#that those songs were about her life and now they are indelibly about mine

[itisabeauteousevening]

when the taylor swift album 1989 turns 10 i will simply dissolve into ash due to the time passing, hope you can understand

[ineloqueent]

angel of lies | one

Brian x Fem!Reader / Roger x Fem!Reader

synopsis: welcome to the opera populaire. be careful what you wish for.

warnings: tw; mention of blood

word count: 5.3k

a/n: in honour of my birthday (i flatter myself), the much-procrastinated, long-awaited (?) saga begins! a massive thank you to jess ( @brianmays-hair​ ) and pearl ( @deacyblues​ ), the masterminds behind the premise of this fic. if you have not already guessed, this is most definitely a phantom of the opera au.

~⚘~

The stage was alive with sound.

With movement it crawled, such that from a distance it appeared to be shimmering, for the headdresses of the dancers sparkled like mirrorballs, casting flecks of light throughout the theatre like stars.

In the grand foyer, glittering crystals dripped from the ceiling, and shadows chased the balustrade statues that raised candelabras above their marble heads.

The place hummed with life, typical of the pre-show hustle and bustle, where every inch of floor was populated by activity, each person more frantic than the next, and the frenzy was only building by the minute.

The theatre became louder as the shouts grew more frequent, and the poor conductor was struggling to raise his voice over the clamour, the prima donna of the production now doing the most orchestration, in terms of chaos.

You sighed, and Meg rolled her eyes. This was going to be a long night.

Meg’s brother shot her a warning look.

We cannot afford to lose our leading lady, his look said.

“Yes, Monsieur Giry,” Meg mocked, but only when his back was turned.

“I heard that,” John hissed as he passed his sister.

But Meg only laughed.

You shook your head at her. “You really oughtn’t annoy your brother like that. He has the power to fire you from here, you know.”

“Oh, but it’s so funny when he gets like that,” Meg said. “His hair always bounces whenever he leaves in a huff.”

You stared after John, whose mound of hair really did bounce when he walked. You smiled.

Then, one of the owners of the opera, a man with dark hair and dark irises to match, made a grand gesture, and all eyes followed his hand. “Darlings, may I present the Vicomte de Chagny.”

Your heart caught in your throat, and you found that you couldn’t remember as to why Meg was giggling by your side.

It couldn’t be.

It couldn’t be him.

Could it?

In your disbelief, your mouth fell open, because there, at centre stage, being introduced as the new patron of the Opera Populaire, was Roger.

Golden-haired, blue-eyed Roger, sweet and silly, who, in your childhood, had been a companion closer to you than your own shadow. You had no fonder memories than those in which he made an appearance, laughing happily as the two of you traded stories of goblins and the rain lashed against the windows of the attic, as your father, long passed, played his violin by candlelight, as Roger shared with you the last of the chocolate.

There would never be a day when you did not think of him.

“Y/N?” Meg intoned.

“Roger,” you whispered, unable to do anything but watch him and his smiling eyes, as he shook hands with the opera personnel.

Meg frowned, standing on her tiptoes in an attempt to see above the gathering crowd, but she was unsuccessful. “The Vicomte? What of him?”

A smile flickered across your face as you murmured, “I guess we could say we were childhood sweethearts.”

Meg’s eyes widened in your peripheral vision. “Y/N, he’s so handsome,” she said.

“What,” you laughed, “do you think he’s too good for me?”

Meg pushed you lightly. “No, of course not. If anything, I’m just surprised that there are still attractive people left in the world. And god, you’re lucky to have had one of them.”

You flushed, “Meg! I have not had him, as you so indelicately put it. And he was never mine.”

“I believe I am keeping you for rehearsal, Signor,” Roger told the owner of the opera in his airy manner. He spoke rather like a prince, you thought, with his long vowels and sharp consonants, and the way his voice hummed with a cadence, as though his words were meant to be a song.

“Oh please, with the formalities,” the opera director waved a hand. “Freddie.”

“Freddie,” Roger nodded. “Well, I’ll be here this evening, to share in your great triumph!”

He shook hands with the company once more, and then departed through the wings on the opposite side of the stage.

Your heart sank a little as he left. But then again, it had been many years ago that you had seen him last, and so much had changed since then.

“Y/N?” Meg asked.

You shook your head. “He wouldn’t recognise me.”

“Of course he would,” Meg assured you, a hand on your sleeve. “He didn’t see you, that’s all.”

You weren’t so sure.

“I have a message, sir,” John was saying to the owners of the Opera Populaire. “From the Opera Ghost.”

“Oh god in heaven!” cried Freddie. “You’re all obsessed.”

John blinked, irritated at being interrupted, but deigning to continue nonetheless. “He welcomes you to his opera—”

Freddie snorted indignantly, “His opera?”

“And commands that you continue to leave Box Five empty for his use, and reminds you that his salary is due.”

The discussion continued, with an outrage on Freddie’s part, concerning the paying of a salary for someone who was not even real, and your thoughts wandered back to Roger.

He had scarcely returned to your life for a handful of minutes, and yet, your infatuation had already taken ahold once more. You wondered faintly if he had ever thought of you the way you still thought of him.

But then you were thrown from your reverie, as a cry erupted from the crowded stage.

“He’s here!”

“Who?” you said, alongside everyone else in the theatre.

Meg clutched at your arm as a hush fell over the room.

“The Phantom of the Opera,” another person shouted. “Up in the rafters!”

Gasps and whispers sparked all around, and you whirled in the same direction as your companions, each of you straining your eyes in an attempt to see past the darkness of the rigging.

One of the opera directors called for silence.

“There’s no one there,” he said, and the masses fell calmer again, turning away from the rear of the stage and grumbling about making a fuss over nothing.

But you didn’t turn away; you stared into the abyss.

And then a shadow swept across the scaffolding, like dark fabric tossed in a wind, like a cloak, or a cape, and you gave a shout.

“There!” you said, your heart thudding with adrenaline, and Meg whirled in the direction of your raised arm.

“Where, where?!” she cried, but the longer she looked, the more obvious it became that whatever had previously been there was no longer.

You lowered your arm, a little dejectedly.

“Never mind,” you murmured, a crease forming between your eyes. “I thought I saw something, but I suppose I didn’t.”

“Oh,” Meg frowned, looking as disappointed as you felt.

But even as she turned away, you couldn’t tear your eyes from what you’d seen.

Because you knew what you’d seen.

You’d seen eyes— hazel— staring right back at you.

~⚘~

The darkness came so easily these days. He did not even have to turn to the shadows for it to eclipse the light. It was there at the corner of his eye, a soft whisper at his ear, a constant presence that was as calming to him as it would have been unsettling to any other.

The darkness had never drawn back in fear at the countenance of his face. The darkness had never told him that he was unloved and would forever remain unloved. The darkness had never cast him from his home, and forced him to cower in the cold when the snow bit at his skin, exposed by the coat he could not afford to own.

The darkness had always been there.

And yet, it was darkness, and so by definition, it was never really there at all. It was the absence of all things, and nothing can come from nothing.

But she was not nothing.

The light she carried in her voice, in her shoes. She was as light on her feet as she was in her spirits, and it made him want to change.

But he knew naught of change, and so it would not come.

Not without her.

But with her… Perhaps.

~⚘~

The production had barely begun, and yet Roger was already leaning over the banister to bring himself closer to the stage, as close as he dared to go without tumbling into the audience on the lower level.

He had hardly been able to believe his eyes, his ears, when she had taken to the stage. For all he could tell, her shimmering gown might well have been made from the waters of a moonlit river, and her eyes bore the same gentle glow they had always borne, and her voice was as beautiful as ever. Roger wondered if she would deny her talent still, if he were to tell her of it again, this day.

He could not deny the warmth which spread through him at the sight of her, and nor did he wish to. He would bring her flowers after the performance and tell her again of her talent.

And maybe, he would tell his Little Lotte what he had never been able to tell her all those years ago.

Maybe he would tell her that he loved her.

The production had barely ended before Roger had left his place on the balcony, in favour of hurrying down the stairs to where he would not miss seeing her.

Her. The only one who mattered.

~⚘~

Their calls echoed, praise upon praise where none before had existed, where previously you had lived in an echo chamber of your own mind, where you had been forced to endure the clamour of every voice that hissed— not good enough, not good enough, you’ll never be good enough.

Where had they been when the desperation had settled into the hot blood that coursed through your veins, painted your toes in horrible hue when you had danced for too many nights without a penny to show for it? Where had they been when your father had died and you’d have given your voice itself to have him back, to feel once more the touch of hand upon your shoulder, assuring you that he was there, that you were there?

Where had they been?

Their affectations you would have wished to endure as little as you wished to endure the echo chamber inside your head, for they would have shouted if a man had ridden a horse across the wooden framework of the stage.

But there was another sound. There had always been another sound.

In the darkness there was a solace— a comfort, almost— and a low, steady hum.

A voice.

An angel. Your father had always promised you that there would be an angel.

And he had been right.

An angel of music, to light the quiet moments between your thoughts, when friends were few and the cold grew monstrous teeth.

There had always been music in your ears— a tune to be hummed, a dance to be danced— and you could not quell the urge to sing when it came to you. That was how you had found your way to the Opera. It had called to you, far stronger than anything you had felt since your father had passed, since Roger had left.

Roger.

He was here. And he was here tonight. What had he thought of the show? Of you? Or were your fears to be realised, that he had not recognised you at all?

The candle in your peripheral vision flickered, subject to the whims of a draft.

The wind does not whisper indoors.

A shiver ran down your back, as sure there had been fingers to skim down your spine, the softness of the action turned sinister by the anonymity of the hand.

And then— again— a voice.

It bristled on the air like electricity, like a live wire simply waiting for the right person to make contact and ignite a fire.

It prickled on the back of your neck.

You turned, your movements slowed by a strange sort of fear, and yet, you wanted to know whose voice it was. You intended to make that contact, for so long had you lived without any sort of fire at all, and you were tired of being burned out.

“Where in the world have you been hiding?”

You nearly jumped out of your skin when Meg’s call reached your ears, the sound of her dainty footsteps growing more distinct as she approached. The shadow at the corner of your eye was snuffed out as surely as any flame.

You felt your shoulders lower ever so slightly, half in relief, half in disappointment.

You had been so close to knowing that the lack of knowledge was now almost too much to bear.

“Really,” she went on, with a little huff. “You were perfect. I only wish I knew your secret.”

“Meg,” you said, and she tilted her head like a curious fawn. “When your brother brought me here to live… whenever I come down here alone to light a candle for my father, a voice from above and in my dreams…” You trailed off, thinking of the soft baritone you could call to mind at will, it was so frequently present. “He was always there,” you murmured. The memories lulled you, quieted your senses, as though you were walking in a dream. “You see, when my father lay dying, he told me I will be protected by an angel. An angel of music. I used to dream he’d appear…”

You were quite sure that Meg had made a response to your musings, but you were not well aware of what that response had been, and nor could you find it in you to care. There remained suddenly only a singular thought within your head, and that was who? Who was the voice? He was the darkness, you were sure of it. He was the comfort, the peace amidst the chaos of the world, but he was evasive, the unseen genius. You longed to know the face of such an angel. You did not know for how much longer you could go on not knowing.

You blinked, and became conscious of the fact that you were no longer in the chapel. Meg had led you from it, and the two of you now weaved behind the screen, in the space between the stage and its rigging, your friend leading you by the hand.

“Y/N, your hands are cold,” she whispered, and her own face was pale, a mask of terror.

You wriggled your fingers slightly in her grasp. She was right; you felt as though the warmth had left your very blood. But though your skin was cold, you were not. You burned brighter than ever, as bright as the candle you lit, night after night, in the memory of your father.

“I know,” you answered. “But I am not frightened.”

~⚘~

It was John whom you saw first, following the show.

He placed a hand on your shoulder, and when he smiled, you thought that perhaps he considered you family as much as he did Meg. It made you feel a little less alone in the world.

“You did well, Y/N,” he said.

Then, to your puzzlement, he handed you a single red rose, upon the stem of which was tied a silk ribbon, in a pretty bow which shimmered onyx black in the dimly lit dressing room.

You had the strangest feeling, looking at that bow. An overwhelming sense of déjà vu, as though you’d somehow seen that exact shade of black before. In a dream, perhaps. Or in another life, if there were such things.

A shadow stirred at the corner of your eye, but when you turned to confront it, there was nothing but light bouncing off of the walls, and John nowhere to be found.

And Roger, standing in the doorway, with his familiar half-smile and eyes that glinted with mischief, a bouquet of flowers over one arm.

“Little Lotte thought,” he began, his smile growing as he made his way toward you, “am I fonder of dolls, or of goblins of shoes, or of riddles or frocks—”

“Those picnics in the attic,” you said, and your smile mirrored his.

“Or of chocolates,” Roger continued with a wink, setting down the flowers.

They surfaced in your mind, those memories. Bathed in golden light as though the sun shone upon them through stained glass windows, their images rendered divine in their innocence, their happiness. “Father playing the violin…”

“As we read to each other dark stories of the North,” Roger reached you and sank to his knees, his tone soft and playful and all those things you’d missed about him since before you’d known he’d be gone.

“No,” you whispered, and you thought that his eyes had never been as blue as this. Wider than the sky and bluer than the deepest of seas, cerulean and sapphire and everything in between. Every shoal and reef one could have imagined to exist shimmered in his irises, a whole other world, and it belonged to him.

And it belonged to you, when you looked at him.

“What I love best, Little Lotte said, is when I’m asleep in my bed…”

A tingle rushed down your spine as he drifted closer to you, so exquisite in his stillness, the prettiness of his being that suddenly assaulted your senses like the smell of roses.

Roses. A rose. With a black ribbon.

A gift—

“And the angel of music sings songs in my head.”

His smile grew until you thought it would take over his face entirely, and then he embraced you, tightly.

Oh, how you’d missed him and the feeling of being held in his arms, the way your chin fit perfectly on his shoulder and his cheek rested against your cheek.

“You sang like an angel tonight,” he murmured, and you sighed into the crook of his neck.

He pulled back again, and you relished the way his gaze lingered on your own, as though he could not look away, and even had he been able to, would have had no mind to do so either.

“Father said, when I'm in heaven, child, I will send the Angel of Music to you.” Roger blinked, as though resurfacing from the depths of a dream, and you perceived a change in him. “Well, father is dead, Roger, and I have been visited by the Angel of Music.”

He gave a little laugh, and there it was at once, that which had hurt you so much in the past, and still stung you now. You had thought you had grown, but really, you were still that little girl, no more grown than you had been when you were shorter than your father’s music stand, as sensitive as you’d always been.

He didn’t believe you.

He thought you were telling stories, as usual, and his skepticism was grating; it tore at your heart.

“Oh, no doubt,” he said, clearly in doubt. He stood up, brushed off the front of his coat. “And now we'll go to supper!”

You fought to make him believe you, anything to have that warmth return to his eyes once more, to turn away his disbelief. “Roger, no—”

“Change, sweetheart, and I’ll order my carriage,” he waved a hand as he strode toward the door.

“No, Roger, wait!”

The door had shut. And he had shut you out, again.

You were still those children, haunted by your losses and warned not to believe that which was strange, even if it was true.

But there was no magic in this form of youth, because it was not youth so much as the turning of a blind eye to that which one did not understand.

And Roger did not understand you. You couldn’t help but wonder if he has ever.

The lock of the door clicked, and you tensed.

The room felt suddenly cold, and you would not have been surprised if cobwebs had begun to spiral down from the ceiling, if ice had formed on the door handle and the mirror, if the flowers all around you had withered in an unbidden frost.

Then a rush of that strange wind that could not possibly exist within the walls of the Opera, and every candle in sight was extinguished. You imagined that it was not only the candles in this room, but all of the candles, everywhere, snuffed out in their prime, one by one, until the Opera turned shadowy and grey.

The frost settled on your skin as a voice rose from the shadows to greet you in the silence left in the wake of Roger’s departure.

A familiar voice.

“Ignorant fool,” came the whisper, quiet but condemning in manner, resolute in assessment.

It was close. He was close.

The angel, he was here.

“Angel,” you murmured, your eyes flitting between the shapes of the world in darkness, trying to discern the living from the inanimate, but entirely without luck. You whirled, anything to catch a glimpse, yet still there was nothing. “I hear you— speak, I listen…”

Your plea was met with silence, but his presence was not gone, so you began again. “Stay by my side... Guide me.”

You reached out your hands in the darkness, and there again was that rush of cool air, like someone moving past.

“You shall know me,” he answered. “See why in shadow I hide.” His voice lowered to that whisper again, and you felt the cold reach your very bones. “Look in the mirror.”

Toward the mirror you wandered, on some invisible path, like staring at something so horrible that one cannot look away, only this was not horror you felt, but a sort of gravitation in favour of the unknown.

Curiosity.

And there, in the looking glass, was a face, or part of one— high-cheeked and fine boned, severe in beauty, yet cold in the stare of those hazel eyes which should rightfully have been warm as a summer’s day.

But they were not.

Had the mirror been any less pristine, you would have thought it damaged, for you could see little cracks there, in his eyes. But the cracks were not part of the mirror. In fact, they were part of nothing at all, no more than a figment of your imagination. But you perceived in him a brokenness, and so that was how he appeared to you.

His skin shone like porcelain, almost blended with the half of his face covered by some fashion of mask.

And curls.

His hair was so curly that you thought there would have been curls for miles if they had all been uncoiled and the ends spun together.

Such beauty did not often hide behind a mask. You wondered why this one did.

You drew nearer to the mirror and it rippled like water. You imagined the figure reaching out his hand to you. Or maybe you were not imagining it. Maybe it was real.

And it was.

His fingertips skimmed the palm of your hand and you gasped at the touch.

There was a tremble in his hand, and you longed to still it. You curled your fingers around his wrist.

He pulled you closer to the mirror and sharply, the air left your lungs.

You felt his eyes skim down from your temples, to your jaw, until he lifted his gaze to meet your eyes. You could not breathe beneath that gaze.

“Are you afraid of me?” he asked.

And the darkness— it finally had a face.

“I am not afraid of you,” you whispered, feeling a heaviness like relief take over your senses, dousing you in drowsiness.

