIES”- Weyes Blood

“The meaning of life doesn’t seem to shine like that screen.”

“Movies,” appropriately, plays out with a big screen gloss. Those arpeggiated synths feel like they’re slowly expanding as Natalie Mering coos atop them, wondering how if movies are fake, how come they’re more real than anything in real life? As the synths suddenly give way to frenzied strings, the song splits itself open, giving itself over wholly to the melodrama, the sweeping enormity of feeling that Mering so masterfully conjures as she longs for the vitality, the simple answers, and the meaningfulness of movies.

01. “DO YOU LOVE HER NOW”- Jai Paul

“There’s a time for everything.”

On June 1, 2019, when I first read the news that Jai Paul had released new music, news so momentous it was accompanied by a red “breaking news” banner on Pitchfork’s home page, I immediately found my headphones and sequestered myself. I knew whatever I was about to listen to would require my undivided attention. Quite frankly, I was shocked it existed at all. After the notorious, devastating leak of his music in 2013, he’d exiled himself so thoroughly that it was easy to believe he was just gone forever. But here it was, the second coming- two (2!) new songs, effectively doubling the amount of  (completed) material he’s released in an official capacity. 

Pressing play, I was a little nervous that it wouldn’t live up to my expectations, that it might somehow diminish the work of his that I’d loved so much, that changed the way I think about pop and R&B. That didn’t end up being a problem. While “He” is excellent, “Do You Love Her Now” is maybe the most stunning piece of music he’s ever written. Billowing, moseying guitars provide the heartbeat for what starts as a straightforward, sublimely simple send up of 60′s and 70′s R&B. But this Jai Paul we’re talking about, and nothing he does is simple. Nuances and complexities creep out organically from the fabric of the song- synths whiz in and out, harmonies soar to the forefront of the soundscape seemingly out of nowhere and fall away just as suddenly, crafting an immersive, richly textured listening experience that is unpredictable, washing over you like a wave, building, cresting, and crashing over and over again. 

[copias-thrall]

Why Not?

Mary and Suey need to use their words

(Start at the beginning)

*angst; face fucking*

Sometimes you wonder if Mary’s attraction to you stems from the fact that you had no idea who he was when the two of you met at Mickey’s. Sure, there’s some Venn Diagram-like overlap between your crowd and his—but your exploits and his had never touched. You have a few mutual friends-of-friends that everyone always seems to know—but no substantial connections.

Mary’s never made his past sexploits a secret—even if he’s demurred on the gritty details—so you know his other forays into relationships have mostly been from people already in his orbit from the neighborhood or from his “fan” pool.

Basically: all people who already knew his music.

It doesn’t keep you up at night, but occasionally—when there’s a prolonged, awkward silence, or the two of you get into a heated debate that proceeds slammed doors—you can’t help but wonder. It doesn’t help that Mary seems reticent to bring you to shows—big or small. 

And, ok—maybe at first you didn’t really care: everyone and their sister knows a guy who’s “in a band” that never actualizes, and you two are oil and water on your best days, so why invest energy into a band you’re going to be compelled to dislike after the breakup? Once you guys had passed the 3mo mark, however, you knew you had to get serious about it if you wanted to be serious about Mary.

You would have thought it would’ve made Mary happy—you taking a marked interest in his first love—but he’d honestly seemed ambivalent about it. You talking about his songs and asking him questions only seemed to irritate him to no end … so you’d dropped it.

When he’d told you about another Saturday gig—that wasn’t closing Mickey’s—you’d once again offered to come … and he’d been a dick about it, prompting one of your worst fights to date.

“Why do you even wanna be there?” he’d huffed.

“I’m your fucking girlfriend,” you’d retorted.

“So you just want to piss on me and mark your territory, is that it?”

“Jesus fucking Christ, I thought I’d support your fucking passion is all.”

“You never cared before.”

“Oh—I’m sorry! Was I supposed to know everything that mattered to you two fucking seconds in?”

“I just think it’s fucking suspect that all of sudden you wanna be around.”

“So the other girlfriends are fine. It’s just me who’s a fame whore?”

“They’re all into the scene.”

“And what the fuck does that mean? I’m not a bandophile so I couldn’t possibly be interested?”

“It means I’m fucking done with that shit. The switching? The bed hopping? If that’s what you want, fucking tell me right now.”

“Where are you even getting this shit from?”

He’d looked you dead in the eyes.

“You have a reputation, Suey.

At first, you hadn’t even understood enough to be insulted.

“For fucking what? I barely follow the local music scene.”

“You think I didn’t ask around about you? The ‘Ice Queen’? Likes to fuck, but will eat you up and spit you out?”

You’d felt hot and cold all at once—your face flushing then draining of color.

“Are you fucking … are you fucking slut shaming me?!” you’d hissed as you’d jabbed a finger at him.

He hadn’t backed down. “I don’t think it’s unreasonable to wonder if a girl who’ll fuck anything that moves wouldn’t be looking to take her act elsewhere. The guys might dislike you, but you know they’d never pass up free pussy.”

You’d been trembling with anger at that point and scrubbing tears from your eyes.

“I’ve never … I’ve never hidden the fact that I like to fuck. I can’t believe you with your … your orgies and partner swapping have any fucking thing to say to me about my one-night stands.”

“How do I know you’re not using me for easy access, huh? I can barely even tell if you like me instead of my dick sometimes, and now all of sudden you’re interested in my band?”

You’d screamed and knocked a bowl off your counter, not even caring when the ceramic had shattered into shards.

“I’M SHOWING YOU I LIKE YOU BY BEING INTERESTED IN YOUR FUCKING BAND, YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE.”

Then you’d grabbed a mug and thrown it in the ground for good measure. It hadn’t shattered, but the handle had broken off. Dissatisfied, you��d turned to your dish rack, but before you could start breaking dishes, Mary had had his arms wound around you.

“Hey, hey … it’s ok. Shh, c’mere.”

You’d screamed again and struggled against him.

“Fuck you!”

“Fuck, I’m sorry. Suey, calm down.”

Mary had managed to pick you up slightly, transferring you from the mess in the kitchen area to the living space, where he’d pulled you both down to the floor against the couch. You’d struggled some more, but only in an obligatory sense.

“Fuck. I’m sorry. Fuck,” Mary had breathed.

You’d only wailed in response, tears now flowing freely.

“I didn’t mean … fuck. I don’t think …” he’d babbled.

“You didn’t think,” you’d blubbered. “All those dudes, and you’re the one with a fucking drawer. How fucking dare you.”

Mary’s hold had tightened, but it wasn't to restrain you.

“Fuck, I know. I’m sorry. I just … it wouldn’t be the first time I thought some girl liked me, when all they wanted was to fuck the band. It’s a fucking sore spot, ok?”

“I’m supposed to be ok with you thinking I’ve been playing you?”

“I just fucking panicked, ok? I—I really fucking like you.”

“Don’t be gross.”

“Fuck off.”

You’d both chuckled.

“I just really fucking like you, and sometimes I just get too far into my own fucking head.”

You’d leaned back into his chest.

“You’re a fucking asshole and what you said was trashy. You said it to hurt me, and that’s not ok, Mary.”

He’d sighed and rested his forehead onto your shoulder.

“I just needed to hear you say it wasn’t true.”

“That’s still fucking insulting, but—” you’d tilted your head toward his, “Mary, I’m not dating you to fuck your bandmates. Now, fucking apologize.”

“I’m sorry I … that I was … my—”

“—that you were fucking cruel.”

“I’m sorry I was fucking cruel.”

“Thank you.”

The two of you had sat like that for a while until Mary had broken the silence.

“You scare me when you react like that.”

“I know,” you’d sighed. “I just … got overwhelmed. I’m … I am working on it, you know?”

“How?”

You’d curled a little into yourself.

“I do go to therapy, you know. It’s been—it is—a process.”

“K.”

“K?”

“Um, ‘ok, I acknowledge your effort and support it and won’t push as long as you’re getting help’?”

“Thanks.” You’d waited for a beat then had said, “Now you have to give me one. One personal thing.”

You’d waited patiently as Mary had considered.

“I was on my own at 19, so the guys are like my brothers—I love them, but they’re fucking annoying, and I hate them sometimes too. I’d give any one of them a kidney, but not my girl.”

You’d sighed. “I’m not going to fuck your brothers, Mare.”

“Yeah, I know. But thanks for saying.”

After that he’d helped you clean up the broken bowl. A week later you’d found your mug back in the cabinet—the handle was out of line with the break, but somehow still firmly secured back into place. You’d also stopped asking about attending his shows.

Thanksgiving came—he’d spent the day with his extended band family; you’d traveled out of state to spend it with your best friend—as you’d been doing since college. She knows a little about you and Mary, and you were happy to stay up drinking contraband wine with her on the trundle bed in her room as you’d scrolled through the handful of personal g-rated pictures you had.

It’s Saturday (your bus back home is at 6am the next day), and your bff and you are downtown just hanging out. You fucking love the energy of South Street, especially Crash Bang Boom, formally Zipperhead. One of the stops on your itinerary is a record store, and on a lark you go to see if Mary’s record is here. You know from one of Mary’s rants that they’ve been struggling to get wider distribution without a formal label, but that there’s a pretty good trade network amongst some of the indie places, and Philly isn’t so far away. You have to do more than a cursory search but!

It’s here!

You pull it out, intent on calling your friend over, when two guys who’d been browsing near you accost you.

“I hear they’re hot right now!” Boy 1 says.

“They used to be so hard to find,” says Boy 2.

You beam. “I know, right? They’re great.”

“You a big fan?” asks Boy 2.

What you mean to say is, I think their sound is very unique, but what you say when you open your mouth is, “I’m dating the lead guitarist.”