“Perhaps you should be,” he replied, and his exhale touched your lips. The blood in your veins which had been cold was now hot, and the pace of your heart made your head spin.

Then his grasp fell stronger upon your own, and he pulled you through the mirror.

Someone was calling your name, somewhere, but you found suddenly that you could not look away from the one who grasped your hand, the one whose eyes remained upon your own, even as he led you.

Where he was leading you, you did not know, but this mystery was one that had existed for far too long already, and you were desperate for answers, for a glimpse of truth in this world of shadows, where you had been blind for too long to remember what truth looked like.

So perhaps it was not the truth that you were chasing, but rather a dream, in which you would slip farther and farther from reality until the fantasy consumed you.

But what was there to miss from this place? You had no family to speak of, and the opera would surely go on as it always did. After all, the show must go on.

The walls seemed to bow inwards, and the candles mounted there danced in the hands that held them, because indeed, the candelabras were golden hands.

But you were not concerned by the swaying walls or the golden hands. All you could think of was the hand which rested lightly in yours, the eyes that gleamed softly, far more beautiful than any candle.

It soon became dark once more, as the candelabras became fewer and fewer in number, as you descended with the face of the darkness, until at last you found yourself within a small boat, which sailed swiftly across the waters of a river you had never known the existence of.

Perhaps it was the river Styx, of which you had always heard in stories. You did not spare the thought doubt, for nothing would surprise you anymore. It would seem there was an entire world beneath the Opera Populaire, and this was the first that you were seeing of it.

How many more hidden corners of the world had passed you by?

The thought struck in you a sadness, and awash with a heady loneliness, you glanced over your shoulder.

But of course, he was still there— the tall, dark shadow that had always been there, and you hoped he would always be there. The darkness still called to you, even now.

You felt a smile curve your mouth.

Then the boat crested a shore, and you turned back to the prow of the vessel, to find the walls of a spacious cavern decorated in swaths of red velvet, similar to that of the Grand Drape of the opera. All around were those candles, sparkling like supernovas in the darkness, the light glancing of off hundreds of odd trinkets, from mirrors to chandeliers, to more candelabras, and it impressed you as strange that there should be so many agents of light in a place of such darkness.

And then he was stepping from the boat and extending his hand to you again, though you could not remember letting go.

His gaze was sharp and it challenged you, dared you deny him your hand.

You did not deny him your hand.

Wordless still, he drew you forward, led you on a path amongst the candles, to the music of the night— of the river water lapping against the shore, of the sound of the velvet drapes which fluttered in that impossible wind which seemed to breathe life into every forgotten corner of the Opera Populaire, including this cavern.

You came to a stop where the ground was raised, and you at once lifted your eyes to that masked face.

“Who are you?” you murmured.

“The same as I have always been,” he replied, with a dip of his head.

“And who is that?”

“The angel, of course.” His voice was low, smooth as caramel, and enraptured by the sound, you gazed up at him. “Yours.”

“Mine?”

“Am I not your angel?” he asked, and you thought he drew closer. “Have you not always spoken to me amongst the whispers of the night? Have you not fallen asleep many a time with my name on your lips?” He was definitely closer now, for you were almost chest-to-chest, and he grasped your hands between the two of you, lifted them to his lips.

He ghosted your fingers with a kiss, and heat spread through you at the tender touch.

“I do not know your name,” you said.

He lowered your hands but did not release them, instead running one long forefinger over the underside of your wrist, a gesture behind which shivers followed.

“May, some used to call me.”

“May?” you whispered, and felt the intimacy of the name of your eternal protector hum across your lips. “An uncommon name.”

“I once had another. But none remember it.”

“Except you,” you said. “You remember.”

His eyes flickered. “I can hardly call it mine.”

This was dangerous ground. His jaw and his grip upon your hands had tightened, and though the change in demeanour was subtle, it was significant.

But you pushed back, because you had come here for answers.

“Tell me,” you said.

You took your hands from his grasp and raised them instead to either side of his face, to the cool porcelain of the mask, to the burning skin which told of fire beneath— a fire to his soul, as there was to your own.

His eyes fluttered closed at your touch and he leaned his cheek into your palm, his breath a caress across your skin.

“Brian May.”

He gifted the words to you with a shudder, and you knew in your heart that you were the first in a long time to hear them. His lips brushed your palm, and his fingers skimmed your hips, to which you leaned in closer, now almost in an embrace.

“Return my name to me,” he whispered.

To your toes you lifted yourself, and his name flooded your lips as ambrosia, everlasting, binding, but though your blood turned to fire, your bones did not become dust, unless by dust, stardust was meant.

“Brian May,” you said, and slipped your fingers beneath the mask.

With a cry, he pushed you away, roughly, and you fell to the ground as the mask fell from his face.

A tremor began in the surface beneath your feet, before it spread to the entirety of the floor and spiralled up the walls, shaking the cavern and everything within it with such force you feared the breaking apart of the very Earth.

Candles toppled from all around, and you gave a shout as one narrowly missed lighting your dress aflame, again when a mirror nearly crushed you, and hot tears of mortal fear pricked your eyes.

Until a hand pulled yours and a body shielded your own, as glass shattered and waves swelled within the winding river.

Then, as abruptly as it had begun, the earthquake receded, and your protector disentangled himself from you.

Sitting up, you wiped tears from your face, ashamed of the fear which had plagued you, and you found that the cavern was all but completely dark. Only a single candle had survived the shaking of the cavern, and its light now seemed almost garish.

Then eyes met your own in the dark, and your gaze fell upon the right side of his face, to find—

Nothing. Nothing at all. Nothing but the second half of a man’s face, equal in beauty to the first half, for but a slightly over-dilated pupil which obscured the hazel of its iris.

But then again, perhaps you did not see a man at all, but a boy.

Because for all the terror in his expression, you could not see past his youth.

When he spoke this time, his voice was gravel, and a coldness settled within you at the condemnation in his tone, for it was clear that he was no protector here.

“What have you done?”

~⚘~

[justasparkwritings]

Illicit Affairs: Beautiful Rooms Pt. 3

Previous: Beautiful Rooms Pt. 2 

Pairings: Namjoon & Reader (Barely)

Genre: Angst, Slice of Life

Ratings: PG15

Word Count: 2.1K

Warnings: Therapy and Swearing, Lots of Reminiscing 

Summary: Under the guidance of Dr. Aarons, Jungkook and Namjoon work to rebuild their relationship. 

Listen: illicit affairs by Taylor Swift

��         “Let’s debrief,” Dr. Aarons sits gently in her chair, hair grown out a little, the new length carefully tossed over her shoulder. She adjusts the pen in her hand and consults the list in her notebook. “We’ve covered a lot of ground in the last few weeks, but there’s one piece we haven’t discussed.”

           “What is that?” Namjoon asks.

           “There’s a new stipulation in Jungkook’s contract that says he can date, I understand, similar to yours, it was a consolation prize,”

           “Mm, when the lawyers and I renegotiated the contracts, it seemed fair that he get something special in return,” Namjoon answers.

           “Jungkook, how do you feel about it?”

           “About dating?”

           “Yes, with all you’ve been through, bringing another person into your life?”

           “I feel, scared,”

           “Can you explain that?”

           “Scared that all of the trauma is going to come back, scared I’m not enough, scared I can’t love someone,”

           “Why do you think that?” Namjoon asks.

           “You don’t get it, do you?” Jungkook’s earnestness slips through his syllables.

           “What don’t I get?”

           “Joon, I’ve spent nearly a decade thinking that Big Hit loves me because I work myself to the bone, because I damage my body and push it past its limits. Love costs,”

           “No it doesn’t,”

           “Your love cost,”

           “No,” Namjoon shakes his head. In the nearly two months they’ve spent in this room with Dr. Aarons, Namjoon has had his share of epiphanies. This, this is new and horrifying.

           “Yes,”

           “I,” Namjoon lunges at Jungkook, a foreign behavior that results in Dr. Aarons gasping. But he doesn’t fight him, he pulls him in, hugging him fiercely. “It doesn’t, it doesn’t Jungkook, there is no price to my love, I swear.”

           “This is the last hurdle I want us to discuss before the rest of the members arrive this week.”

           “Okay,” Namjoon sits back in his spot, leaving Jungkook’s arms empty.

           “We have to separate the idea that the actions you carried out aren’t related to love,”

           “How do we do that?”

           “Jungkook, you’ve made a list of memorable moments with Namjoon, both positive and hurtful, we’re going to work through them to separate the different emotions during those moments. Sound good?”

           “Yes,” The men reply.

           Dr. Aaron’s projects a table on the empty wall to their right, a natural screen. Namjoon stares at the T-Chart and reads over the first event.

           “Jungkook, why don’t you read the first one?”

            “Namjoon asks for a hug on stage,” Jungkook reads.

           “Why did you bring this memory to us?”

           “It’s always stuck in my mind,”

           “Can you elaborate on why?” Dr. Aarons smiles at the blush on Jungkook’s cheeks, before she turns to Namjoon. “Namjoon, what do you remember of that day?”

           “That was, what, Love Yourself World tour? Yeah, I was just feeling so emotional, we were in Seoul before going to the US to play stadiums. It was all so overwhelming, to start in our hometown, to be there, as Bangtan with all we’d been through.”

           “Jungkook, why did this stand out to you?”

           “Namjoon-hyung isn’t one for physical affection, he’s not like Hobi-hyung or Jimin-hyung, he doesn’t walk around with a free hug sign… it was so special that he wanted to share that with me, with all of us on stage in front of everyone.”

           “Was that moment pure love, or calculated action?” Dr. Aarons inquires.

           “Pure love,” The men answer in unison.

           “Let’s look at the next one.”

           “Preparation for Billboard awards,” Jungkook reads.

           “Which time?” Namjoon asks.

           “2018,” Jungkook specifies.

           “Oh, Fake Love era,” He nods his head, mind already racing through the string of events that made that year nearly unbearable.

           “Yes,”

           “Granted, we are only on the second event, but 2018 seems to have been one hell of a year. What was going on behind the scenes?”

           The thing about being a therapist is that you always know more than your clients think. Particularly when they’re famous, and Billboard has created detailed lists of their accomplishments for the last few years, you tend to be clued in when a high-profile individual waltzes through your doors. Dr. Aarons had never worked with an idol of such status and power as Jungkook and Namjoon, and eventually OT7. So, to prepare, she naturally went in to read the facts. The lists of accomplishments, itemized by year, proved indelible to her work with them. She felt prepared when Jungkook walked into her office, and through their dedicated time each day, she learned more and more. Dr. Aarons could see in that first meeting how damaged his psyche was, she could see the betrayal and confusion, the years of misuse of his body, the systems woven into his DNA that he was going to have to relearn. But she also saw the drive, the hope, the soul in his midnight irises. Now, watching him interact with Namjoon, she was beginning to feel proud of all the progress he’s made.

           “We were practicing nonstop,” Jungkook’s voice pulls her back.

           Namjoon nods, “We were all falling apart.”

           Dr. Aarons hums thoughtlessly, an empty gesture to the two whose minds are reliving the hell from that year. “This is when you considered breaking up?”

           “Disbanding, yeah,” Namjoon nods again. “We met and talked about it, a lot. It was hard navigating the pressure of becoming a more global group and the pressures of the Korean music industry.”

           “Hobi-hyung and Jimin-hyung released solo stuff, too,” Jungkook adds

           “I did too,” Namjoon reminds him. “It was a busy year with a lot of promotions and changes, so many music videos, we played the Tokyo Dome,”

           “Mic Drop Remix came out, and we had a song go platinum for the first time,”

           “We started to win big at MNET and MAMA awards,”

           “Wasn’t that the first time we were in Time Magazine?”

           “Mm, the world voted us person of the year,” Namjoon remembers receiving the news, they had been ecstatic.

           “But you wanted to disband?” Dr. Aarons wonders. “Why?”

           “All that success was overwhelming,” Jungkook answers.

           “Jungkook, you’re an introvert?”

           “Yes,”

           “I can imagine the toll that took on you, and still does, finding time to rest and recharge,” Dr. Aarons has had this conversation with him before, the need to manage his introverted personality, how he controls his body and the world around him. The tattoos, the piercings, the hair dying. All symptoms. All things she wasn’t sure Namjoon had realized.

           “I guess I thought exercise was a way to manage it,” He shrugs.

           “Jungkook, what stands out to you about Namjoon at this time?”

           “He was the reason I joined, the promises he made. We were together wondering if it was worth it and I just felt like I’d sacrificed so much, my body was breaking, and he was sitting there wondering if we should quit.”

           “Mm, did you feel betrayed?”

           “Yes, by him,”

           “What about the other members?”

           “They didn’t see it that way, Namjoon-hyung didn’t promise them what he promised me,”

           “You were feeling betrayed by him, and working your body to the max with minimal success,”

           “Yes,”

           “Namjoon, how were you feeling?”

           “I felt like we were gaining success but at what cost?”

           “That cost was me,” Jungkook says. “It’s always been me.”

           “Jungkook,”

           “Namjoon, we’ve been working on this, but there’s still a disconnect.”

           “I don’t know how to make him understand what I was going through too,”

           “Mm, Jungkook?”

           “Ttaeron naui sum makhil ttaemyeon / Mojal nulleosseugo gyesok dallyeo” Jungkook replies.

           “I know,”

           “You don’t, you never will. You got love, you got a career, you got a life, you got it all.” Jungkook whispers.

           “Was 2018, specifically the lead up to the Fake Love performance love, or calculated action?” Dr. Aarons presses.

           “Both,” Jungkook answers.

           “Elaborate,” She requests.

           “Namjoon-hyung wanted to walk away because he loved us, he respected us, he wanted us to be happy. But pushing me in rehearsals and building me up by complimenting the results was calculated. The lies he told were planned. He knew what he was doing to me.”

           “Namjoon, do you think that’s a fair assessment?”

           “Yes. You were also working out so much because you had to lift your shirt every time, we did that stupid song,” Namjoon sits back, the air in his lungs deflating.

           “Who decided that?” Dr. Aarons asks. “It’s something I’ve wondered about.”

           “Choreographer,” They answer.

           “Could it have been a calculated move?”

           “Maybe,” Jungkook answers. Namjoon sits silently, staring at his hands. His silence tells Dr. Aarons everything she needs to know, it was.

           “Hmm, alright next,”

           “Bangtan performing Ddaeng together,” Jungkook reads.

           “Tell me about that,”

           “We had two concerts, like a showcase, and OT7 decided we wanted to perform Ddaeng together. We divided the vocal line, Hoseok took Jimin and Seokjin, Yoongi took Taehyung, and I had Jungkook. We rehearsed and then performed together,” Namjoon explains.

           “What was special about this?”

           “We never perform rap line songs with the rap line. It was a surprise to the fans, and something we all really wanted to do. Namjoon and I have always been close, and he let me really take the verse and make it mine for those performances,”

           “Namjoon, why did you pick Jungkook?”

           “I didn’t, it was just, decided,”

           “Hobi-hyung took Jimin and Jin because they were the least experienced with rapping, and were happier to split a verse than have their own.”

           “Taehyung wanted Yoongi’s verse, desperately wanted it.”

           “I would’ve been happy with either, but I guess, I’ll take any opportunity to work with Joon-hyung,”

           “How was rehearsing?”

           “Really fun,” Jungkook says. “It was the most fun I’ve had in rehearsal, maybe ever,”

           “It was thrilling to watch him take on this song, my verse and make it his own. Our styles are very different. It was fun to watch him play with it, make it his,”

           “You still rapped parts of it with him,”

           “We took turns at the beginning of the verse,” Jungkook answers. “Then I did the rest.”

           “Love, or calculated?”

           “Love,” Namjoon answers.

           “Was it?” Jungkook asks.

           “You think it would be calculated?” Namjoon asks.

           “Show me how I could do more than just sing, push me to explore different parts of my job, continue my drive. Could’ve been calculated,”

           “But you didn’t get into rapping at that point, you haven’t yet,”

           “True,”

           “From what I’m hearing, it sounds like love,” Dr. Aarons decides. “You two have come a long way in the last two months. I’m excited to talk to the other members and work through a few items with them too. How are you feeling about them coming?”

           “I’m excited,” Jungkook tells her. “I haven’t seen them in a while, I miss them.”

           “I’m happy we’ll get to work through this, though, very nervous,” Namjoon answers.

           “Good. All things to take into consideration as we ready our minds for our meeting.”

           Dr. Aarons bids the men adieu, and as they exit into the LA sun, Namjoon turns to Jungkook.

           “You’ve come a long way,” Namjoon compliments.

           “So have you,” Jungkook responds.

           “Do you want to get dinner later?” Namjoon inquires, eyes hopeful. They haven’t had many 1-1 moments, a few work activities together, some studio time and lyric sessions, but limited social time. At first Joon hated it, but after meeting with Dr. Aarons a few times outside of their group work, he came to realize how important it was for each of them to be apart, separated during their therapy.

           “I can’t, but maybe we can get coffee tomorrow before the guys show up?” Jungkook offers. It’s a consolidation prize, Namjoon can see it in the way he shrinks himself in the sunshine.

           “Sounds good, I’m moving into a bigger place with them, are you coming too?” Namjoon inquires.

           “No, I’m staying in mine. Dr. Aarons’ wants me to slowly transition back to work,” Jungkook informs him.

           “That’s a good plan,” Namjoon nods, sunglasses masking the disappointment in his eyes.

           “Yeah, so coffee, tomorrow?”

           Namjoon nods, “Eight?”

           “Sounds good,” Jungkook waves at Namjoon before turning and going his own way.

           Jungkook has plans, plans that he’s sure will go from dinner through the evening until early morning when his new love has to go to work. It’s new, a few weeks old, but feels like being on stage: familiar, comfortable, challenging, exhilarating, home. Jungkook’s only told Dr. Aarons about it, and she’s given him cautious advice. He had asked Dr. Aarons if this was a good idea, a relationship, dating at all… potentially his first real relationship with someone who looked at him like, like no one had before. It was something that was just his, in his heart, to be shared with her and only her.

           So maybe he was ditching and lying to Namjoon, but after nearly a decade, isn’t it time?

Next: Beautiful Rooms Pt. 4

[cafedanslanuit]

it was only a kiss || tamaki x mirio

band!au & college!au

summary; college student tamaki is convinced by a friend to join her band. while initially the thought of standing in front of strangers terrified him to the core, he was quickly engulfed by the stage’s power to transform himself into someone else. when mirio and nejire found out and insisted to attend their next gig, there was no doubt in tamaki’s mind it was a bad idea. he just didn’t know how bad it could get.

songs featured; when you were young + mr brightside // the killers

notes; this prompt was made by tiktok user @reverserogue. tagging @inloveinc​ because we love tamaki + eyeliner

.❀。• *₊°。 ❀°。 .❀。• *₊°。 ❀°。 .❀。• *₊°。 ❀°。 .❀。• *₊°。

The stage is powerful. It had enough strength to make a usually restrained and fearful college student play his favourite instrument without crumbling into the fear and anxiety that was present in his daily life. While it did help that the lights prevented him to see anyone past the first row, Tamaki had to admit maybe Nejire's friend, Yui, had been right about him being a good fit for her band. He had never felt as confident as he did onstage, never felt as good about himself as he had the past few months.

Underground bars were Yui's favourite place to play. Tamaki was against the idea as soon as he listened to her, but after visiting the place a couple of times before they played, he discovered it was actually a good place for him. Most of the attendees were people who didn't know him since they attended another college. He wasn't Amajiki Tamaki, that creepy dude that couldn't form two sentences together, he was just the guitar player to Yui's band, a random guy who mostly hung out with the other band members and would enjoy an occasional free beer sent by their fans.

Soon, they were getting gigs every week. Sometimes they gave them money, sometimes it would be free drinks. It really didn't matter for him. Honestly, he would have done it for free. He never thought it would be so freeing to let himself be someone else, at least for a couple of nights a week. The band success propelled Yui to invite Mirio and Nejire to their next show.

To say Tamaki wasn't so keen on the idea was an understatement. He had gotten used to becoming this new persona on stage, giving his all to the blurry faces that chanted the songs they played. How did his two childhood friends would fit in his new safe world? Before he could finish listing all the valid reasons it would be a bad idea, both Mirio and Nejire were taking note on when and where the band's next gig would be.

Saturday's night came quicker that Tamaki would have wanted and once again they were back at the now known bar, setting their instruments on stage. Iruka, the second guitar and Yui's brother was connecting the wires of the guitars and bass to the amplifiers while Akito, the bass player and Iruka’s boyfriend was tunning his instrument.

"This feels weird," Tamaki winced, helping Yui carry her drums on stage.

"C'mon, they've known you your whole life. It's fair they can also see this amazing and confident dude you become onstage."

"I- I don't know about that," he shrugged.

"It's going to be fine," she assured her. "Go splash some cold water on your face. We'll start in five."

Tamaki obliged and walked to the bathroom. It was badly lit and filled with an unpleasant smell that made him scrunch his nose. Dragging his feet, he approached the sink and splashed water on his face. He looked at his reflection, ignoring the writings in indelible ink written around. He looked paler than usual. Maybe it would be better to tell Yui that he couldn't play tonight. The girl's sad face appeared in his mind and he shook his head, trying to get rid of those thoughts. The knowledge he would be sabotaging her band if the main guitarrist just disappeared out of the blue was the only thing stopping him from running away. Tamaki splashed water one more time against his face and took a deep breath.

The bathroom door opened with a loud bang, making Tamaki turn around in surprise. He visibly relaxed when he recognized Mirio. The door shut down again, dulling the music from the bar. Once Mirio spotted Tamaki, he smiled brightly and walked to him, his legs a little wobbly.

"Tamaki!" Mirio yelled, cheeks bright red. He put a hand on Tamaki's shoulder for support, a giggle escaping from his lips. "I had never seen you wearing a leather jacket before and… is that eyeliner? You look cool, man."

"Yui's brother, Iruka," Tamaki explained with a small shrug. The smell of alcohol in his friend’s breath confirmed his earlier suspicions. "Are you drunk?"

Mirio looked around while pursing his lips as if making sure no one was listening to them.

"... Maybe," he whispered.

"Maybe? Y-you can't even walk a straight, I--"

His words were cut off by Mirio's lips pressing against their own. Tamaki couldn't help but let out a small yelp, his arms shooting up to the sides of his chest. After pulling away for a second, Mirio leaned in once more and kissed his bottom lip as softly as he could. Keeping his blue eyes fixed on his friend’s mouth, he gently brushed his parted lips against his, his eyebrows furrowed in curiosity.

Tamaki felt his legs were going to give out at any moment, the alcohol in the man’s breath in front of him intoxicating him as if he had drunk himself. He was in such a state of shock he didn’t realize he hadn’t kissed him back until he felt the tip of Mirio’s tongue grazing his lower lip. Experimentally, he kissed his friend’s upper lip, trying not to overthink the situation they were in. He felt Mirio smile and take some air, but before he could say anything, the door opened. Mirio pulled away rapidly, setting his hands on the sink next to the one Tamaki has been using. Loud noise from the bar filled the bathroom again, making Tamaki feel as if he was just waking up for dream.

“Hey, we’re waiting for you,” Akito reminded him, tilting his head towards the door. He didn't seem to have noticed anything, or at least pretended he didn't. “C’mon.”

Tamaki nodded, shooting a quick glance to Mirio, who was now looking at his reflection in the mirror, trying to fix his hair. What the hell had just happened? Should he say something? Could he say anything about a situation he couldn't even begin to understand?

Noticing Akito was still impatiently waiting for him at the door, Tamaki decided to follow him to the stage, where Yui had a stern expression on her face, arms crossed in front of her chest.

“The fuck, dude? I thought you had died in there."

Kind of, he thought.

“S-sorry,” Tamaki muttered, picking up his guitar.

“We’re doing ‘When we were young’ to start," she instructed him as she took her place behind the drums.

“The Killers?”

“I told you it was Nostalgia Night today. You read the setlist I emailed you last night, right?” Yui asked, raising her eyebrow.

“Sorry, sorry,” he said, scratching the back of his head. “I’m a little out of it. I- I do remember the setlist, sorry”.

Yui’s expression fell a little. “Are you okay? Is it because Mirio and Nejire are here?”

“Yes,” Tamaki lied. Yui sighed and looked to the people gathered in front of the small stage. Mirio was chatting with Nejire happily, both of them holding drinks and smiling.

“Look, I'm sorry I didn't ask you before inviting them. But they’ve been your friends far longer than they have been mine. I’m sure they’ll be proud of you. Once you conquer this night, nothing can ever stop you again, okay?” she said, a small smile on her face. Taking a deep breath, Tamaki nodded. “Great! Now, help me bring the microphone closer to my drums, I’m singing this one."

A couple of minutes later, after a short introduction of the band, Yui tilted her head to Tamaki, who strummed his guitar, marking the beginning of the song.

You sit there in your heartache

Waiting on some beautiful boy to

To save you from your old ways

Yui’s voice had the perfect combination of roughness and strength that fit the rock songs they usually played. Even if Iruka usually did the singing, for the last month Yui had insisted they all should have a go at it.

Tamaki looked at the audience, his face rising in heat when he realized both his friends were on the first row, their big eyes set on him. He immediately lookd away. Would he feel as afraid as he did if Mirio hadn’t just kissed him not even an hour ago? His eyes darted away, looking at the rest of the band. For several tears, he had done the best he could to hide the feelings that had been tormenting him about his friend , since he knew there was no way they were reciprocated. Had he been far less sneaky as he thought he was? Had Mirio somehow discovered it? The wildest theories his brain came up with still couldn’t help him understand why would Mirio kiss him if he didn’t feel anything for him. Could he really...? Was this real?

He doesn't look a thing like Jesus

But he talks like a gentleman

Like you imagined when you were young

Tamaki looked once again at his friends, the words sang by Yui resonating in his head as he took notice in how bright Mirio’s smile was. He would flat out lie if he said that he never, not even in the solitude of his dorm room, had wondered what it would be to kiss him. He also hated the fact his fantasies hadn’t come close to what he had just experienced. The softness and curiosity of his friend’s movements had him smiling once more, not being able to refrain himself.

The song came to an end with a round of cheers from the crowd. Tamaki smiled softly, thankful he hadn’t messed up even if his mind was somewhere else. They played a couple of more songs, easing Tamaki more and more into the comfortable state he was always at when he performed on stage. Once he played the final chord, he looked back at Yui, waiting for her sign to play the next song but instead, she waved at him, calling him over. He furrowed his eyebrows and obliged, walking to the drums.

“See? This is going great!” she grinned, taking a swig of her water bottle. “You wanna try that song we were rehearsing the other day? The one you sang?”

“Y-you’re sure?” he asked, twisting his mouth. Yui nodded enthusiastically.

“Yeah! It sounds great when you do it. C’mon, take the mic”

Iruka and Akito saw Tamaki placing the mic stand in front of him and looked over at Yui, who raised her thumbs at them. Knowing which song was next, they left their drinks on the floor and placed their hands on their instruments once more. Once everyone was ready, Tamaki began playing the well-known riff, the band quickly following him.

Coming out of my cage

And I've been doing just fine

The feeling of fullness music gave him was something he had never experienced before. If he had known live music had such an empowering effect on him, he would have tried it long ago. He only ever played around with his guitar when he thought no one was looking, so he was really lucky Yui had ended up listening to him playi. They both had been invited to a pool party, but Tamaki had quickly left the crowd and started walking around the house. He found a guitar in one of the rooms and started idly strumming some chords, trying to pass the time until Nejire and Mirio wanted to return to the dorms. Yui had been wandering around the house as well when she heard him, and later made it her life mission to get him to meet Iruka and Akito so he could be a part of her new band.

It started out with a kiss

How did it end up like this?

Tamaki laughed under his breath when the crowd chanted the next line and turned his head at them, wanting to keep this memory forever. His wish was cruelly granted when the very first image that greeted him was Mirio kissing someone else. She had long, black, wavy hair falling down her back and it didn’t look like anyone Tamaki had seen at their college before, but that didn’t stop his friend from pulling her even tighter against his body.

Muscle memory is a funny thing. Even when your mind is no longer there, music triggers a part of your brain that makes your body play your instrument perfectly if you’ve rehearsed long enough. He wished he could look anywhere but at this random girl circling his friend’s neck with her arms as she kissed him. Tamaki could no longer hear the music around him or even know if he was still breathing. There was only one thing in his mind and the image of it was breaking him into a million pieces.

And I just can't look, it's killing me

And taking control

Tamaki looked over at Nejire, who was happily oblivious to her friend’s state as she danced to the music. He turned to the side once more, facing Iruka and Akito. The crowd sang at the top of their lungs and he doubted whether they could listen to his voice anymore. He refused to look at the crowd again, knowing what was happening right in front of him. Fuck, how did things get so complicated? He had been just fine denying his feelings all those years, not paying attention to them, confident there was no way Mirio would look at him in a different way, and not only had he been proved wrong, but in a dramatically short span of time the timid hope that had grown in his heart has been stomped in the most cruel way. If only his feelings had been crushed, then why did his chest hurt so much?

“How did it end up like this?” he sang, letting out an amused, dry laugh. “It was only a kiss, it was only a kiss.”

How he wished he could get his beating heart to understand just that. It had been nothing more than a drunk kiss. And while maybe that meant the kiss with the girl was also just a drunk kiss, it didn’t make him feel any better. In fact, it only managed to tore his crumbled heart a bit more.

The song ended and Tamaki would be lying if he said he remembered which songs they played next. He could vaguely recall Iruka taking the mic stand from him and handing it to Akito. Considering Yui’s big smile after their set was done, he knew he hadn’t messed up but still couldn’t find comfort in it. He couldn’t take his mind off of the image of Mirio kissing that girl, the taste of alcohol on Mirio’s lips as he kissed him in the bathroom and his bright, bright smile as he looked up to him onstage.

The band sat on the bar as they were given free beer as payment for their performance. Nejire sat with them, congratulating them for their set, saying how much she loved it and that she was definitely going to attend their next gig. Mirio was nowhere to be seen but Tamaki didn’t comment on it. He didn’t even want to check if the girl he had seen him with was still around. When Yui asked Nejire where did Mirio go, she excused him saying he had been feeling a bit under the weather and had hailed a cab back to the dorms. Tamaki couldn’t help but snort.

“Told you it was going to be a great night,” Yui smiled, elbowing him playfully. Tamaki nodded and took another swig of his beer.

[queerchoicesblog]

Until My Very Last Breath

Folks, the Ancient Greece wlw miniseries suggested by @jackievarma for the wlw writing project has come to an end. I hope you enjoy the latest update even if I am afraid you would have preferred a different one but it seemed to me the most suitable for the story. Although being immortalised a rebours as an Edenic celebration of lesbian love, the truth about Sappho's thiasus is slightly different and a bit less sunshine and rainbows.

If you do happen to like this miniseries, please consider spreading the word!

Next week a new miniseries set in the Italian Renaissance will be posted, stay tuned...

Previous chapter: Underneath The Stars

------------------------------------------------------ As moons gone by, Kleanthis and I grew closer and closer. Our love didn't combust, burning away in lust and desire. If anything, the mutual hunger we felt for each other and made us languish when apart only fuelled a deepest connection of mind and souls. Kleanthis completed her journey as a student and started a new one as Sappho's protégé. She assisted her with the new students, teaching them the basics of dancing, and I couldn't help but feel a pang of jealousy whenever I caught the way those girls looked at her. I couldn't blame them though: I had never seen a woman as beautiful as her. I'm sure even Helen of Troy couldn't hold a candle to the perfection of my love. Kleanthis always teased me about my jealousy: to be honest, never once I had to doubt her loyalty. She still had admirers but -she assured me- her heart belonged to me only.

The same could be said for me. I grew into one of the most promising student of the thiasus and my rising popularity and blossoming beauty provided me a fair share of girls constantly at my side, adoring. However, there was only one girl I would sneak away with to see the dawn by the sea. The tender look in Kleanthis's eyes as she strummed her lyre, her raven curls sprawled in my lap, was all I was willing to live for. Tasting the softness of her lips, hearing her laughter, holding her slender hand: I couldn't ask for more. There were others couples like us in the thiasus. Some girls weren't romantically interested in their companions, others just followed their hearts' desires without committing to one friend in particular, and a few of us felt that need after some time. I wanted to be hers and hers only and Kleanthis expressed her desire to make an oath to Aphrodite to be mine. The celebration of our promise and oath took place at the temple. Sappho herself recited a sacred blessing and we wore flower crowns. The girls played the lyre and sang songs for us to evoke the favour of the goddess on our union and I found myself wondering if the sparkle of joy I felt inside was what nana meant when talking about weddings. Is that how a bride feel on her wedding day? Kleanthis and I performed together for several moons, our voices and grace enchanting whoever stopped to listen. I heard that some students wrote poems about us: apparently, our loving communion and chemistry inspired them. We were Muses, we were lovers. We made offerings to the goddess and bathed naked and free in the sea before running into each other arms ever again as if pulled by a godly force. We never once missed a rose-fingered dawn. Until that morning when Kleanthis wasn't there. An uncomfortable tingle spread through my body as I start searching her. I looked everywhere, asked around but I couldn't find her anywhere. That night I went to sleep praying she would come find me, casting away the anguish tightening my chest. She didn't but I found her the morning after at the beach. I went there at dawn and there she was. She was looking out into the horizon, standing at the water's edge. She didn't see me as she was giving me her shoulders. I called her name. When she turned, I knew she had cried: her dark eyes were puffed and red. In her hands she was holding a note. Unable to see her suffering like that, I run towards her and cupped her face, begging her to tell what sorrow crossed her path. Bad news from the family? A vicious threat? "Speak to me, my love", I whispered, peppering her cheeks and forehead with kisses. When she spoke, her melodious voice cracking under her grief, I went pale. "Your father wrote. He found you a husband. You'll leave before the next moon" I vividly remember feeling a pain so intense as if a dagger pierced my chest. No, it can't be. Say it's not true. Laugh, Kleanthis, don't cry. You love teasing me and make fun of how easily I believe your witty jokes. You loved it, at least. Stop it now and laugh. Your sweet laughter that made my knees weak and filled my hear with the sweetest affection. Laugh, Kleanthis, I beg you, laugh and tell me it was a bad joke! But Kleanthis didn't laugh, she fell to her knees and hugged my waist. She cried, wetting my tunic with her tears. None of us paid attention to the rose-fingered dawn that morning. I demanded a private meeting with Sappho and asked her to help me. Desperate, I begged her on my knees to let me stay: I didn't want to sail back to Athens, Lesbos was my home now. I was an excellent student, I could have studied more and become a teacher or a priestess. Just like Kleanthis. There must be a way I can stay, I suggested. My teacher frowned. It wasn't that easy, she couldn't go against the will of my family and so couldn't I. The wedding had already been agreed and scheduled. My mind raced back to all her teachings about how love is the most important thing in this world and the love for other girls was equal to the love for a man. I believed her words, we all did and they set us free. Why now her hands were suddenly tied? "So what is this? Was it all...a fraud?" I heard myself asking, following my train of thoughts. No, it wasn't, it isn't, she said. But we weren't supposed to spend our whole life at the thiasus. Only few were picked to become acolytes, the majority of the girls who came to Lesbos's shores were sent back to their family and their new marital lives when their time came. Tears of rage and grief formed at the corner of my eyes when I asked what about love? Wasn't it a reason valid enough to stay? She presided a cult of Aphrodite, she taught us so. True, but it was different for her, she winced. And what we learned on the island would have helped us in our adult lives as women, no longer girls. We had secured the blessing of the goddess and that was her will. "Then your Aphrodite is a tyrant mistress I no longer wish to serve" I exclaimed before storming off, tears rimming my cheeks. --------- I reminisce only fragments of the old hymns and odes we used to sing at the thiasus. Only a few are stuck indelibly in my mind and will be till the time I cross the gates of the underworld. I will always remember the one I whispered, my cheeks wet with tears, when I was sitting on the boat dragging me away from the island where my heart laid. I knew Kleanthis  was watching me sailing away from her against my will on the shore. So I sang, I sang for her, hoping that my voice, albeit cracked, could find her surfing the winds. I claim I've always been a loyal companion You must know that And I beseech you, be sure I will love you until my very last breath

[quakerjoe]

Patti Davis just wrote a powerful piece in the Washington Post about her own experience with sexual assault. “I was sexually assaulted. Here’s why I don’t remember many of the details.”