The two guys look at each other and snigger slightly.

“Yeah, ok,” says Boy 2.

You scrunch your face at them.

“I am.”

“Ok, maybe online you can peddle that crap, but c’mon,” says Boy 1.

You know not to feed the trolls … but these guys are kind of pissing you off. You tuck the DIY CD under your arm as you fish out your phone; it takes you a few seconds of poking, but you bring up the g-rated pics of you and Mary—most of which are slightly-blurry selfies. You think they’re endearing. Boy 1 and Boy 2 aren’t impressed.

“Are you serious?” sneers Boy 1. “These are clearly post-show selfies.”

“Fucking sad,” says Boy 2, shaking his head.

You’re at a loss because the majority of these are from your couch, so you toss your hair at them.

“Whatever. I don’t need a bunch of fake music boys to validate me. Krissy! Let’s bounce.”

You do end up buying the CD for her—which she promises to listen to in full and then report back.

When you get back to your place Sunday night—cranky and bleary-eyed—you’re surprised to find Mary asleep on your couch, cocooned in your afghan, even though it’s barely early evening. You divest yourself of your outside clothes and backpack before crawling over him.

“Mmph,” he grumbles.

“Hey,” you say, draped over him. “Why’re you on the couch?”

He manages to turn his head toward you slightly.

“You weren’t here.”

“Mare. You can sleep in my bed.”

He wiggles around so you’re both face to face.

“Yeah, I know. Wanted to know when you got back.”

“I still don’t see—”

He kisses you and manages to get his arms free to wrap around you.

“You’d’ve let me sleep if I was in your bed,” he says as he breaks the kiss.

“Yeah, maybe. Only because you’d need it.”

There’s some making out that begins to border on foreplay before your stomach rumbles unhappily. Mary laughs.

“You’re fucking great.”

“Shut the fuck up,” you grumble. “I think I last ate over 12hrs ago.”

Mary shifts to a sitting position. “I’m about to become your best friend.” He wiggles free and makes his way into your kitchen. You wrap the afghan around you as you shuffle after him. He beams at you before opening your fridge and doing his best impression of Vanna White. You peer in to see that there are multiple Tupperware containers jigsawed into your fridge.

“Oh!” you exclaim. “Is this …?”

Mary’s grin is almost a rictus.

“You don’t think I look out for my baby doll? Friendsgiving leftovers, just for you!”

You crowd into his space.

“I don’t know what I should eat first: this bounty or your dick!”

Mary wraps his arms around you, but says, “Lady’s choice.”

Despite how hungry you are, you drop to your knees—afghan pooling around you—and mouth at his zipper. He caresses your head and shoulders, but when he doesn’t insist, you take matters into your own hands; you pet at his semi before unzipping his jeans and taking out his cock and balls.

“You don’t—” he gasps even as his hands are cupped around the back of your head.

“Shut the fuck up,” you say right before you take the tip of him into your mouth to suckle.

Mary likes it fast and sloppy, but tonight you suck him at your own pace—one hand rolling his balls and giving sporadic presses to his perineum. He’s trembling and whimpering, his hands clenching and unclenching in your hair. After one particularly hard suck he cries out, “Oh fuck, please.”

You shuffle around so that your back is against a bottom cabinet, and you make a soft grunt so that he looks down at you. His lips are wet and his eyes are glazed as you widen your mouth and moan encouragingly at him. His hands grip into your hair as he begins to fuck your face.

“Oh shit, oh fuck,” he breathes. “So sweet. Your fucking mouth.”

Usually you do your best to deep throat Mary, but today he seems to sense not to choke you. He’s still fucking your mouth, though—thrusting as deep as he dares, undeterred by the saliva dripping down your chin.

“I fucking missed you—missed this.”

You make sure to lock your gaze with his.

“Fuck.”

You bring your hand back up to his balls.

“OhpleaseOhshitOhfuckOhplease,” he chants, eyes now closed.

You slap your cunt a few times before you slip a hand into your tights to work at your clit in time to Mary fucking your mouth.

“Oh fuck, yeah—that’s right. My cock makes you so hot.”

You let the hand fondling him fall away so you can brace yourself against the counter, and Mary starts fucking your mouth faster. He’s still staring down at you, but now he’s only chanting Fuck over and over again as he pummels your mouth. You think he’ll probably cum first, but it’s actually you—your own adept fingers pushing you over the edge—and it’s only after you moan in time that he shoves you down on his cock as it kicks and shoots its load down your throat.

He lets go of your hair well before you’d even consider tapping out, so you make sure you suck up and down the length of him before he grunts and pulls away from oversensitivity. He looks down at you with hooded eyes as you continue to gently massage your own climax out.

“You’re too fucking good to me,” he says as he recombobulates himself.

You’re just easing the waves of your orgasm at this point.

“So fucking make me a plate,” you purr, knees splayed as you continue to finger yourself.

Mary grunts at you as if he’d like nothing better than to squash you into the floor and fuck the shit out of you—but by the time you’re done massaging the throbs out of your clit and and standing up, he’s got the food containers out and is constructing your plate.

Mary feeds you from the full plate in his lap—quite a departure from the norm (you love feeding him at your feet)—and the two of your talk about your holiday. He tells you about their mashed potato food fight. You tell him all about Krissy’s drama—which mostly entails her parents thinking that her living at home means she’ll be a nun—but you offhandedly mention Boy 1 & Boy 2 in context of your day out. 

Mary tenses.

“What?” you ask as you catch his eye. You’re not going to bring up seeing his band if you can help it.

“Nothing.”

“No, what?”

Mary sighs.

“You just. I hate that they didn’t believe you. You are my girl.”

You wriggle up and shrug.

“They’re not wrong. A few close up selfies don’t prove anything.”

“It still fucking sucks, and I hate it. Can we go to bed when you’re done?”

You snort. “You just want to snuggle.”

“So what if I fucking do? I brought you candied sweet potatoes at great cost to my life and limb. You owe me.”

You huff in laughter. “All right, dude. Fine. Let me brush my teeth and then we can … snuggle.”

“Damn straight.”

It’s maybe two weeks later when Mary’s on your couch watching the WWE, your feet in his lap as you play a game on your phone (no way was him being here is going to make you miss your chance at getting a high placing on this week’s special challenge). During the commercial break he plucks at your alumni sleep pants.

“Hey. Have you noticed you haven't worn anything nice in a while?” he says to your leg.

You look up at him over your phone, incredulous.

“Um, ok. First of all: rude. Second: Dude. Half your shirts are from high school and half of those are covered in blood. What the fuck.”

His hand sneaks under your pant leg to stroke at your calf. When you shy away—shaving a long-forgotten routine now that the weather has chilled—he firmly pulls you back to continue his exploration.

“Yeah. I don’t own anything nice—you have all these cute as fuck clothes just chilling on your curtain rod collecting dust.” 

You heave a sigh.

“Well. You work most nights, Mary. You know I try to be here if you’re going to be around, and what?—I’m gonna dress up in my own home?”

He squeezes your calf muscle.

“Christ, you’re defensive. Let me fucking finish my lead in, woman. I just mean we should get out.”

You creep the foot of your free leg under his t-shirt to press into his boney ribs.

“Ok, but when? Your schedule’s not very conducive to that, you know.”

He looks at you, searching your face, before insinuating himself between your legs and rubbing his hands up your thighs. 

“We’re playing at Regency in a few weeks,” he says as he leans down to kiss your belly. He looks up at you. “You could put on one those ‘fuck me’ numbers you got.” 

Kiss. 

“Come see me play.” 

Kiss. 

“I could fuck you in the bathroom.” 

Kiss.

He takes the hem of your pants between his teeth and begins to tug it down.

“Mary! My ranking!”

“Fuck your ranking,” he says as he yoinks your phone out of your hand and shoves it down the front of his pants. You gasp as he yanks your bottoms the rest of the way free, and then proceeds to run his tongue through your folds. Your hands grip his hair tight as he worms his tongue around and over your clit, sparking your arousal. You let your head fall back, moaning, as he tongues you.

He breaks away suddenly. “So will you think about it?”

You look down at him through hazy vision. “Wha—what?”

“The show. Will you think about coming to it?”

The only thing you’re thinking about right now is his tongue back on you.

“Fuck. C’mon, Mary.”

“The. Gig,” he continues, before giving you one, long lap. “Wanna show you off,” he says, growling into your labia.

Christ he should make up his mind. As if it was your reticence from attending. 

“Yeah!” you gasp, encouraging him, as you grind yourself into his waiting mouth. “Wanna be shown off!”

He yanks you down prone, hoisting your legs over his shoulders so he has better access to suck your clit between his plump lips. The sensation is heavenly, and you make pleased noises.

“Gonna show off my hot girlfriend,” he pants as he comes up for air. “Make everyone know you’re mine, rub it in their faces.”

You grab the back of his head and rub his face into your pussy.

“Shut the fuck up and get on with it for chrissake’s!”

He eats you out in earnest then—his tongue and lips adeptly coaxing you toward climax—the sound of the snarling wrestlers and cheering crowd the soundtrack to your orgasm; he licks you steadily as you squirm and thrash through it. Once you're thoroughly spent, he divests you of your top and crawls up your torso while unbuckling his jeans—your phone plopping onto your stomach and sliding down into the cushions. 

“Hold your tits together,” he rumbles before thrusting between them a handful of times, head thrown back. Then he leans over you—guiding his cock to your mouth with his hips, before he’s fucking your face into the couch—unashamedly moaning when he hears you gag. He pulls out in time to cum all over your face and neck, hand flying between his legs—too intent with his art to even grunt out his pleasure.

Looking down at you, he bites his lip and says, “Fuck you’re beautiful. Can I take a picture?”