On Friday Ronald Reagan’s daughter Patti Davis wrote a very powerful piece in the Washington Postabout sexual assault. She wrote about her own personal experience. And she explains why Christine Blasey Ford doesn’t remember some of the details of her assault.

Davis begins,

“Roughly 40 years ago, I showed up at a prominent music executive’s office for an appointment that had been scheduled suspiciously late in the workday. But I wasn’t suspicious. I was instead eager to try to place some of my original songs with artists he represented. One of my songs had appeared on the Eagles album “One of These Nights,” and I was hoping to turn songwriting into a career.

“I brought along a cassette tape of my material, but I don’t remember what the executive said about the songs. Nor do I recall what we talked about. I remember the sky turning dark outside the window behind his desk. I remember sensing that people had left the building and we were there alone. I remember his face, his hair and what he was wearing. When he pulled a vial of cocaine out of his desk drawer and started chopping up lines on a small mirror, I’m 90 percent sure I declined his offer to do some with him, not because I didn’t do drugs — I definitely did in those years — but because I was starting to feel uncomfortable. My memory of the discomfort is sharp and clear, but my memory of declining the coke is, as I said, about 90 percent.”

But Davis’ memory was very clear about the assault itself.

“What happened next, though, is indelible. He crossed the room. There was a dark-green carpet, but his footsteps seemed loud, hard. He was against me, on top of me — so quickly — with his hands under my skirt and his mouth on mine, that I froze. I lay there as he pushed himself inside me. The leather couch stuck to my skin, made noises beneath me. His breath smelled like coffee and stale bread. He didn’t use a condom. I remember leaving afterward, driving home, the night around me glittered with streetlights and alive with people out at dinner or bars. I felt alone, ashamed and disgusted with myself. Why didn’t I get out of there? Why didn’t I push him off? Why did I freeze?”

Davis goes on to list many things about the assault that she doesn’t remember. She doesn’t remember what month is was. She doesn’t remember whether the man’s assistant was there when she arrived at his office. She doesn’t remember whether or not she and the man said anything to each other when she left. There are many things that she doesn’t remember. But the traumatic event, she remembers well.

“It’s important to understand how memory works in a traumatic event. Ford has been criticized for the things she doesn’t remember, like the address where she says the assault happened, or the time of year, or whose house it was. But her memory of the attack itself is vivid and detailed. His hand over her mouth, another young man piling on, her fear that maybe she’d die there, unable to breathe. That’s what happens: Your memory snaps photos of the details that will haunt you forever, that will change your life and live under your skin. It blacks out other parts of the story that really don’t matter much.”

Davis concludes,

“Ford wants the FBI to investigate so that some of the details she doesn’t remember can be established. It’s a brave request. Perhaps the aging men who are poised to interrogate her, unless they hide behind surrogates, should pause for a moment and think about the courage it takes for a woman to say: Here is my memory. It has haunted me for decades. It changed my life. You need to know about it now because of what is at stake for this country.

“Requesting an investigation into the incident isn’t a big ask. Unless they just want her to go away. Which is, by the way, one reason that women are scared to speak up.”

[psychzine]

A Superficial Dissection of Medical Imagery Contained Within Joanna Newsom’s Lyrics

Joanna Newsom is a not-so-indie-anymore harp-wielding singer-songwriter who in her time dropped out of college where she was studying creative writing (“I walk from a higher education for now, and for hire. And you laws of property. Oh, you free economy. And you unending afterthoughts you could’ve told me before. Never get so attached to a poem you forget truth that lacks lyricism; and never draw so close to the heat that you forget that you must eat.”) Her parents were doctors, both internal medics. Her mother was very active in humanitarian medicine like Medecins Sans Frontiers, and her parents encouraged their three children to live their little lives to the fullest; perhaps (she mused) because they themselves couldn’t do that, because they were very focused on medicine, and didn’t really get to have an enjoyable life, as much as they would’ve like to (in medicine, moving in medical circles, this might be a tale as old as time). So she became a harpist and her younger sister became an astrophysicist. (“Emily, I saw you last night by the river. I dreamed you were skipping little stones across the surface of the water, frowning at the angle where they were lost and slipped under forever...”). And just like that, the world was a little bit better place.

Joanna’s singing voice was unconventional from the start. It is fairy-croaky, and her rendition of Karen Dalton’s Same Old Man is eerily accurate. She thought she couldn’t be a singer, because her voice wasn’t the conventional singer’s voice. But then she discovered Three Little Babes and Same Old Man, was rejuvenated and propelled by the heartening discovery of someone with just as excellent and croaky and creaky a voice as hers, and made her songs. She learned the harp in Paraguay on a music camp trip. She picked it up from a very young age and it stuck (rather like Fiona Apple and her piano and “I want to make people happy!”) I first heard Divers (late to the party) and on first listen, those lilts and undulations grate your soul. They did mine too. That was me before I was converted. Now, I am smitten, fanatic and indelibly part of her stronghold. She is my favorite artist. Notably, her voice changed a lot over the years, as is very evident from Bridges & Balloons from the eponymous album (2003) to ’81 from HOOM (Have One On Me (2010)). She had vocal cord nodules in early 2009, and HOOM was released a year later. Personally, I love all versions of every song she has ever written.

The reason I chose to Spotlight Saturday Joanna Newsom is manyfold. I do love her. I adore her. Her music is exquisite and unreal. And I happen to be one of those people (fans, you could almost say) who don’t really spend a lot of time, energy or effort digging into the why and wherefore of her songs. Her lyrics are not necessarily mysterious to me, though they have acquired a reputation for being so; you can make of them what you will, and I have a habit of doing that with all music, to the extent that I often mishear lyrics and make up a whole story around it in my head (for instance, mishearing “I’m empty and aching” from Simon & Garfunkel’s ethereal America as “I’m eighty and aching”, I immediately rationalized it as referring to him being old with arthritis now). One time she explained that Sadie (an angelic song) from Bridges and Balloon (2003) was about (spoiler alert) their family dog who had died. (“Sadie, white coat, you carry me home. And bury this bone, and take this pine cone.”) This disappointed fans or disabused them of the elaborate explanations they had concocted for the song, which in turn displeased Joanna; she decided to develop an ethos of not yielding to the incessant requests and demands for explanations: “if I could put it in one sentence, it wouldn’t be an album,” she countered smartly as an interviewer ill-advisedly asked her to summarize Have One on Me in one sentence. Condensing an album to a single sentence would be to do injustice to such elaborate work, and in Joanna’s Ys’ case, infinitely more so. Unraveling a lyric might mean disenchanting someone or snapping them out of a musical trance. The multitude of reasons Joanna Newsom has listed in response to the frustration felt by her in the setting of being asked for an explanation is relatable to a person who has had any experience in the creative world, even if only privately. First, to produce anything of merit is so highly subjective and yet there is an absolute truth to it too. Joanna started off as a cult artist, though now she is more mainstream (maybe in a memefied way). In considering why people feel the need to have Joanna’s lyrics explained to them, I recall what a friend once told me: that B. F. Skinner is unpopular among the people because he “demystifies humanity”. I asked, why would people not want that? Doesn’t everyone want to be lulled into a haze by the thought that they have it all figured out? I’m trying lately to give tolerating ambiguity a go.

This is an old song / these are old blues. // And this is not my tune / but it’s mine to use.

She sang of meteorites and bears and ringing bells, of her and him and you, and she played not for us, it seemed, nor for herself exactly, but for the very presences her music conjured. Her songs were not performed so much as drawn from herself like nets dredged from the sea, heavy with kelp and flotsam and minnows that flashed before darting back into the deep. When she occasionally stumbled and lost her way, the material itself would pick her up again and carry her forward. 

None of us standing there in that rapt crowd had ever heard music like this before. Newsom’s wild Child ballads seemed loosed from some location heretofore unseen in the realms of popular song, a secret garden lodged between folk and art music, or an unnamed island lying somehow equidistant from Ireland, Senegal, and California’s redwood coast. The music fluttered and leapt, and though there were few obvious refrains, the patterns she played circled round some magnetic core of return, at once familiar and strange. Yes she was genius. But genius has become such a throwaway word, a thumbtack of muso claptrap that marks the person rather than the source that lies behind the person. And this music was all source. And yet, it was she and not the source we heard—this charming young harper with the arresting voice and the awkward stage patter and the lacy thrift-store duds.(2)

But really, one of the things that I caught on to about her songs, in retrospect of having listened to them many times apiece, and if only because I’m a medical student, is all the medical imagery in her songs. I thought that she may have taken an anatomy class as part of her creative writing course. Or that she consulted Dorland’s Illustrated when writing up the lyrics. Or that her doctor parents populated their home library with just enough medical literature to provide the kind of inspiration that led to the birth of this lyrical genius which neither time, nor tumor, tremor can erase. There is a part where she sings about “the articulations in our elbows and knees make us buckle and we couple in endless increase as the audience admires”. Or maybe it’s just the alliteration that is riveting. Someone just popped an ACL.

Similarly, in Emily (HOOM) which is a song named after her sister, there is a part which for all deductions, subject to objections and corrections, describes a situation wherein somebody is waiting for someone to return. And the song goes on for a good eleven or so minutes but the part that concerns us goes thus:

Come on home, the poppies are all grown knee-deep by now

Blossoms all have fallen, and the pollen ruins the plow

Peonies nod in the breeze and while they wetly bow, with

Hydrocephalitic listlessness ants mop up-a their brow

And everything with wings is restless, aimless, drunk and dour

The butterflies and birds collide at hot, ungodly hours

And my clay-colored motherlessness rangily reclines

Come on home, now! all my bones are dolorous with vines

Hydrocephaly, the mechanism by which it comes about, extensively drilled into us in medical school and regurgitated by us in exams, seems like a very over the top, very forced insertion into these lyrics. But the truth is that all of medicine is poetry. It derives so much from ancient languages and its nomenclature is grand and old-fashioned. So no wonder Joanna derives inspiration from medicine. And medical literature.

In Sapokanikan from her last, latest album Divers (2015), dripping with excess as usual, Ozymandian is given its due, she says (in description of some kind of ancient war):

And the causes they died for are lost in the idling bird calls

And the records they left are cryptic at best

Lost in obsolescence

The text will not yield, nor x-ray reveal

With any fluorescence 

Necessitating that we resort to a second-line modality of imaging then.

And perhaps the most obvious doctor-reference is where “I call and call for the doctor, but the snow swallows me whole...”

These songs feature on her album Divers (2015), which is “intensely personal (to Joanna), the whole thing,” is based around the theme of time and continuity, or the non-existence of time. The last lyric of the last song, and thus the conclusion of the album, is a refrain thrice repeated: White star, white ship--night jar, transmit, transcend... And on the fourth refrain, White star, white ship--night jar, transmit, transc... and the “end” trails off. And--we are not quite done yet--the beginning of the first song on that album starts off thus: Sending the first scouts over... Thus, indeed, the “end” doesn’t trail off, if you receive what the album is humbly/grandly, orchestratingly offering up: that time is not existent.

When I think about Joanna Newsom, I think about her music and how unique it is in nature, how verbose and how she has acquired a series of labels that can be summed up in “idiosyncratic” (albeit fondly, fondly, fondly) and how it feels to have that happen. I think about the roots of the music--Paraguay (the purest form of music is always the Indigenous), the accessibility of a harp to her (having access to any musical instrument is its own underappreciated privilege, in the best way possible), her parents’ encouragement of her passion for music. I think about grief (“Cosmia” and “Baby Birch”). I think about carving out a place for yourself in a world that may not necessarily be receptive of your talents initially. I think about posthumous recognition of genius. I think about our fears and aspirations. I think about the plastic nature of celebrity, and about putting on a show. I think about appearances and perceptions. I think about transformation and growth.

You know what, in true Joanna Newsom spirit and fashion, if I’m reading it right, I’ll leave this hanging...

[2] “Nearer the Heart of Things”: Erik Davis profiles JOANNA NEWSOM (Arthur, 2006) 

[septembersung]

A good friend of mine has a graduate degree in art; she’s also a writer. As an MFA (creative writing), I have an appreciation for that complementary formation and we find lots to talk about artistically across mediums. But despite our complementary talents and education, as well as certain ethical similarities, we do not share a common religious conviction. That’s made it difficult to get at what I really want to say when certain subjects come up, notably, the amorality of contemporary art. I almost always write to work out not just what I think, but how and why I think it; ideally after committing this to blog form I’ll be able to explain myself better in conversation...

Under the cut because this became a rambling monster of a post. I’m not great at synthesizing and presenting what, for me, is a cohesive world-view, in clear syllogisms. Practice makes perfect, right? Anyway: the “amorality” of much contemporary art:

The phenomenon of amoral (and therefore, immoral) art I would also call “the ugliness of contemporary art” and “the unartisticness of contemporary art.” These phrases are related but not synonyms; they describe different facets of the same problem.

The most recent example of this unartistic-art subject that came up in our conversation was the widely debated Game of Thrones, as books and a show. I eventually recommended to her, and do the same to anyone reading this, an article called “A song of gore and slaughter.”  It is a fantastic breakdown of the underlying problem of which ASOIAF/GoT is just one example, and situates it within the genre as a whole. The author’s essential thesis is that violence, gore, and all manner of immorality - what he sums up as “splatterporn” - have become the center of the genre, and moved way, way beyond shock tactics to prove a point (a debatable tactic on its own, whatever Chuck Palahnuick says,) but are rather lauded as goods in themselves. In short: GoT and similar works are pornography, in the broad sense that encompasses far more than sex. The article examines praise for one such “splatterporn” series and responds, 

“Stomach-churning, it happens, is a good physiological description of what I referred to above as ‘objective disgust’. Being revolted until you puke, you see, is good for you now: it is something that you ought to want from a book, and if you don’t, you need to be ‘dragged kicking and screaming into the 21st century’ yourself. The horrors of the 20th were not enough; Hiroshima and the Holocaust are, like, so five minutes ago. We shall outdo them all, and you shall like it. That is the gospel according to the up-to-date critic.” 

I agree wholeheartedly with the author’s general thesis, and will not reproduce the argument here - really, you should read the whole thing - instead, taking it as a given, what I want to explore on my own terms comes in a paragraph of the author’s towards his conclusion:

The touchstone of Elfland — the most characteristic characteristic of fantasy — is the eversion of symbolism. The One Ring is not merely a symbol of power; it is power. Excalibur is not merely a symbol of kingship; it confers kingship. In these terms, we can say that the recent novels of Martin and Abercrombie (among lamentably numerous others) not only symbolize but are the walls around a concentration camp in Faërie. This is the camp of ‘edginess’, where the gaolers are grimly determined that no memory of sun or moon, tree or flower, stone or sea, goodness, truth, or beauty, shall remain to the inmates, but only the unending, ever-increasing, bloodshot craving for the pleasures of torture and the pornography of pain, suitably euphemized as ‘moral ambiguity’.

The striking thing about the “eversion of symbolism” is that, in less explicit forms, it turns up in all kinds of genres; perhaps because  it has - and I am speaking here as a Catholic - a true, real world, counterpart: sacramentality. (For a fascinating, and non-religious, examination of this concept, see Robert Bly’s The Sibling Society.) And that article even names explicitly the trifecta which contemporary art has anathematized: truth, beauty, and goodness. You can’t have one of those three without the others, and they in turn depend, in art as in the life it imitates, on sacramentality.

To understand my point we need to be on the same page regarding what sacramentality actually is, so we begin with Catholic sacramental theology:

A sacrament is an efficacious sign of grace: it actually is and actually gives what it symbolizes. Bread and wine do not “just” symbolize the body and blood of Christ; at His word (”This is my body; this is my blood”), the bread and wine become, truly and substantially, objectively in reality and not subjectively in the mind or body of the communicant, His body and blood. Baptism does not just “represent” spiritual cleansing or “joining the church”; by the power of God given to His priests (e.g. Mt 28:18-20) baptism removes the stain of original sin (and the personal sins of someone above the age of reason) and truly brings that person into the Church, the New Covenant, into a state of grace. Holy orders is not some kind of graduation ceremony, it does not symbolically “set apart” a man as a leader because he’s studied theology. Holy orders truly makes an indelible (unerasable, permanent) mark in the man’s soul, conferring - kind of like Excalibur confers kingship on Arthur - the threefold reality of Christ on him: priest, prophet, king. He is truly “another Christ” (alter Christus), not merely “like” Christ. All of the seven sacraments can be summed up this way: their materials symbolize what their essence is and confers: grace, that is, the life of God.

Sacraments have both matter and form. What the form and matter are vary from sacrament to sacrament. The Eucharist is a clear example of this principle: the matter is unleavened wheat bread and grape wine, and the form is the words that confect the sacrament, in this case “This is my body,” etc.

Sacramentality forms the weft of the nature of reality in four ways: 

1) Sacramentality is the consequence of Creation in general and the Incarnation specifically. 

We have to unpack this a bit in order for its full significance to become clear in the following paragraphs. Creation means more than just “all this stuff we see around us,” and even more than the flat statement, so apparently unremarkable in our day, “God created the universe.” To put it extremely briefly, Creation is the order of reality, of all that has been made. The Triune God, who exists outside of all things and is complete unto Himself, created all things out of nothing as act of love, and those things are ordered with particular natures and to particular ends. (For an incredible and readable short introduction to the theology of creation, you can’t do better than Pope Benedict XVI’s little book In the Beginning.) Creation in a broad sense is incarnation: literally en-fleshing the thoughts, will, and love of God. The Incarnation is the highest manifestation of this en-fleshing, the “first sacrament” in a sense: God Himself became an enfleshed being, a physical, material person. That which is bigger than all of creation, outside it and above it, became joined to creation, went down into it, and assumed the nature of the created being, a human person. The Incarnation, which began with Mary’s “fiat” at the Annunciation at Nazareth when Jesus was conceived, enervated creation: that which was big and outside, without losing its bigness and outsideness, became inside and little. 

In short, physical, material, created things convey God to us.

2) Reality expresses its sacramental nature the seven sacraments proper, as discussed above, administered through the Church, as the active and physical workings of Christ - that is, grace - in the world. The sacraments are the direct consequence of the Incarnation: they are the continued presence of Christ on earth, the fountainhead of all truth, goodness, and beauty in the world. When speak of the sacraments, we are speaking of the Divine Person of Christ.