(This was something you’d gotten used to—Mary always wanting to take pictures of the oddest things with his ancient, digital HP camera.)

When you hesitate, he says, “No, you’re right. It’s …” He begins to climb off you, but you put a hand on his thigh.

“You … you can,” you stutter “but … I’ll keep it for you. Just … transfer it to me and delete it immediately.”

He rolls his eyes. “Big help you having it when I’m lonely and want to jerk off,” he says—but he's already off the couch, tucking himself back in, and rummaging through his worn backpack.

The two of you had done a little photoshoot then, trying to get the best angles, the best shine, your sexiest pout—and a few with his fingers in your mouth. When he’s satisfied, he hands you your shirt so you can wipe off—which you promptly rejected in favor of cleaning off in the bathroom sink (“Gross.” “What? I don’t understand.” “I wear this shirt!” “My jizz is literally on you right now!”).

When you come back out, Mary already has his memory card in the USB convertor and is attached to your laptop.

“Don’t I get to help choose?” you ask as you sit down next to him.

“My pictures.”

“My face!” you retort.

“My pictures for my use.”

You lean in to see which he’s chosen.

“Oh, not that one! I look like Jaba the Hutt with that chin!”

Mary squints at it, shrugs, then turns to grin at you.

“I won’t be looking at your chin.”

“Fine,” you grumble flopping back. “But I want my complaint filed on the record.”

“Ok,” he says and kisses the tip of your nose.

You push him away and wipe at your face. “Gross, Mary. Don’t be all mushy and shit.”

“I’ll do whatever the fuck I want, Suey,” he says into the computer.

When he finishes—4 photos now living in a folder on your desktop entitled “MarysSecretJackoffMaterial”—he lets you drive. You promptly drag all the smutty images of you into your trash and delete them immediately.

He has to leave for work not long after that, and you’ve gotten sucked into the WWE storyline. It isn’t until you’re ready to go to bed that you realize your phone is still in the depths of the couch. Once retrieved, you text him.

Me [12:37am]: Goddamnit, Mary! My RANKING.

Mary [2:28am]: XD

⬅️Previous | Next ➡️

[the-vinyl-review]

King Crimson ‘Red’ 1974.

King Crimsons Red was the bands last album of the seventies as Robert Fripp wanted to take a year off and asked the management team if Ian McDonald could replace him. Oddly that request was rejected and Fripp disbanded King Crimson.

Red follows the technical brilliance of the previous two albums Larks' Tongues in Aspic 1973 and Starless and Bible Black 1974. However Its heavier and colder but that’s not an insult. There is a welcome return of the saxophone which I thought had been missing previously. Surprisingly Fripp stepped back for large parts of the decision making as John Wetton and Bill Bruford’s sound was heavier this time round.

In my eyes the album is a masterpiece but isn’t most of King Crimsons work? My highlights are ‘One more Red Nightmare’ which has excellent guitars, heavy bass and drums. All this makes the song quite heavy and some have called the song Proto-heavy metal. John Wettons vocal style is quite something to listen to. Lyrics of course about a nightmare but with the fear of flying. One more Red Nightmare is a great ride.

Next is of course Starless, a song written by Wetton for Starless and Bible Black but was rejected. Starless was altered to include an instrumental section and Lyrical changes. This is a difficult song to write about because there is so much to it. Starless has a soft intro with the mellotron, guitar, drums and saxophone, then comes Wetton’s gruff vocals. The first time I heard this opening I knew this song was going to be something momentous. John Wetton’s Bass is greatly underrated and during the course of the album has a unique sound which is prevalent through the midsection and slowly builds with Fripp’s simple steady single note guitar that is constantly repeated. The build finally turns into a frenzy of hard drums, distorted bass and Fripp’s single notes become more apparent. The end brings slight normality with the saxophone and bass dictating the end.

This album fully deserves the universal acclaim it has received then and now. It would have been interesting to see what would have come after, unfortunately there was a seven year gap which brought personal changes, while the 80’s brought style changes musically. This and the previous two albums evolved and progressed from each other. It took till 2003’s The Power to Believe to find ‘Red’ and it’s heavy hitting music and complexities again.

Album Cover 6/10

Music 8.5/10

Record Quality 10/10

[celihime]

About hidden in plain sight, is the guy a unique twist on the yandere trope? What are his personality traits?

I LOVE THE WAY U WORDED THAT TBH he is!!! I personally like stories where a character isn’t all bad or all good? Or like.... when u hear yandere it just feels like obsession/murder is 100% how he would be—-when he’s actually a lot more well rounded.... and though he might have destructive tendencies he uh... he still has thought and care and has the capacity to get embarassed despite his very narcissistic personality haha..

You’ll find out soon in the comic but due to (future spoilers as to how) his mind and personality ends up separating into two separate entities. But In that and even though he cares deeply for claire and will never ever move on from her.... he’s not your typical asshole narcissistic obsessive yandere love interest LOL ....idk if that sounded like rambling but I love Lark a lot and I’ve spent so much time on him I hope... it comes out in the series!