3) Reality is “sacramental,” in the technical or theological sense, which means a holy object, blessed by a priest, which has no objective power on its own but has a subjective beneficial power. Sacramentals proper include things like holy water, rosaries, crucifixes, and holy/miraculous medals. Sacramentals do not objectively confer grace in the way that the sacraments do because their efficacy is related to the personal devotion and belief of the person using them. For example: an infant, who is incapable of understanding baptism, nonetheless receives the indelible mark of Christ in his soul, is sanctified and made a member of the Church, because baptism is an act of God, whereas the spiritual benefits of using blessed objects, like a rosary, depends on the disposition (in a state of grace or not) and intentions of the person using them. 

4) Reality is sacramental because is it is full of sacramentals in the analogous sense: material, physical things and actions both describe an effect and help to cause that effect in those who participate in the thing or the action. This aspect of sacramentality exists because of and depends upon the sacramental reality, Christ.

Sacramentality in this fourth sense - as a created thing which describes an effect ands helps to cause that effect in those who participate in it- is, as you may have seen coming, a beautiful broad definition of art. Art itself is (a) sacramental, in this fourth sense of the word. Art only “works,” only has the effect on us that it does, because reality is sacramental: created objects have meaning, in a meaningful universe, and the form that they take is, and is the means of, their communication of that meaning to us; and at root what they communicate is the trifecta at the heart of all that humans aspire to: truth, beauty, and goodness.

Thus could J.R.R. Tolkien, a devout Catholic, described the work of artists (including writers) as a “sub-creation.” We participate in the creative, incarnational work of God when we make art. Truth, beauty, and goodness are both our subject and our goal, our content and the form of our content. 

Thus the creative, incarnational work has the three primary characteristics that describe God himself: it is True, Good, and Beautiful. Art is most successful, most fully itself, when it understands and works with its nature. 

(If your immediate objection here is, “but ugliness and darkness are important/valid/necessary/have a place!” I don’t necessarily disagree with you - but hold off, because that is not the point of, and not in contradiction of, what I’m getting at here.)

But human beings what we are, we often fail to understand the nature of things, and to actively act against our nature.

If art is not simply “whatever we make,” or “whatever I want it to be”; if it has shape; purpose; character of its own; then we must see what passes for much of contemporary art in a whole new light. Where contemporary art is amoral, immoral, ugly, and unartistic, it is so because it is unsacramental, indeed, it is anti-sacramental. Another word for this anti-sacramentality is iconoclastic.

And yet it cannot escape its own nature.

With that said, let’s back up to the importance of the Incarnation within the expressed theology of Creation:

As the Father showed his people throughout the Old Testament his presence through physical signs, e.g. leading them through the wildnerness as a pillar of smoke and a column of fire, or settling His presence as a cloud on the tent of the tabernacle, and later, the Temple (which, it should be noted, is fulfilled in the New Covenant with the perpetual physical presence of Christ in the tabernacle in the Blessed Sacrament), just so God makes His presence known and effects his will through matter. Most importantly, this began with Jesus, God-made-flesh. The Incarnation is the fulfillment of God’s promises in the Old Testament; it utterly changed the world. 

Then, Jesus Christ, God incarnate, revealed his divinity, his presence, and bestowed his grace, through physical works: The touch of his hand brings the dead back to life; a brush of his garment heals the sick; he gives sight to the blind through the medium of mud and spit; he gives us his divine person as the final, actually efficacious, sacrifice, under the appearances of bread and wine.

As the grace of new Covenant and the breaking down of the old walls between Jew and Gentile made all foods lawful and “clean,” so Jesus appearing as the image of the Father, a face to know and love and caress, turned the old prohibition against “graven images” - idols - inside out. Now the danger of idolatry from made things had passed because the Father had given the true, living image of himself, the Son, Jesus, to us to see and to imitate.

The history of Western art (and to some extent Eastern) from the Resurrection up until the eve of the Reformation is the history of Christendom exploring what that means. It is often said that the Gothic architecture of the middle ages fulfilled the word that the “very stones would cry out” in praise of God. 

Christians began creating art, particularly sacred images, even while they were still persecuted; the catacombs are filled with such art. In time, as the Church became, first just legal, and eventually the foundation of society, building Christendom - Catholic culture in nations avowedly Catholic - the developing skill of artists gave us what we see now as the history of art: not just methods and skills, but subjects, purposes. All was for the glory of God. What is true? What is good? What is beautiful? How can we express it? The history of the development of art in Western civilization is the long playing out of the logical consequences of the faith of the Incarnation. 

As the spirit of God was given form in the divine person, the man Jesus Christ, so his truth, goodness, and beauty, and that of all the faith which flows from him, Revelation and its logical inferences, overflows into the creations of his followers, for teaching, praising, worshipping, and evangelizing. This art achieved its glory at the height of Christendom: in no small part, it built the great civilization from which our own culture springs.

And then it all started to go wrong. 

Henri Daniel-Rops gives a great overview of how the secularization of art began, as one of the roots of and/or entwined with the roots of the Protestant Reformation, in his book The Protestant Reformation. What fascinates me, personally, is that the subjectivization of religion led directly to one of the most violent periods of iconoclasm in history, the Protestant image-breaking, which was practiced across denominations. The reasons behind it went far beyond the oft-cited “idolatry” to cut at the very foundation of the Catholic faith: they rejected sacramentality as such. (Yes, some Reformers and their descendants kept some of the language of the sacraments or quibbled over the number, but even they - and of course this is a generalization as they all disagreed with each other - put forth their interpretations as a direct counter to the Catholic understanding of reality and what “sacraments” and “sacramentality” mean.) Denying the sacramentality of reality ends up with denying the Incarnation, and without the Incarnation, there is no Christianity. Without Christianity, there is no art. We are still living with the descendants of those ideas and their consequences. This post is already a novel so I won’t trace that out in detail; another post for another day. But to paraphrase Hilaire Belloc, the revolt against the Catholic faith begins with “just” the Church, but ends in a revolt against reason, human nature, and reality. We are left without form or matter.

While I do not endorse this vlogger in general or his other videos, I offer this short video as an example of the general problems I’m talking about with contemporary art: Modern Art Insults Me. If you want a sense of what I’m talking about beyond “splatterporn,” that’s the video to watch.

Art that is produced by people and a culture that has utterly rejected not just the Catholic Church, but the rational foundations on which the Faith is built, including the sacramental nature of reality - in all senses of the word - is art that is trying to escape its own nature. Art is trying “to art” by being not-art. It’s still a creation, yes, in that it literally has been made, but it denies its nature and purpose; it has nothing to say about, or actively rejects, truth, beauty, and goodness. In many cases it rejects form (as a poet, and a defender of vers libre, I could go into detail - but in another post) and rather than glorifying matter, instead degrades it. I would go so far as to say what most accept as contemporary art is no such thing, but anti-art - a phenomenon more commonly known by another name: iconoclasm. 

Iconoclasm is the opposite of art. Definitions vary; it’s most commonly used to describe the destruction of art and/or the philosophy of people who believe destroying art to be a good thing. Art - that is, a given creative effort - that tries to become destruction in itself, that tries to operate outside of and/or actively rejects the trifecta of truth, goodness, and beauty, is iconoclastic.

In place of real art, we see two primary phenomena today: 1) Self-expression, and 2) Politics. 

Don’t misunderstand me: genuine art can be and incorporate self-expression, and genuine art can, and in some cases should, engage with politics. 

But what we’re seeing across the majority of mediums today practiced as art is not art, but acts of iconoclasm: acts of deliberate unbeauty, untruth, ungoodness - ugliness, falsehood, evil. The concept of revolution has been enshrined as the only “form” which art may genuinely take; and it proves to be no form at all. “Gritty realism” is the banner cry, because this vision of the world and humanity is one that is without an overarching purpose, a fundamental nature that cannot be violated, without the moral compass of a rational, created, universe. Rather than a cohesive, crafted, universe built out of and predicated on communicative love - gift and grace! -we see cruelty, purposelessness, isolation, and fragmentation as the standard; and not only described, but celebrated. In just a few brief years - speaking from the perspective of history - we’ve gone from the glory of “The Waste Land” to “If nothing we do matters, then all that matters is what we do” (Buffy the Vampire Slayer / Angel.) The “splatterporn” of ASOIAF/GoT is just one popular pernicious example. The sorts of things created in many art programs also qualify; as my friend described what she and her colleagues were creating at one point, “lumpy,” “ugly,” “blobs” of “stuff.” 

I have to wrap this up somehow before it becomes a book. (Give me a few more years; there’s easily a dozen books in this topic.) I’ve made a lot of claims and raised a lot of questions. To pick just two: The “but shock value is so important!” argument isn’t easily laid to rest, even though as noted above, and in that first linked article, it’s actually a separate discussion and far from a certain truth. “But does ugliness and darkness have a place in art?” is the next logical question. The answer is that it does, but again, that’s actually a separate issue from the actual question being considered here, which is: “what is art in its nature and what is its purpose?” My answer is, art is sacramental in nature (and therefore intimately tied to the Catholic faith) and its purpose is to portray and effect truth, beauty, and goodness. Not a novel thesis, certainly, but one that needs a great deal more hearing in a world where the monstrosities that is ASOIAF/GoT is proclaimed “great,” “good,” and - most bitter of ironies - “realistic,” where the actual nature of ourselves and the universe we inhabit is utterly denied - and not only denied, but reviled.

Further reading: 

For a fascinating look at “post-iconoclastic icons,” and the paradox - I would say contradiction - of the Incarnation, the natural and indeed essential art of the Christian faith in the Protestant world founded in large part on the breaking of images, Joseph Koerner’s The Reformation of the Image is a great look at the topic from within Lutheranism. 

Minimalism Gets It Wrong - don’t be fooled by the title; this article gets at the heart of what I’m trying to say.

And finally, go get yourself a copy of the incredible little book Only the Lover Sings by Josef Pieper. The relationship between feast - celebration - and art, and the perequisites of art - love and gratitude - feature prominently. He writes:

[I]f the disposition of acceptance and love is absent, not only can there be no feast, but no song either! C'est l'amour qui chante, love alone knows how to sing.

Also: I’ve written about these issues before in tags like art and catholicism and theological aesthetics.

[ithacamafia]

Yule Shoot Your Eye Out, III.

Another year, another holiday playlist from Matt and Kevin!  Just like seasons past, when we brought you tidings on the original “Yule Shoot Your Eye Out” -- or the cleverly-titled sequel, “Yule Shoot Your Eye Out, Part II” -- we close out 2017 with another 20-tracks of sleighbells, snow, and cool yules.  

Without further ado, I’ll let Matthew take us away: “Kevin.  I think I may have told you this before, but I've always considered the first time I saw this Corona Christmas commercial as the unofficial beginning of the Holiday Season. Don't know why - but it's true. This year marks the first time that was in the other room, here sitting at my desk, and just hearing it activated that thing within me that launches my spirit into holiday mode. That lone whistling of Oh Tannenbaum... it just triggers something in me - like when Reggie Jackson has to kill the queen in The Naked Gun. 

‘I. Must. Be. Jolly.’ ‘I. Must. Be. Jolly.’

I know that we've been down this road a few times before - and that many of the standard voices (and perhaps all of the standard songs) have been heard. On top of that, you're busy with a bi-coastal lifestyle that I'm sure is pulling you in all the different directions a guy can be pulled in. So, I propose to you a NO PRESSURE holiday music update mix. No need to be clever in your presentation - like you can help it, I know - we just make sure that each other are aware of any songs/versions we may have missed in the past iterations of this mix. 

So here: Yule Shoot Your Eye Out, A Holiday Mix: Part III. 

I've decided to start this mix with the same song that kicked off our first one. When you picked it then, I challenged that anyone not named Bing who chose to sing this song had to have some kind of chutzpah - you know, a brashness, an audacity... guts to take on a classic. You want brashness, audacity and guts? I give you Sharon Jones and The Dap-Kings and their take on White Christmas. 

Hee-haw and Merry Christmas, buddy.”

(Liner notes continued after the break...)

Matthew, 

Nothing could make my time out west go better/faster/stronger than hitting the mix links with you.  HOLIDAY mix links, at that.  Ho.  Ho!  Ho.  When I left the house at 4am this morning on the way to the airport, rest assured that the “Holiday Traditions” station on SiriusXM was playing.  And you damn well know it was probably Wayne Newton or Bing or one of the many, many, many Christmas songs that we've heard ten thousand times before (yet always enjoy that 10,001st listen when it comes on the radio).  

That's part of what makes The Holiday Song so indelible.  Whether it's an old rendition, whether it's a breathless Sharon Jones version -- or whether it's a new song that still sounds like an old song -- it feels familiar.  It feels like home.  It feels like Christmas.  All over again.

Which makes this selection hit all the harder: "Christmas All Over Again" by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers.

Kev,

Sharon Jones into Tom Petty had me initially scrambling to find a song from another recently departed artist... I quickly realized though, that is not a road that we need to go down. After all, Christmas is a time to focus on more positive things. I'm not saying that we can all take December off and pretend that our country isn't going to hell. I'm just saying that Christmastime is a time where we can all say, "Man, there are so many things to feel badly about, I sure as shit am going to make sure that I appreciate the things I have to feel good about. The President might be leading us all down a dark hole, but at least I have my family... and this fireplace... and a candy cane... You know? At least I have Ms. Kelly Clarkson."

I have never made excuses for my Kelly Clarkson affection and I'm sure as hell not about to start now. She's alive and well and she's bringing all kinds of joy with this little number. Here's "Christmas Eve" by Kelly Clarkson.

Kelly Clarkson is not someone you ever need to make excuses for, Mack.  Definitely not with me.  To this day, I maintain that "Since U Been Gone" is one of the greatest pop songs ever written.  The sashaying, swaying rhythm of this tune is tops.  Solid pick.

I'm slowing down a bit and handing things off to a gentleman who I've recently come to have a much deeper appreciation of.  I always knew he was a talent, and an unrivaled humanitarian -- but aside from a few catchy tunes, I didn't listen to much of his musical catalog.  Thankfully, Spotify allowed me to remedy that situation.  So let's bundle up by the fire, turn the light low, and relax to the hopeful, heartful stylings of Harry Belafonte.  "I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day."   

=====

Well bud, you know I’m fine with slowing it down a bit. I’ve long voiced an appreciation for those more pensive Yuletide moments, where only the perfect fireside song can be your soundtrack. Of course, Harry Belafonte hits all the right emotional and melodic notes. Nice pick. 

I’m going to stay in this same groove, and I’ll keep the artist classic too. Like Belafonte’s I Heard the Bells, this one doesn’t go out of its way to hit you with anything too big. Nope, we’re happy at this point to just have classic voices delivering careful interpretations of songs to light our way. 

Here’s Rosemary Clooney doing her best Charlie Brown with “Christmas Time is Here”. 

Sigh.

Being stuck out here in the west and having skies literally filled with flames instead of snowflakes (although the ash is a fairly convincing simulacrum), makes the season tough.  I know Rosemary presents a convincing case for why Christmas time is here... but, honestly? 

I just haven't been feeling it.  

Then a friend of mine reminded me that Christmas is something different to everyone.  It's this whole collection of little things all smushed together, each part forming the heart of "Christmas" for each person.  You know, like Voltron.

Am I wearing short sleeves and sweating in December, Matty?  Sure.  Am I resigned to catching those tiny little ash-flakes on my tongue, and stuck making angel shapes in the charred remains of the Los Angeles hillsides?  Yes.  

But hey, maybe that's What Christmas Means To Me now.  

Just like Stevie Wonder said. 

Phenomenal choice... that song is so great. Simple. Classic. 

And I hear what you're saying, about how a lot of little things together form what Christmas means to each of us. It's like the thing that I was saying about the Corona commercial... or how I just know that some night this month I will stay up late watching It's A Wonderful Life and end up crying unashamedly on my couch. Or how for some reason my family always has a Creme de Menthe pie on Christmas. All those little things. And each year, the things from before mean more and there are a few new things that get added. 

I don't know how many Decembers in your lifetime are going to feature ashy snowflakes, but I'm quite sure that there will be some things that stick with you after your December in LA. (Please note my refusal to reference this month as your first December in LA.) California has a lot to offer, I'm sure. And for nine months out of the year, the weather there is head and shoulders above anything we see up here. The late Fall in the northeast though? This is Christmas Country, my man. The crisp air. The occasional snowflake. A proper sweater. Ain't nothing like it. 

I'm sure you miss it. Still though... this is all part of your Christmas evolution, right? So as you continue to develop what Christmas means to you,  please (oh please), won't consider the benefits of a Holiday in LA (Band of Merrymakers).

Confession time: I miss sweaters the most.  

Here, it's all short sleeves for outside then sling on a sweatshirt for inside because the buildings are as iced cold as Frosty.  I yearn to wear a sweater soooooo badly, but a good sweater is not something you can just throw on and off willy-nilly.  Unless you’re an animal.  

So yeah, I guess you're right.  I'm just going to have to be resigned to the fact that this December -- this HOLIDAY in LA -- is an experience that I must learn to embrace.  I mean, they've got the decorations, they've got the lights, and they've even got the Santas... Hell, I'm going to a Christmas Cookie Decorating Party tomorrow -- that's how into the season everyone out here is... 

But I'll be damned if I don't miss seeing my breath.  Or sitting by a fire.

And until I can go home for the holiday proper and stick my slippered feet underneath the tree to hand out presents, I'll just have to make sure I do everything within my power to simply have a Wonderful Christmastime (The Shins).

You can do it, bud. I mean - think of how many great Christmas movies were shot right there in California. You've got Nakatomi Plaza right there! Bedford Falls is Encino! 

My pick is a song that we've heard before. I'm on the record with it being one of my faves. I'm picking it here because this version always feels very cinematic to me. It feels like the beginning of some holiday in New York, romcom. You know, the opening credits scene... the one where Tom Hanks or somebody is walking home through the city with a bunch of oversized bags and packages? There's a dusting of snow so he's bound to slip and drop something and then drop something else when he picks up the first thing. Sure the song has a few lulls in it, but that just opens up space for him to chat with the friendly newsman who will later provide him useful information on the whereabouts of the woman. You know the woman! The one who he heretofore has had a very adversarial relationship with but has just realized that she's been shielding a heart of gold behind that hard as nails exterior? It's the beginning of that movie. 

It's got two voices that, for me, are what Christmas is all about. It's got it all. Christ, this song even has some bona fide Pennsylvanians!

It's Go Tell It On The Mountain by Frank Sinatra, Bing Crosby with Fred Waring and his Pannsylvanians.

I love that flick!  

Especially the part 2/3rds of the way through when he makes some sort of romantic/charming gesture that goes completely tits up, and now she's wicked angry and/or upset with him.  So there they sit -- in their respective apartments -- trying not to think about one another.  Him, curled up with a blanket and eating a pint of ice cream while losing his sorrows in a comforting Christmas flick.  Her, on a fifth bottle of beer (judging from the empties littering the floor around her), just bounding a rubber ball off the wall as her trusty dog watches with a forlorn look on that shaggy face.

A classic.  How will they ever get together?  How will they get past this seemingly insurmountable gulf between them?  They're like oil and water... and what sort of future could oil and water ever have together???

Might as well just stay in, listening to Ray Charles and Betty Carter, because Baby, It's Cold Outside.

Kev, Ray Charles sounds great. Betty Carter sounds great. The arrangement sounds great. But it's 2017, bro. And while I hate to double up on a song... I feel like a more appropriate version may be called for here. 

Let's give Lydia Liza and Josiah Lemanski's update a listen. Here's Baby It's Cold Outside.

Matty.  

Gotta come clean here: I was 50/50 on whether I should just turn the rest of this jam into a dueling "Baby It's Cold Outside" mix -- but then I couldn't stop smiling by the end of this new version and lost my train of thought.  

And then I just surfed the internet for a while, trying to figure out stuff to put on my Christmas list.  As a grown man, naturally, I have everything I could ever want in life (health, family, yadda yadda yadda)... but I've still gotta scrounge up Santa some suggestions for my stocking.  And while socks and a few little nip bottles of booze would be grand -- maybe this year I could give into one of my greater desires.  Maybe a life-long Christmas wish (I mean, Mr. Johnson already got my unrealized childhood Star Wars dream gift).  

So maybe just put it up there on the list this season.  

I mean, sure, it won’t come true.  I know that.  It can’t happen.  It’s not “realistic” or “feasible” or “legal.”  But hey... Christmas is for wishes, homie.

Gotta try.

I Want A Hippopotamus For Christmas.  As told by Lake Street Drive.

If anyone can make this dream come true for you, bud, it's Santa. That guy works miracles. Me? I don't have to make any Christmas wishes this year, because mine just came true. A Christmas carol by Lake Street Drive? That was the only thing on my list. Great pick. 

Honestly, if I had a Christmas wish, here's what it would be: everybody in the world would be happy just like me. And Taj Mahal. And The Blind Boys of Alabama. Merry Christmas!

Someday At Christmas, everyone will be happy.  

There’ll be no war.  All our dreams will come to be in a world where all men are free.  No hungry children.  No empty hands.  No tears.  No fears.  

One shining moment where all our dreams will come to be -- hate will be gone, love will prevail.  A new world, (sung by Melvin "Blue" Franklin, the incomparable bass voice of The Temptations).

Someday.

Maybe not in time for you and me, brother - but someday... at Christmastime. I mean... it's possible. Totally possible. 

I'm determined to make this a very Charlie Brown Christmas mix. My next pick makes it so. I don't know what it is about this one that appeals to me. I like the stripped down, bare vocal. I'm definitely a fan of the sweepy strings. There's also this lingering sadness in it that lends itself to any holiday where I spend time with my wife's extended family... Dammit, I'm not being authentic. These are not truthful statements... I know exactly what it is that I like about this version of this song. It's the start, the choral, "Oh my God! Here he is!" It's the musical version of the Jesus is coming, look busy joke. I mean, it still gives you all that other stuff I mentioned - but it's the prologue that touches my heart. 

Here's Hark! the Herald Angels Sing by Penny and Sparrow.   

Matt, you know darn well that the Charlie Brown Christmas album is something I could listen to on repeat 24-hours a day for the entire month of December.  And November.  And January.  I love it like no other.  

So it's saying something when I suggest that a new version like this can affect my coal-sized heart in a way that comes even anywhere close to how the Vince Guaraldi Trio does.  

So, hell, I'm gonna double-down on the CharBrowChris portion of the night, and drop a variant of Linus and Lucy by Bela Fleck and the Flecktones.

Kev,

In a world that gives us so few real honest-to-God sure things to count on, there's a part of me that really relishes the fact that I can always know - beyond the shadow of any doubt - that I am going to get tense about the end of these mixes. My worrying about the songs that will ultimately be left off is like an old friend who stops by to visit at Christmastime. You know, the one who always brings a plate of cookies to your parents' house because they started bringing plates of cookies around to their pals in 1982 and now they don't know how to stop. My concern for songs left off is like that. It's at the point now that not only do I feel it, but I think I end up writing some variation of this email every time. Fa la la la la.

There's a lot about this pick that gives me pause. The fact that their Spotify bio touts the artist as "...one of the brightest lights on the Contemporary Christian Music scene..." is enough for me to start running in the other direction. And there are other worthy songs... Songs by beloved artists... Songs that I really like... I could pick those - probably should pick those. I mean, these guys are from Florida. It's gross.

But this song... it feels right. I don't want to like it. I resent all of its wannabe Big Bad Voodoo Daddy earnest energy... But then again, I mean, look at my toes. Those little bastards are tapping like a sumbitch. I can't control it. And honestly, in my heart of hearts, the 1990s in me knows that I don't really want to control it. I want to submit and swing dance with Heather Graham while wearing a Santa hat. Go daddy-o, I guess.

Here's O Come All Ye Faithful by Tenth Avenue North. 

You've got two picks left. I've got one. Let's try not to screw this up any more than I (probably) just have. 

Cripes.  This all went waytoofast.  

No time to overthink things.  Just gotta go with the flow.  And sure, you might’ve tossed me a curveball (sending me spiraling back into a late-90′s Swingers mindset, with their retro-hip cule yules).  

That said, newsflash: I’m a pro.  I can handle it.

Everything's jake.  Nothin' around here to snap your cap at.  But mark my words, chrome dome: if we're gonna swing, then we best start cookin' with gas. 

So do yerself a favor and grab your stompers before you head out on that dance floor... because this next tune -- this actual, genuine, bonafide swing -- is the real deal.  

Time for Swingin' Them Jingle Bells with Fats Waller.

Stompers? Chrome dome? Who's Jake? I'm Jake? I don't think so. I'm Matt. 

Bud, I have no clue what you're talking about, but if you mean to imply that Swinging' With Them Jingle Bells is a likable tune that we can dance to as Christmas approaches, then I am with you. You've done well by yourself on this mix. 

I've been thinking about it and I feel that my anxiety around my previous pick was because in my heart of hearts I always knew what my final pick would be. That second to last one was the one that had question marks around it. This one, this last one, was predetermined by the stars... and this is the time for stars, pal. Now yes, this song has caused a bit of strife among my immediate family. They think it's strange. They're put off by all the talking. They don't like that nothing jingles. Me? I like the groove. I like the idea of superimposing a toast about friendship being the wine of life. This one feels to me like the end of Christmas. When everything starts to settle down but there is still that distant buzzing feeling you get after a jam-packed day of family/food/fun. 

Here it is. Here's Chasing Christmas by The Superimposers. 

Merry Christmas, all you shining stars. Merry Christmas, World.

What's... superimposed?

Definitely see how that one might unlock strife within your family (I’m sure it’ll elicit the same reaction from my own fam, too).  But I have found myself picking up what you’re putting down on this song.  There's something ethereal and odd about it, but at the same time... reassuring?  Comforting?  Like the great big "Dad" of the universe is reclining in a cosmic lay-z-boy and waxing poetic by the crackling fireside at the end of a long day.  

I'm a little worried they'll say a bit too much -- go a bit too far -- if he keeps talking, but I can't help but enjoy the sound of their voice.

And if that track was the end of Christmas, this next one is simply the retrospective.  The encore.  Once you're flipping through the photos and taking down the decorations and putting all the new toys away, melancholy begins mixing with the joy.  

Next year seems so far away, everyone will be that much older.  Honestly, how many more Christmases will we all have together?  Who can say?  So, we can't help but savor what we've had here this year.  Who we've given our hearts to.

We keep looking back at Last Christmas.

And if there's someone who gives their heart in everything they do, it's Frank Turner.

Ho ho ho, everyone.  See you next season.

[mrjeremydylan]

Shania Returns: She’s Still the One

By Jeremy Dylan

Leopard print. Shania Twain. You already have an image in your mind’s eye. But it’s probably not the one I’m thinking of – the classy black and white cover to Shania’s new album ‘Now’, where the highest-selling female artist in country music history gazes towards the sky, hands clad in gloves that surely must be reference to that music video.

“Yes,” Shania chuckles, confirming the wink at her indelible ‘That Don’t Impress Me Much’ video. “You know it's funny because the album is called ‘Now’, and there are just some things in my life that I just move on from. Time to let go of this. Then there are things that just stay with you forever. I think that the leopard print will just always stay with me forever. It’s part of my career and my life and part of who Shania is visually and always will be. I'm happy to take with me into now and the future.”

The ‘Now’ album is recognizably the Shania we all remember, but it’s an album showcasing her growth and maturity in the fifteen years since her last album ‘Up!’. A bout with vocal chord dysphonia left her retraining her voice, which now has a more complex timbre.

Some will be tempted to scan the lyrics for references to Shania’s personal challenges, which have been well documented by the tabloids. But is this an album about the struggles of her last decade and a half or is this like any other album – a complete portrait of the Shania of today. As Shania explains, the title tells the story.

“It really is more about where I am now, and a reflection on my whole life and not just recent years. There's been a lot of life lived to now and I would say that it's a very it's the most personal album that I've ever written.”

As one of the all-time great songwriters in pop or country music, and one of the most successful, Shania has always walked the line between drawing a portrait of her heart and world and finding language that all kinds of men and (especially) women around the world can relate to.

Lead single ‘Life’s About to Get Good’ is deeply personal, but I’d wager many listeners have no problem finding themselves in lines like ‘You no longer love me and I sang like a sad bird / I couldn't move on and I think you were flattered’.

A song like the volatile, emotionally stark ‘Poor Me’ is without parallel in Twain’s back catalogue. Part of the reason may be that this is her first album written totally solo, without a single co-writer.

“That just does naturally make it more personal. It’s coming from me directly, without any outside influence in the songwriting. I isolated myself to write most of the album, and it's me in the purest sense, unique to anything else I've ever recorded.”

‘Now’ may be the first record with no credited writers other than ‘S. Twain’, but Shania has always defied Nashville conventions. Instead of cutting tunes from the Music Row songwriting elite, she’s had a hand in the penning of all but one song on all her records since 1995’s ‘The Woman In Me’, largely in collaboration with her then-husband and producer Robert ‘Mutt’ Lange.

“I was a writer from the age of ten, so I've been writing alone all of my life. I met Mutt and then he became my collaborator and co-writer for the next two decades. But there was one period, when I first got signed to my record label, that for the first time it wasn't going to be doing my own music. There was pressure to only record outside songs and that's what I did on my first album.”

The self-titled ‘Shania Twain’ album features only one song co-written by Twain, and perhaps no coincidentally, it failed to yield any significant hits. As soon as Shania took the creative reins, this trend was sharply reversed. ‘Whose Bed Have Your Boots Been Under’, ‘Any Many of Mine’, ‘The Woman in Me’, ‘You’re Still the One’, ‘From This Moment On’, ‘That Don’t Impress Me Much’, ‘Man! I Feel Like A Woman’ and on and on. This is Michael Jackson territory.

Countless column inches have been spent remarking on Shania’s pop crossover success and her high-octane stage shows. Her status as one of the most important and consistently successful songwriters of the last 25 years has been underappreciated.

Growing up poor in Ontario, Canada, Twain took to the greats of classic pop and country (“The Beatles were a huge influence, the Carpenters, Dolly Parton”), and the legendary Canadian singer-songwriters.

“There was a whole host of the storytelling singer-songwriters. There were many great Canadian songwriters that were always on our radio like Joni Mitchell of course and Gordon Lightfoot, who was a big influence on my writing.”

Shania’s love of folk singer-songwriters established a songwriting process that is still largely unchanged today.

“For me it's still what it always was, it’s sitting with my guitar. I do work with my guitar in front of a computer now, but that's the only part that's changed. Sometimes it starts with a melody, sometimes with poems, sometimes with a title or just a concept. So there's no real formula.

I'm always writing from a different element in music and there is no one way that I write to be honest.”

Songwriting is a constant in Shania’s life, whether the goal of a new album is in the front of her mind or not.

“I'm always an ongoing writer and I usually just collect ideas over time. When I decided to jump into the project and make an actual record, it was a good year of on collecting all of those ideas and putting them all together. A year of really concentrated writing and then I carried on writing during the recording process as well so. That was all about a two-year period.”

The deliberate, unhurried pace of Shania’s current artistic process is hard not to contrast to the relentlessness of twenty years ago, when she was riding the bazillion-selling ‘Come on Over’ album to world domination. I asked if her if she was able to enjoy all her success in that period, or if she got too caught up in the crazy pace of it all, like so many superstars.

“It's true and that is what happened to me. I didn't really realize how wonderful it all was at the time. That's partly why symbolically I used the leopard print glove [on the new record cover]. I look back on that period of my life very fondly, especially creatively. So it's a throwback of a moment that I now am enjoying really for the first time.”

It’s hard not to remark on a coincidence of timing that Shania is returning with new music, less than a month after another pop culture icon of assertive brunette womanhood has been relaunched into the forefront of our consciousness. Wonder Woman may be fictional, but the awe and inspiration she’s generating in young girls who see that movie has a lot in common with how girls look at Shania.

With her recent return to touring, I wondered what it was like for Twain to play to 20-something girls who grew up worshipping her music.

“Well it's very special to see the audience today compared to the audience 20 years ago.

You know 20 years ago the audience was so full of parents with their small children who were three, four, five, six. Now those kids are in their late teens or early 20s, college age. It’s amazing to see the transition.

They all have a very similar story and it is touching. To hear them say repeatedly ‘You were my first concert, I came with my mom’ and now they're college kids coming with friends.

It’s still in the joy of a child almost, that's what music does to us. It brings us back to such an excitable euphoric place. A song takes you back to a time and it's just so refreshing and wonderful and energizing for me.

It’s unexpected as well because… I don't know what I was expecting, but I just forgot that all these little kids grew up. You come back fifteen years later and all of a sudden, they're adults and that really did blow my mind.

So it was wonderful to watch that evolution. And there's always a heartwarming story as well that people have to share and I love to hear their stories.”

In a couple of short months, these young women will be waiting with bated breath to pick up their first ‘new’ Shania record. Their real-life superhero has returned, armed with a new collection of lyrics and melodies to touch their hearts.

Shania thinks on this for a moment.

“Well,” she says. “I hope they like it.”

NOTE: This article originally appeared in Country Music Capital News magazine and is reprinted here with permission.

[tracelii]

Eyesagao Lyrics the 3rd

Seriously guys if you dont tell me to stop Im not going to stop I’m real bad about that. @poketin @ellieofmidnight

Ellie:

Women and men we are the same, But love will always be a game. We give and take a little more, Eternal game of tug and war.

Power and control, I’m gonna make you fall. Power and control, I’m gonna make you fall. I’m gonna make you fall, We give and take a little more, ‘Cause all my life I’ve been controlled, You can’t have peace without a war, Without a war, without a war. (Power and Control, Marina and the Diamonds)

*

When I saw my best friend yesterday, She said she never liked you from the start, Well me, I wish that I could claim the same, But you always knew you held my heart. And you're such a charming, handsome man, Now I think I finally understand, Is it in your genes, I don't know, But I'll soon find out, that's for sure, Why did you play me this way? (Your Woman, White Town)

*

The mirror's image Tells me it's home time But I'm not finished 'Cause you're not by my side And as I arrived I thought I saw you leaving Carrying your shoes Decided that once again I was just dreaming Of bumping into you Now it's three in the morning and I'm trying to change your mind Left you multiple missed calls and to my message you reply, "Why'd you only call me when you're high? Hi, why'd you only call me when you're high?" (Why’d you only call me when you’re high- Arctic Monkeys)

Traci:

You got me spinning like a ballerina, You're the bad boy that I always dreamed of, You're the king and, baby, I'm the queen of Disaster, disaster. Got mascara thick, I get emotional You know I was more than just a party girl. Too hard to see what's goin' on, I'm so far gone (mmm, so far gone) When I saw your face it was incredible, Painted on my soul, it was indelible. We celebrate our twisted fate, We're the broken ones (Queen of Disaster, Lana Del Ray)

*

Love everything you do When you call me fucking dumb for the stupid shit I do Wanna ride my bike with you Fully undressed, No training wheels left for you I'll pull them off for you (Training Wheels, Melanie Martinez)

*

It's going to be curtains for this room.

There'll be every type of doom.

Yeah I don't know if you're human or monster.

(No, no, no)

Or when they step out to my grave.

Ain't gonn' have no soul to save.