[vroenis]

Uncharted 4: An Era’s End

It’s recently come to light that game developer Naughty Dog has been subjecting its employees to crunch; the practice of overworking and underpaying staff in order to meet deadlines. This is not unique to Naughty Dog, nor to their current project pending release later this year, The Last Of US 2. Reports suggest that crunch has been endemic in the working culture of Naughty Dog for some time and this is now no surprise to us as such reports continue to surface about studio after studio, most in the corporately structured, premium funded and managed space we call “triple A” or AAA, but many smaller studios and independent spaces also. Several senior and long-tenured creatives have left Naughty Dog quite recently, and some may have been leaving earlier than those that have been reported during what’s turning out to be a turbulent development cycle for The Last Of Us 2.

Each month, as part of the paid subscription to the Playstation Plus online service, Sony offers a small selection of games. For April, one of them was Naughty Dog’s Uncharted 4: A Thief’s End, from which I derived my title. Not only am I here to suggest the studio’s troubles may have begun during the development of this game, first released back in 2016, but the title may have been one of the first significant indications that the book was closing on AAA development as we know it. I appreciate there have been many good voices shouting from the rooftops about the how unsustainable it’s been from before then, but the Naughty Dog for a long time seemed like a light in the dark, signalling that a big studio could still produce good product under strong leadership.

I feel that Uncharted 4 rather than The Last Of Us 2 is the real light, and instead of a light-house, it turned out to be a signal-fire warning that even then the composure of Naughty Dog was an illusion.

This piece is going to contain significant spoilers for Uncharted 4. It’s also not investigative - I just played it for the first time, completed it and I have some thoughts about it; these are my thoughts.

I didn’t like the third game at all. I took nothing away from it. I’ll never play it again as there’s nothing I want to relive from it, so I’d better look up the wiki on what happened in it... well that didn’t help at all as I don’t remember playing any of that, it was so unmemorable. I remember the wandering around in the desert bit and then some shooting in the desert which was all pointless. There were also some puzzles with shadow puppets that were almost good but so short and pointless, those two things sum up my feelings about the third game entirely.

What a way to start.

I’ve replayed the first and second games once each, so I’ve played those each twice thru and have decided that the first game is overlong and poorly paced, and the second game is the best and probably two-thirds good. Honestly, Elena should drop the Drakes in the ocean, run-off with Chloe and keep in touch with Sully because those are the only three characters with any depth and meaning. Let’s roll-back a bit.

I get that Nathan’s supposed to be a charming, happy-go-lucky character and for the most part, it works. Maybe I’m just getting too old for it or it’s wearing too thin. I really think the third game was completely unnecessary. When I review my notes on the fourth game, I think about the emotional quandary it attempts to set up i.e., ultimately that Nathan should be more honest with Elena - spoiler; he isn’t, but don’t worry it all works out *SPIT* - this was already a problem I was ready to face at the end of the second game. Given my feelings on the third game, I’d have much preferred a simple trilogy and conclusion that faced that emotional brunt to wrap things up. Naturally of-course, that’s not how money-spinners work.

If Uncharted 4 doesn’t spend time on Elena, who does it spend time on? Nathan has a brother! To be fair, I love Troy Baker as a voice actor and if there’s one thing that is consistent in Naughty Dog games, it’s excellent voice acting. I don’t know if I’m now biased after seeing so much of Nolan North and Troy Baker on YouTube outside of their VO talent work, but they’re wonderful people and their professional work is always great. The supporting cast is always great, too - so too the villains even if the narrative arcs are always completely absurd. I know these are always a bit of a lark, you can’t take them too seriously so I can’t hold Uncharted up to Kentucky Route Zero (got my mention in) and shake them comparatively, that’s not fair. It’s OK to have an excuse for a romp even if it does wear on a bit over time.

The problems I have with Uncharted 4 specifically are things like the level and environmental design. I’ve never gotten lost in this franchise up until now when it happened in almost every level... several times. I simply didn’t know where to go. There would be absolutely no clear indication of where to go and no assists, no subtle environmental guide and no camera nudges to help. There is a timer that eventually tells the player where to go and at times, this is tied to deaths so at one point I just threw Nathan off cliffs repeatedly to respawn until the hint appeared. This is unquestionably stupid design. I began to wonder if this was due to criticism that previous games had too much hand-holding, but when the UI assist was finally given and I made my way to the next check-point, I would *never* have found it under normal exploratory gameplay.