It got torn apart when I joined this roster. (Anger Management, Big Bad Bosses)

 Elsa:

Now the storm is here I see you running Your face full of tears So red and burning And I can't work out How you spend Another day with him Just say the word You know I'll do it I'm waiting for you Just let me do it And we can run away to another place Less Full Of fear (The Function of the Orgasm, White Town)

*

Somewhere darker Talking the same shite I need a partner (hey) Well, are you out tonight? It's harder and harder to get you to listen More I get through the gears Incapable of making alright decisions And having bad ideas (Why’d you only call me when you’re high, Arctic Monkeys)

*

I go crazy 'cause here isn't where I wanna be And satisfaction feels like a distant memory And I can't help myself, All I wanna hear her say is "Are you mine?" (Are U Mine, Arctic Monkeys)

 Jack:

Hands (hands!) Of time will wring my neck

Every little moment spells regret

But I don't have to feel this way

As a voice inside my head (My Time, Bo En)

*

Do I look lonely? I see the shadows on my face People have told me I don't look the same Maybe I lost weight I'm playing hooky With the best of the best Pull my heart out my chest So that you can see it too (Death of a Bachelor, Panic! At the Disco)

*

Her breath began to speak as she stood right in front of me

The color of her eyes were the color of insanity

Crushed beneath her wave like a ship, I could not reach her shore

We're all just dancers on the devil's dance floor

 Well, swing a little more, little more o'er the merry-o

Swing a little more, a little more next to me

Swing a little more, little more o'er the merry-o

Swing a little more, on the devil's dance floor (Devil’s Dance Floor, Flogging Molly)

 Ian:

I want something else, to get me through this Semi-charmed kinda life, baby, baby I want something else, I'm not listening when you say good-bye (Semi-Charmed Life, Third Eye Blind)

*

I'm being totally for real,

I'm making my appeal,

I'm waiting for the cycle to break down.

You know that every single day,

I wake up on my way

To destiny and reckoning a break.

 I put aside all my rage and engage anger management.

I've gotta go with the flow and see the light.

Tonight we fly and I die, then I get up.

Let's make the world go right. (Anger Management, Big Bad Bosses)

*

Oyasumi (Goodnight)

Oyasumi (Goodnight)

Oyasumi (Goodnight)

Oyasumi (Goodnight)

 Oyasumi oyasumi (GoodNight, GoodNight)

Close your eyes and you'll leave this dream

Oyasumi oyasumi (GoodNight, GoodNight)

I know that it's hard to do (My Time, Bo En)

  Anti:

I'm in the business of misery, Let's take it from the top. She's got a body like an hourglass, it's ticking like a clock. It's a matter of time before we all run out, When I thought he was mine she caught him by the mouth. (Misery Business, Paramore)

*

So have you got the guts? Been wondering if your heart's still open and if so I wanna know what time it shuts Simmer down and pucker up I'm sorry to interrupt. It's just I'm constantly on the cusp of trying to kiss you I don't know if you feel the same as I do But we could be together if you wanted to (Do I wanna Know, Arctic Monkeys)

*

Cause I know what you feel, girl. I know just what you feel, girl. All these melodies, they go on too long. Then that energy starts to come on way too strong. All those hearts lay open that must sting. Plus some customers just start combusting. Thats the penalty when life is but a song. (Sweet’s Song, Buffy the Vampire Slayer)

*

What a lot of fun

You guys have been real swell

And there's not a one

who can say “This ended well”

All those secrets You've been concealing

Say you're happy now,

“Once more with feeling”

Now I gotta run

See you all in hell! (Sweet’s Song (Reprise), Buffy the Vampire Slayer)

[dontfollowinmyfootsteps-really]

There’s a thousand places, (to match the thousand pieces of my broken heart) where I want to start this writing, but I’m so fucking mad, and sad, so so sad, that THESE THINGS about which I must write (or be crippled by the confusion, and pain) are things at all, that words come to me in rushes, and I think them, and write them, hate them, then delete them. And I have emotions colliding against each other with such ferocity I’ve felt literally for the first time in my life, over the last few days, that I might pass out. If this is where I am at, I can’t begin to imagine where must be those whose pain is mine only by association, admiration, and friendship. By history. By love. This writing which had started out about 2 heartaches, I am refining, which is not to say making shorter, to be about just 1.

I want to be very clear about something; I am gutted by Chester’s death, and it is a HUGE  loss for everyone who knew him, loved him, and loved his music. And this time “one of us” for me, for my huge extended Arizona family of ridiculously talented creative feelers, really was ONE OF US. But I do not seek to appropriate the pain of those who REALLY lost him. The one who lost her husband, the children who lost their father. The parents who lost their son. The friends since youth, business partners, and band mates. To them I send endless amounts of love, because if my pain is at 11, theirs must be at 11,000,000.

Chester and I were not BFF’s. We were more like super casual F’s, (friends, just in case that might read other than intended) who were part of a brilliant, ridiculously talented, absolutely insane in the best, and worst ways, group of people in the music scene in Tempe, (really metro-Phoenix) AZ, at the same time. “Tempe Jangle Pop” was big then, with bands like The Gin Blossoms and The Refreshments making names for themselves on the national stage. But also, The Meat Puppets and their punk/country thing, and Jimmy Eat World, were (and are in the case of Jimmy’s band) kinda big time too. DJ Z-Trip, The Phunk Junkeez, Dead Hot Workshop…these are just some of the bands/artists who “made it” to varying degrees, from that time, and place, and only representative of a small percentage of the talent that existed then, in the Valley of the Sun.

By now the world knows that Chester in the mid to late 90’s, was the vocalist for the band Grey Daze, with his Club Tattoo business partner, Sean Dowdell on drums. I, when we first met, was working as an independent Booking Agent/Band Manager, and then later as the Local Marketing Representative for a record label group. Having also been a singer, and writer,  most of what we shared was the arsty fartsy creative thing. I was later to find out we also shared being molested at age 7, and drug addiction.

Its not very often I know the exact date I first met someone, but thanks to how we met, and the internet, I know the first time I met Chester was September 10th, 1994. I think he was 18, but maybe 17. I was the Booking Agent for, “Tripping With Grace” and Grey Daze was the support act for them that night. It was my first show with Tripping With Grace, and my first show in the Phoenix scene. Literally in the hundreds is the number of shows I’ve been to in my life, so thousands is the number of bands that I’ve seen, and I will NEVER forget that night. Not because he became CHESTER BENNINGTON of LINKIN PARK, but because “who the f is the skinny kid with the braids and the HUGE voice, radiating raw passion, and energy as he sings?!” Truly he was riveting to watch, to listen to, even then. That voice. THAT voice. And him, on stage, so young, unpolished, not yet having perfected the front man thing, but riveting none the less.

Forever in my mind I see his stance, singing, bent at the waist, leaning forward, which anyone whose had any vocal lessons knows is the exact opposite of what you’re supposed to do when singing. Cupping the mic in his hands, which anyone who has done any singing into a mic know is the exact opposite of what you’re supposed to do. Unless you’re Chester Bennington.

This is DAYS worth of writing, attempts at writing, and so little said. Because I stop to cry, and remember, and wonder, and to FEEL my sadness and my anger.  I find myself unable to read most of what is written in the last week about him, except the memories written by my friends, his friends, our friends, and the tributes paid to him by fans. These precious memories we carry of this man who touched so many. Not just with his music, but with his genuine kindness, and humility. I’d say I’ve strolled down memory’s lane, but it has been more like a sunshine filled day – running through broken glass. Looks shimmery and pretty in the light, but hurts like a bitch.

I wrote a blog a few weeks ago, after Chris Cornell committed suicide titled “Who Cares if One More Light Goes Out? In A Sky of a Million Stars… I do.” Taken from the Linkin Park song which Chester, with great emotion, sang the day after Chris’s passing. This particular blog is about how us ridiculously talented creative feelers are sort of fucked up in our own ways. But how some of us, inexplicably, make our way around, or through, our fucked-upness, to the other side. The side where we’re still fucked up, but we’re not actively, or passively, trying to off ourselves because of it. And I wrote of  3 (anonymous)  people whose lives to greater or lesser degrees I have been privileged to be a part of. These 3 people who have had certain situations and circumstances  sadly similar to each other, and mine, and each rose to such amazing heights, in spite of bullshit, and pain, and for a couple of them, (and me) in spite of stupid choices. And Chester was one of those of whom I was speaking. The one of whom I wrote “Rise doesn’t begin to describe this story’s (not yet finished) end.” Because he had “made it.” Until he didn’t.

The last time I had a real conversation with Chester before he became CHESTER BENNINGTON OF LINKIN PARK, has always been for reasons I could never quite understand, indelibly etched on my brain. 4 years had past since the first meeting. I’d been to who knows how many Grey Daze shows, gotten my first tattoo by a Club Tattoo artist at an event called “Club Sex” which was basically live music and tattoos happening all under one roof, on my birthday (known to some as Valentine’s Day), and had seen him out and about every now and again because; music scene.  Now working for Never Records Group, I had one of our bands playing a show at Gibson’s in Tempe.

At one point in the evening I was outside the venue, and Chester came walking up. We hugged, exchanged hellos, and “what are you doing here” sort of questions. And then we talked about real life, and heartache. His heartache. And I see him now, just like I do every time I’ve thought of this the last 20 years, I see him, leaning up against the wall, hands pushed in his pockets, back curved, leaning forward, head down, one knee bent, and one foot on the wall behind him. When he’d look up, the emotion, the hurt around what he was sharing with me, was written all over his face, and reflected in his eyes. His life, and hurt at that moment in it is not my story to tell the world, and is ancient history now. What I can say is that he told me of new opportunities, and changes he was going to be making because he had to make them. I don’t recall what I said, but I’m sure I offered some words in which I’d hoped he’d find comfort, and hugs, and wishes that all would turn out for the best. Then we went inside, him to enjoy a show, and me to work my show.

Within a year or so of that is when he started to become CHESTER BENNINGTON OF LINKIN PARK. Every time I’ve thought of that conversation over the years, I’ve thought about how desperately sad he was. How he had no idea that the choices, and changes he felt he had to make, were going to lead him to heights none of the rest of us ridiculously talented creative feelers in Tempe, Arizona, could in our wildest dreams imagine achieving. I know by his own admission that even in his happy moments, he was prone to self sabotage, but I’d like to believe that there were at least some periods of time where he was able to ride the wave of happiness.

Grey Daze was set to do a reunion show in Tempe on September 23rd this year, and I was flying home for it. Having only seen Chester a couple of times since 1998, and always in some sort of mob fest meet and greet situation, I’ve never had the chance to remind him of that day, and how sad he was, and how far he’d made it. Not just in music, but in life, with the work he did with MusiCares, and in love with Talinda, with his kids, with Club Tattoo. I wanted to tell him how much hope he’d always given me, and how privileged I’d always felt that he, the human being Chester, not the eventually famous guy, had shared something so deeply personal, and allowed me to hold that space for him. And like so many others around the world I wanted to thank him for music, and lyrics, that brought me a measure of comfort in so many moments in time when nothing else could. Even if it was just because his was a voice from home, and a challenge to “scream” with! In this last week I have mourned the loss of that opportunity to say those words, which I do know he is aware of anyway.

This really has been a tough one that has brought back around my lifelong deep think about why so many of us ridiculously talented creative feelers go so low, even when soaring so high. I have grieved for him, for the pain he must have felt. I have cried copious amounts of tears. And screamed. And sang, And danced, And walked. And run. I have asked WHY god bless it WHY? I’ve sent waves of love, and peace, and healing, to the hearts that need it most, so that I could at least do something. I’ve been moved by the tributes to him from ALL OVER THE WORLD! Over and over reading words, or watching videos in which someone is talking about how they owe their life to Chester, and Linkin Park. I have had coworkers, and friends tell me that they directly credit Chester with getting them through some of the worst times of their lives.

Tonight, the day after the memorial for Chester, I have found myself in the place I feel I have to be, and that feels right, with all of this. I, as usual, have no answers, but, what is a possible truth that resonates for me, even while knowing it doesn’t comfort those he left behind, is that his work here was done. He has touched thousands upon thousands of lives with his music, and with his heart. He has been a voice to give courage to those struggling with depression, and addiction. He has literally saved lives because of those things. And now, he has “leveled up.” With his passing people from all over the world are coming together to celebrate him, to mourn the loss of him, and to comfort one another.  Funds are being donated in his name, which will help a someone in need someday. People who may not have reached out for help, are doing so. Suicide prevention information is being spread across social media at a rate I’m certain is much higher than usual. Chester’s friends in music are openly speaking of his passing, and urging anyone who needs help to seek it, and to reach out to each other for support, and friendship.

For me the loss of Chester has brought about the renewed desire to have the conversation about how the paradigm of the tortured/suffering/starving artist is played out. How there must be a way to create, and be happy, all at once. Not always of course. Not fake “church lady” happy. But that we don’t need to be unhappy because its what we’re “supposed” to be. We don’t have to self sabotage when we do find ourselves happy. We must tell the ridiculously talented creative feelers that it is OK to be those things when they are tiny humans! Nurture that. Give them the opportunity to explore that. Don’t bullshit them about it either. It’s not pretty, and it sure as hell isn’t always fun. But don’t tell them they have to be a Dr,/lawyer/scientist whatever. Teach them the value of taking care of reality, while pursuing their dreams!

I get that I’m not solving the problems with this very 101 “choose happy” sort of thing. See above and “I don’t have any answers.” But I am willing to shine a light, to be a light, to give a hug, or be the ear or shoulder that is needed. There can’t be anything more important to do in this life than that, right? If I never remembered another time when I made a difference in a persons life, I will always know that even for just a minute, I helped a sad someone feel, if not better, heard.

The last thing I want, need, to say, is Thank You to that skinny kid, with the braids, and the HUGE voice. Thank you for crossing paths with me in this reality. Thank you for the music that was the sound track for so many moments large, and small in my life, and not just sad moments, at all!! So many happy memories of you, with Grey Daze, and Linkin Park. Thank you for writing lyrics that I understand at a soul level. Thank you for your courage in being forthcoming about your abuse, your addiction, and your depression because it helped me when I was in my deepest, most dark place, where I didn’t care if I woke up the next day, feel quite so crazy, knowing it was just me who’d ever gone there.. Most importantly, thank you for giving me your trust, and the opportunity to be whatever you needed at that time, all those years ago. I will not say goodbye to you, I will simply say see you later, for whenever later may be, and I love you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Photos not mine but were found via Google search.

                                                    -I was privileged enough to be working in the (son of a bitching, eat souls for breakfast, and puppies for lunch, but has always been my love) music industry in the mid to late 90’s in metro-Phoenix, where Chester was in a band called Grey Daze.

  For Chester, For Me, For You There's a thousand places, (to match the thousand pieces of my broken heart) where I want to start this writing, but I'm so fucking mad, and sad, so so sad, that THESE THINGS about which I must write (or be crippled by the confusion, and pain) are things at all, that words come to me in rushes, and I think them, and write them, hate them, then delete them.

[haoqixi-blog]

Final Reflection

This reflection is about how I have met the outcome within my writing form English 101. I have to say that this class does helps me a lot to my writing skills. I am an international student and English is not my first language, I did not have too many chances to write an essay in English. Therefore, I am not able to write easily until I took this class. In this semester, I have learnt a lot of different kinds of writing skills, and those skills helps me a lot when I am writing. To take my position paper in midterm as an example, I use the skills to help me write. First, I pay attention about how to analyze and respond to the needs of different audiences and rhetorical contexts when I was writing the introduction and conclusion. For the introduction, I learnt what is an introduction and the purpose of it. Establish a topic I was interested in and make it interesting to the reader by beginning with a question, a quotation, a definition, or even an opposite opinion; the one that I used is to begin with an interesting fact. As a position paper, one of the most important things that I have to do in the beginning is to understand what my audiences want to read, that’s why I choose to talk about an interesting fact which is not knew by everybody; and I believe it will attract their attention as soon as they start to read my paper, in order to make them want to read. The first sentence that I wrote in my position paper, “Many people believe that cell phones influence people in a positive way; while others believe that cell phones hindering people’s face-to-face communication, creating a barrier between each other, and then affects our interpersonal relationships.” I focus on the cell phones do influence our relationships, not only in positive way, but also in negative way. I would like audiences to notice that cell phones are now changing our relationships, which is a fact that most people did not notice; and I think people will be interested in it because almost everyone have a phone nowadays. The skills to write an introduction helps me to have a good beginning. It is a very useful writing skills I learn from this class. In addition, I have learnt to discover the importance of scope in selecting topics and pertinent research. That is the skill to find a topic for a paper, by using this skill I choose my position paper topic very quickly. I choose the topic ‘cell phones influence our relationships’, which is a not a wide range one but very close to our life because we all have a cell phone with us nowadays, and it do cause a lot of problems. After that, I brainstorm for ideas and ensure that the topic is manageable, and that material is available. Then I confirmed this topic, research and read more about how cell phones cause what to our modern life relationships. The next skills that I learn, to recognize basic elements of persuasive and argumentative writing, helps me a lot when I was writing the position paper. I learnt how to argue a topic for an argumentative paragraph; I need to create a clear and debatable thesis at the beginning, and then explain the background information about it, provide effective research, and pay attention to logos, pathos, and ethos. To find some effective research it the one that I spent a lot of time, I have learnt to practice accurate, ethical, and appropriate usage of primary and secondary sources. When I was writing the first draft of my position paper, I did not use any evidences or sources that could support my opinions or provide a good example; I did not have a clear claim which can help me to state my opinion. What I have learnt from this class is to find sources from the internet including the articles from google scholar, from the library website, blog, and so on. These sources help to improve my opinions in order to make my position paper more credible and professional. Furthermore, I learnt how to use conventions of structure, style, grammar, mechanics, and format appropriate to the rhetorical situation, I spent a huge period of time to fix and modify my paper because I am an international student and English is not my first language. I have got a lot help from people in writing lab and my friends in order to fix the weak point of my language. There were a lot of spelling problems and grammatical errors, and also, I did not use too many conjunction words, my paper seems very strange. After I fix those problems, my paper looks much better than before. Another assignment that I use these skills is the brief but spectacular take on growing passion of doing art. I write some paragraphs about the words that I would like to say before I video it. At the beginning, I just write about something very boring, like ‘I was only 4 at that time and I preferred to draw’. I was just telling the truth, but not focus on the details. Then I change it to ‘I was only 4 at that time, unlike the kids around me, I am not very interested in chasing with other or playing Gameboy, I preferred to draw’, which make it more interesting. I also provide a lot more examples about how I have a very passionate about art, such as ‘I draw with my markers on the wall, on the table, on my dad’s face when he was sleeping, I draw everyplace that I can reach.’ These skills help me to make my words much more interesting, and it make a big difference when I video it after I rewrite the paper. I feel very thankful to English 101 because this class helps me a lot, not only the writing skills on English, but also the how to study English.