This remained true during several moments of scripted action sequences, some including during combat which brings up something else I now remember about the third game. I still couldn’t tell you when it was other than I didn’t know where to go and it was stupid, so there you have it. Maybe the third game was the real signal fire in my metaphor, who knows. In any case, constantly reverting to check-points and having to repeat, not understanding why you’re failing when the game isn’t telegraphing what you need for a success state in a scripted sequence is an exercise in frustration I’m not willing to ever repeat. While I’m not a souls-like player, I completely appreciate the admiration and respect for those games because they have rules that are clear to parse. Video games are *all about* providing feedback to the player. I’m not saying it’s easy, it is an incredibly difficult thing to achieve but it is literally the job you set out to do, it is the only vehicle you have to convey the lofty emotions you want to communicate to your audience.

And then there’s the driving. Naughty Dog. Do not put driving in your games. This is something you’re not able to do.

I don’t want to bash the driving so hard because at this point I feel like it may have been bolted on without time to make it stick correctly. This is the first game in the title where the hot-zones for interactions weren’t quite right. Where I bugged out of animations and had check-points or re-spawns instanced or loaded. Where I glitched out and fell off things, where I had to walk back and forth in-front of things to make buttons appear. The edges of that Naughty Dog polish were fraying. I’d attempt to do a thing and it just wouldn’t work, I’d fall to my death. I’d attempt to do the same thing the same way and it would work. Again this is dredging up more nondescript memories of the third game so I’m beginning to have my suspicions about the working environment there and when in the timeline things started getting bad - but cameras and jumping distances got really difficult to judge. One gap at one time would be fine to jump, then another would have you plunge to your death, and they’d be inconsistent to read or judge. These were not frequent, as with the third game, almost as if the artists and level designers were given time to adjust lighting and camera geometry tracking and control mapping as much as possible but just couldn’t get to them all. But throughout the games, it creeps in more and more.

I’d talk about combat - it’s functional, but it’s not interesting. These games don’t add anything interesting to the genre or video games in general. I play the games on easy because I don’t need to prolong the experience, I don’t actually have the physical time - if I could play the games without combat, I would. There are other games to play if I want dexterity challenges which I do engage in, Uncharted isn’t one of them. Even in 2016 I’m not entirely sure this would have turned heads. I realise I’m playing this a full four years later, but it’s hard to think of the sum-total of this game’s parts and see it as relevant...

But you know what? Uncharted 4 visually looks immaculate. Outside of the voice-acting and sound design, without question, the highest priority has been given to the visual fidelity of this game inclusive of the animations. So much has been invested in how the tech works, to the abandonment of everything else, I’d say the for example, the driving suffered the most, level design next, then interaction scripting. The attention to detail in the environments is stupendous...

...yet it’s all hollow. You know what? I don’t care about pirates and adventures anymore. Whatever. By the fourth game, I don’t care. I totally get that the game’s not for me but I played it and I’m writing how I feel about it. You’re telling me a story about a guy who met the person of his dreams and marries, then his brother turns up and he can’t be honest to his wife? Meow meow meow it’s all for the sake of drama so we skip over all the details but the contrivance is too much. You want me to accept these things on face value, then on face value, I say Nathan and his brother can go get fucked.

I took particular issue with the comically brief relationship discussion Elena and Nathan have after she saves him and they set off together in which she concludes she’s with him “for better or for worse”, which from memory the game chapter is titled after. Now either the character genuinely believes she owes him under the sanctity of nuptial obligation or she’s using it as a justification of such. This is a wholly unsatisfying discussion for me was when I finally checked out of this game - sure I should have done so hours before but this was the last straw and the indication that I am definitely too old for this shit - but this is a horrifying and stupid message to be spouting. Elena don’t owe anyone shit. Married or not, she’s free to save Nathan if she wants to, for any reason, but she’s certainly not obliged to. I despise this massive chunk of traditionalist patriarchy smashed into her character and the narrative, even if it is “well it’s just about her character” yea great, so that just re-enforces her as a loyal dog-trophy for the main character in the on-going male power-fantasy shenanigans shit-train. Nathan’s behaviour isn’t exactly selfish but it’s certainly not adult or considerate. He behaves like a child not taking on an appropriate level of responsibility. Others around him, being Elena and Sully, continuously bail him out - literally saving his life while endangering their own, and he continues to behave like a manchild that neither acknowledges their physical and emotional labour nor does he grow and evolve as an individual. What a fucker. Does he ever sort his shit out, ask Elena what she wants to do for a career and support whatever the fuck she wants to do with her life? Of-course the fuck he doesn’t. Know why? Because he’s a literal man-baby. And his brother is too. But that’s OK cos  he’s a fucken jock-hero and a funny guy so as long as we can all laugh about it and the narrative says-so and it all works out in the end and he gets the girl and she ends-up supporting his career anyway, it’s aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaall fine.

Nathan should have died and Elena shouldn’t have given a fuck.

I know I know, it’s not that serious. Look I’ve been thru some shit, alright? I can see it both ways. Sometimes you don’t think about stupid shit that deep and sometimes you do. Most of the time, I do, and most of the time, I take it to the nth degree, so yea, shit like that gets to me. I call it bad writing, so no, I don’t like the story. At all. Nathan’s supposed to be flawed but nothing ever costs him. When people make mistakes in life, those mistakes cost. The unfortunately thing is the cost is most often paid by the others around them, and sometimes they themselves never realise it. I don’t like stories where there’s a fuckhead at the centre but everyone still stays happy. Nathan seems to have been given a lesson, but I don’t think he earned it. This is why y’all watch Game of Thrones and are surprised when characters die because you keep consuming narratives with no stakes, and GoT is *still* only middling stuff.

Anyway.

How could Elena’s character have been given more attention? Uncharted 4 isn’t all bad. The most valuable thing Naughty Dog achieved was the recreation of real domestic spaces; the Drake households. Twice, we’re given time and space and encouraged to explore them without being funnelled by level design, events, NPC shepherding or audio cues. Rooms and the objects that fill them are meticulously and beautifully created, and they're given life and purpose in a way that has meaning far beyond all the pirate nonsense that while almost as equally beautiful, is completely vacuous.

Putting on Elena’s vinyl record as her daughter Cassie was the only time I enjoyed the music in the game, and it was a great call-back to Nathan having done the same thing in their house much earlier. Sure, there’s the Drake theme that repeats ad nauseam throughout the series but otherwise the soundtrack is bland and unremarkable adventuring fare. It contributes more to the feeling of this game being out of touch, contrasted to something like Control which certainly has a completely different setting, sure - but that’s part of it, so that affords the creative team room for more modular synths and drones and to have a distinct sound.

Walking thru those houses, first as Nathan but really as the player repositioning themselves from adventurer to ordinary life-living person in a domestic setting, and then as Cassie - daughter of these two amazing characters in an equalling urbane setting yet filled with wonderful objects, made up the most fascinating and enjoyable moments of the game for me. The mess of each room gave the houses the perfect lived-in feel to a degree that most other games struggle to achieve, probably due to how much effort it takes to get that much geometry mapped in - Giant Sparrow’s What Became of Edith Finch is probably one of the few games that has come close. The difference between the tropical islands, decaying pirate mansions and the domestic Drake residences is that the houses felt like everything in there felt like it meant something and was in there for a reason, like it had been part of something. I don’t mean that just for the objects that were intrinsically tied to implicit narrative beats like collectables or even items from countries where Uncharted 4 or prior games are set, but also things like towels, washing baskets, plates and dishes, books and picture frames, shampoo bottles, food - the detail in the fridges! That you can feed Cassie’s dog, Vicky is the most meaningful interaction of the game - by the way, the second most meaningful set of interactions is buying an apple in the market in Madagascar then playing with lemur and letting it take the apple.

Back to the houses, I’m disappointed we never got to walk through one of them as Elena. Now that the core of the franchise is wrapped, I’m left with the impression that she’s the most important character in the series and she’s left woefully under-served. This is a very me thing, and unsurprising. I doubt anyone else cares enough about writing and character to have thoughts like this. They’re into Uncharted for the adventuring and the shooting, but as soon as you present me the opportunity for character drama and you want to have a red-hot go at it, I’m here to set aside the rest of that guff and go for it. The running and jumping and shooting never changes, and I’m here to say that the puzzling could have stepped up orders of magnitude that Naughty Dog never committed to - Crystal Dynamics did far better with Rise Of The Romb Raider, and while the puzzling was never really difficult, the way I described it to a friend was to liken the puzzles to desk toys; not intended to be too challenging, but more satisfying in their tactile nature. I feel Fireproof’s The Room series for iOS and Android are great examples of providing similar sensations.

I don’t mind a game mostly about shenanigans, I just don’t want it centred around a character that won’t learn, or who gets off cheaply. Elena is infinitely more interesting to me - her concerns, her desires - Chloe too, for that matter, and I absolutely am not above making the joke about shipping them as I’m sure thousands have before me (no I won’t write a fanfic about them, I’m sure there are plenty around).

I didn’t play the first The Last of Us. There was a horrifically jarring moment when the game felt it was over-playing its sense of cinema to me, then had a sudden camera zoom transition onto I think the first combat gameplay and I checked out. The tone of that game is trying to telegraph TAKE ME SERIOUSLY and I feel all I’m going to do is read tonally similar things to what I have here but far worse. Also post-apocalypse is easy pickings for bad writing, especially by video games narrative writers, I just don’t have the patience. I’m pleased that there’s lesbian representation in the second game but I’m not sure it’ll be handled with sensitivity. While I’m in no way invested in the game as a product, I continue to be concerned for the welfare of the employees at Naughty Dog, and all game developers everywhere, as always. It is a hugely unregulated industry that is in the process of slow collapse, and now more than ever do we need reform and cultural change.

And in the midst of that, one day we’ll get a decent game that’s about domestic partnerships and wonderful emotional relationships with stunning visual fidelity; maybe it’ll have running and jumping and shooting and maybe it won’t. Maybe it’ll end sadly and maybe it’ll end happily but hopefully it’ll be well-written. 

Here’s to Elena.