Position paper draft Cell phones influence our relationships Cell phones, which is one of the most important part of our life nowadays, everyone owns one or more cell phones. The invention of mobile phone, as a major notable landmark in human civilization, has an indelible impact on human life. Cell phones not only brings people closer in the physical distance, but also brings huge amounts of convenient to people. Many people believe that cell phones influence people in an positive way; while others believe that cell phones hindering people’s face-to-face communication, creating a barrier between each other, and then affects our interpersonal relationships. There’s a recent study by Andrew K. Przybylski and Netta Weinstein of the University of Essex showed that our phones can hurt our close relationships. (Lin) Przybylski states that, “simply having a phone nearby, without even checking it, can be detrimental to our attempts at interpersonal connection”, which shows that cell phones brings convenience to people, leading to the indifference and alienation of interpersonal relationships. Personally, I believe that cell phones is a necessity thing of modern life because it is the most convenient way for everyone connect to the whole world, because cell phones enables people to use the internet everywhere. However, some people believe that cell phones will influence people not pay attention to the relationship between the friends around them. It is true that cell phones could help people kill the time, there are thousands of apps we could download; in some people’s opinion, cell phones are far more interesting than people. In some cases, cell phones will affect people’s life, study, and work. First of all, it’s admittedly that the benefits and convenience brought by cell phones cannot be neglected. Cell phones not only enable people to communicate quickly and easily, but also could enrich people’s life through multiple functions such as online shopping, video games, and GPS system, which is time saving and entertaining. It enables people to have much more ways to contact with each other, for example, people could make friends on the internet when they are playing games with their phones. Cell phones made it possible for people to have a friend from the internet, it expands the way for people to make friends, let people have a totally different types of relationship. Secondly, cell phones provide much more convenient for people to contact with their friends and family members. There was a poem which is written by Zhiyi Li, a famous poet in Song Dynasty, “I live at the upper end of the river, And at the lower end live you; Every day I long to see you but cannot, Though from the same river we drink. When will the river go dry? When can my sorrow come to an end? Only may your heart be like mine, My love for you will not be in vain.” This poem is about a girl whose perseverance and eager expectations in love, her lover lives very far away from her, she cannot contact him easily. But nowadays people could contract with each other with cell phones easily, it influences our relationship, which let us could communicate with other wherever they are. Thirdly, cell phones have a negative influence on our relationships because it changes our way of communications, which made the lack of face to face communicate with the people around us. In many cases, people always focus on the communications on their phones but not pay attention to the one that happen by the side. Cell phones are more interesting than people. “They're smarter”, stated by Chris Matyszczyk, a multi award-winning executive creative director with some of the most celebrated advertising agencies in the world, “They're much quicker on the uptake. And, unlike people, they're far more interactive.” (Matyszczyk) Some people prefer to use their cell phones, mostly to text others because it is a more comfortable way than speak out. Cell phones make it hard for us to communicate with others face to face, which is a big change to our relationships. In conclusion, cell phones influence our relationships not only the positive way, such as to have multiple ways to communicate with others, to have friends from the internet, and contract with friends and family members far away easily; but also, the negative influence like not focus on face to face communication. Emma Seppala, a science director of Stanford University, said that “It is ironic that cell phones, originally designed as a communication tool, may actually hinder rather than foster interpersonal connectedness.”(Seppala) But we have to say that cell phones are one of the greatest inventions to our modern life, it creates a lot of different ways in order to influence our relationships.

Position paper final Cell phones influence our relationships Cell phones, which are one of the most important part of our life nowadays, everyone owns one or more cell phones. The invention of mobile phone, as a major notable landmark in human civilization, has an indelible impact on human life. Cell phones not only brings people closer in the physical distance, but also brings huge amounts of convenient to people. Many people believe that cell phones influence people in a positive way; while others believe that cell phones hindering people’s face-to-face communication, creating a barrier between each other, and then affects our interpersonal relationships. There’s a recent study by Andrew K. Przybylski and Netta Weinstein of the University of Essex showed that our phones can hurt our close relationships. (Lin) Przybylski states that, “simply having a phone nearby, without even checking it, can be detrimental to our attempts at interpersonal connection”, which shows that cell phones bring convenience to people, leading to the indifference and alienation of interpersonal relationships. However, some people believe that cell phones will influence people not pay attention to the relationship between the friends around them. It is true that cell phones could help people kill the time, there are thousands of apps we could download; in some people’s opinion, cell phones are far more interesting than people. In some cases, cell phones will affect people’s life, study, and work. Personally, I believe that cell phones are a necessity thing of modern life because it is the most convenient way for everyone connect to the whole world, because cell phones enable people to use the internet everywhere. First of all, it’s admittedly that the benefits and convenience brought by cell phones cannot be neglected. Cell phones could enrich people’s life through multiple functions such as online shopping, video games, and GPS system, which is time saving and entertaining. It enables people to have much more ways to contact with each other, for example, people could make friends on the internet when they are playing games with their phones; and that create a new kind of relationship, a relationship on the internet. The friends from the internet, which is a totally different kinds of relationship from the past, because it is impossible for people on the past to make a friend with someone who you have never meet face to face. But now people can make friends with their cell phones by using some social media platforms such as Facebook or snapchat. Cell phones made it possible for people to have a friend from the internet, it expands the way for people to make friends, let people have a totally different types of relationship. Secondly, cell phones provide much more convenient for people to contact with their friends and family members. There was a poem which is written by Zhiyi Li, a famous poet in Song Dynasty, “I live at the upper end of the river, And at the lower end live you; Every day I long to see you but cannot, Though from the same river we drink. When will the river go dry? When can my sorrow come to an end? Only may your heart be like mine, My love for you will not be in vain.” This poem is about a girl whose perseverance and eager expectations in love, her lover lives very far away from her, she cannot contact him easily. Cell phones make it possible for us to talk with others even the physical distance is very far away, we can make a phone call or facetime easily. Nowadays people could contract with each other with cell phones easily, it influences our relationship, which let us could communicate with other wherever they are. Thirdly, cell phones have a negative influence on our relationships because it changes our way of communications, which made the lack of face to face communicate with the people around us. In many cases, people always focus on the communications on their phones but not pay attention to the one that happen by the side. Cell phones are more interesting than people. “They're smarter”, stated by Chris Matyszczyk, a multi award-winning executive creative director with some of the most celebrated advertising agencies in the world, “They're much quicker on the uptake. And, unlike people, they're far more interactive.” (Matyszczyk) He thinks that cell phones are always much more interesting than people because we could find the things we want on the internet. Some people prefer to use their cell phones, mostly to text others because it is a more comfortable way than speak out. Cell phones make it hard for us to communicate with others face to face, which is a big change to our relationships. In conclusion, cell phones influence our relationships not only the positive way, such as to have multiple ways to communicate with others, to have friends from the internet, and contract with friends and family members far away easily; but also, the negative influence like not focus on face to face communication. Emma Seppala, a science director of Stanford University, said that “It is ironic that cell phones, originally designed as a communication tool, may actually hinder rather than foster interpersonal connectedness.”(Seppala) But we have to say that cell phones are one of the greatest inventions to our modern life, it creates a lot of different ways in order to influence our relationships. Reference Lin, Helen. "How Your Cell Phone Hurts Your Relationships". Scientific American, 2018, https://www.scientificamerican.com/article/how-your-cell-phone-hurts-your-relationships/. Accessed 10 Dec 2018.

Matyszczyk, Chris. "Is Your Cell Phone Destroying Your Relationship?". CNET, 2018, https://www.cnet.com/news/is-your-cell-phone-destroying-your-relationship/. Accessed 10 Dec 2018.

Seppala, Emma. "What Is Your Phone Doing To Your Relationships?". Greater Good, 2018, https://greatergood.berkeley.edu/article/item/what_is_your_phone_doing_to_your_relationships. Accessed 10 Dec 2018.

Brief but spectacular take draft

My name is Steven; and this is my brief but spectacular take on growing passion of doing art.

I am not a born artist, but I was interested in art since a young age. I was only 4 at that time, I preferred to draw. One day, my mom decided to do something because there was no place for me to draw in my house. She did not prevent me even I put markers everywhere; instead, she found a great Chinese art teacher for me. I feel so lucky that I could have a chance to have a formal education of art.

My art teacher not only teach me how to finish a drawing but also an excellent drawing. I still remember how angry I am when my teacher kept teaching me how to draw a circle. One day I am tired drawing a circle with my pen, then I threw my pencil out and leave the classroom because I didn’t want to do the stupid thing ever because he was here to teach me how to draw a picture not teach me how to draw a straight line or a perfect circle. He said that practice makes perfect and if I want to draw an excellent picture in future, I have to stress the basis and essentials and have a thorough training in basic skills. He said that pictures were made up of hundreds of thousands of lines, curves and circles. If I can draw a very straight line or perfect circle, then I lay a good foundation and am prepared for the next study. I listened to him at that time and I am very glad that I listened to him and kept drawing circle and practicing straight line.

Brief but spectacular take final

After I graduated from high school, I did not go to the university. I planned to do something I want. I spent a whole year, stay in China to do the art. I went to the studio every day and paint for a whole day; sat at the table and keep drawing for hours. I was kind of unstoppable when I was doing art work.

My name is Steven; and this is my brief but spectacular take on growing passion of doing art.

I am not a born artist, but I was interested in art since a young age. I was only 4 at that time, unlike the kids around me, I am not very interested in chasing with other or playing Gameboy, I preferred to draw. I draw with my markers on the wall, on the table, on my dad’s face when he was sleeping, I draw everyplace that I can reach. And one day, my mom decided to do something because there was no place for me to draw in my house. She did not prevent me even I put markers everywhere; instead, she found a great Chinese art teacher for me. I feel so lucky that I could have a chance to have a formal education of art.

My art teacher not only teach me how to finish a drawing but also an excellent drawing. I still remember how angry I am when my teacher kept teaching me how to draw a circle. One day I am tired drawing a circle with my pen, then I threw my pencil out and leave the classroom because I didn’t want to do the stupid thing ever because he was here to teach me how to draw a picture not teach me how to draw a straight line or a perfect circle. Then what my art teacher said impressed me at that time and it also made me understand what art is for a little bit. He said that practice makes perfect and if I want to draw an excellent picture in future, I have to stress the basis and essentials and have a thorough training in basic skills. He said that pictures were made up of hundreds of thousands of lines, curves and circles. If I can draw a very straight line or perfect circle, then I lay a good foundation and am prepared for the next study. I can’t forget the serious look on his face and I still remember how he looked like when she said that “practice makes perfect.” I listened to him at that time and I am very glad that I listened to him and kept drawing circle and practicing straight line. Looking back, I can totally understand what the words he said means today. I cannot forget the days when I was drawing circles and straight lines while he was sitting next to and seriously looking at me. I missed him very much because I have benefited quite a lot from that boring practicing. When I see the young drawing circle, I saw me.

[krisrampersad]

What my mother told me Your Wealth Is Your Mind

The National Award for Development of Women/Journalism to me represents an acknowledgment of the sometimes nameless and voiceless women and others I have tried to represent; whose stories I have written, and whose views I have tried to articulate variously as a journalist, as an advocate and activist, as an author, educator and media practitioner in the quest for equity and inclusion, to open up spaces for women and advance a level playing field for all.

We who are given opportunities have a responsibility to give back and to leave our sphere better for those who come after. The wind beneath my wings has always been my now octogenarian mother, Phulmatia Rampersad, who had little such opportunity as what she tried to provide for my siblings and I, who inspires with her humility and abundant love; who gives and asks for little in return and who instilled in me that my wealth is my mind. It is to her courage and resilience and quick wit that strengthens my resolve in substituting the pursuit of material wealth for the pursuit of knowledge. It has energized me in the most trying of times. I must thank all those who have believed in me and shared the journey with me, because we are not an island in ourselves. The world in return, has given back, particularly the close friends and relatives whose prayers, with the endeavours of some very dedicated medics, unearthed a long buried dilemma and returned me to life in the most miraculous way with a restructured heart to beat a few more beats to enjoy this day.

The engagement with learnings and knowledge and the impulse to share has been a vocation rather than a career.

Sharing some highlights below and some brief brief preview bits of Ma, from my upcoming autobiography, Life! HoleHeartedly!

Ma and me

Ma surprises me one day.

I thought the battle was won.

It is no mean feat to decondition centuries of tradition of the notion that marriage is not the ultimate goal for a woman’s self-fulfillment but I believe I had convinced Ma. I wasn’t in anyway averse to the notion. But life gets in the way. So much to do and so little time to do it in.

The hints and suggestions of appropriate life partners were becoming less frequent.  It was a long time since I heard her speak of it. Perhaps she has resigned herself, I think.

Then Ma surprises me. We are talking now about my career. It is difficult to explain. I do not have a career. I do not really have what people consider a real job. The demands of the NGOs had escalated. It left little time to visit, to talk. The schedule was getting hectic, one international NGO meeting after the other  I was beginning to feel the strain. There was little time to earn a living and there were bills to pay. One December, I was invited to a meeting to design international policy for Information and Communication Technology in Geneva – a follow-up meeting to the first WSIS meeting held in Tunisia some years earlier, to assess the distance travelled in ICTs and the way forward. I had presented on the need for gender-sensitive ICT policy, with a critique of gender blindness in ICT policy. Rewind! FastForward, it was entitled. Fastforward was the name of the national ICT policy.

My friend Gail turns up to take me to the airport. I was growing weary of the number of trips she, my friend Yma and Yasmin and Ganesh made to the airport. I could take a cab, but they wanted to give me a sense of homecoming, and warm send offs. But it was taking its toll on all of us. Suitcases stepped over from previous trips to get on the other one. The world thought it was glamorous, this jetting. I never thought that the air travel was impacting my yet unknown condition.

Gail finds me sitting, half-dressed, my winter booths next to me, pensive.

“Come on. You are going to be late!” She bristles, as I slowly pull on my clothes. She sits me down and pull my boots on.

“I don’t think I should go,” I tell her. “Ma’s not feeling well.” Ma had just turned 80. I told Gail of my visit with Ma the day before. The tears in Ma’s eyes when I was leaving, tears that would never flow because she would not let them. She celebrated the paths of all her children but she wasn’t feeling well. She was weak.  I could tell that she was beginning to feel that every meeting and departure would be the last we would see each other. But her tears never flowed, nor mine. I left to get ready for my trip, but my thoughts were on Ma’s uncomplaining farewell.

“It’s only for a few days. You will be back soon. She will be okay,” Gail reassures me. She pulls the boots on and zips my luggage. “Come on, you are going to be late.”

The meeting saw me get locked into the Geneva headquarters of the United Nations as long after the meeting ended and everyone had left, I as dealing with emails and responses to things everyone thought was urgent, losing track of time.  As with many of these meetings, it was one where I hardly saw outdoors. In the winter month of December, I left the hotel in darkness and returned in darkness, not seeing much of the outdoors or the place. If I wanted to do that I had to book in extra time.

There were many family occasions missed too. I felt that my nephews and nieces knew of me from what they read of and by me. For many years my birthday went uncelebrated or in other lands. In Uganda, coordinatng the outreach for the Women's Affairs Minister's Meeting, the women came together because Hazel Brown insisted that my birthday be noiced with a cake. 

In the weeks that I tried to pull together my second book, Through the Political Glass Ceiling so it could be out before the general elections. I felt a launch before the elections was crucial, because for me there were prophetic elements in the introduction, The Clash of Political Cultures: Cultural Diversity and Minority Politics in a Small Island with its inside into intangibles of political ideology that has often been overlooked in political and sociocultural analysesthat generally focus primarily on overt factors with which I wrapped the chronology of speeches by the woman who was in line to shatter the political glass ceiling as the first woman Prime Minister. When my family gathered for Mother’s Day, I had to beg leave. The book had to get to the press; the launch was in a few days. And a few days after that the elections. Ma understood. She encouraged me to get it done. I took comfort that she would be at the launch. How much we take our mothers for granted.

It was after the launch of Through the Political Glass Ceiling that we are sitting. I had just finished giving her a massage, with coconut oil, as she liked.

 “When you going settle down, girl?”

Oh dear. The conversation again, I think:

“But I am settled Ma.”

“But who you going to leave your wealth to?”

“What wealth Ma? I asked. Startled. I explained to her that I generally worked for just stipends to cover daily allowances, and when time permits, a few contracts that would have to cover the expenses of the months not formerly working.

“I am doing what I am called to do,” I tell her.

That’s when Ma surprised me.

“Your wealth is your mind. Who you going to pass that on to?” Ma says.

At the grinding stone

‘Everytime I passing gyul you peesaying masala….’

I discover the world in Ma’s kitchen: the crossroads of new and ancient Asian, Arabian, African, American European culinary delights. The scents in Ma’s kitchen are like the convergence of global force winds and waters at the crosscurrents of the world.

Ma is humming, ‘Everytime I passing gyul you peesaying masala’ as she presses out ancient family culinary secrets from the mystical Orient beyond the Middle Passage through Pacific-Atlantic Spice Routes, rerouted and rerooted. Like tantalising tall tales of the Arabian Nights they tease my senses out of my comfort zones of fairytales through Tunisia and Turkey, Venice and Manhattan to discoveries that will overturn histories and empires and turn pages, heads and square, oval and round tables of global diplomacy.

Everytime I passing gyul you peesaying masala, Ma hums.

From the bowls of spices surrounding her, ancient unrecorded lore transfers an exotic and erotic past from the perfumed gardens of the ancient new world. Silken curtains swish against each other sinuously and in sensual whispers seduces me to board closely guarded camel-drawn caravans laden with dhania, pippali, nutmeg, cloves, maithi, nigella, cinnamon, cardamom, mace, turmeric, across the deserts from Dravidian civilisations; aboard Persian carpets of Iran and Iraq; pausing for refueling at the intersection of shipping ports via the Arabian Sea into the Egypt’s Nile and the courts of Ramses; then onward through to Mediterranean parts, Turkey, swashbuckling with the Ottomans to enter Greece, to join Marco Polo through Rome, Venice; and Vasco De Gama then Magellan in Portugal, and onto Spanish, French, Dutch Europe, and to the British Empire.

Peesaying masala, peesaying masala

Everytime I passing gyul you peesaying masala….

Ma’s humming is casual, in three notes, the Holy Trinity, a Trident of notes; the beginning, middle and end as the keys of AUM evoked on a harmonium. Ma’s peesaying is a havan to the deities of spices and aromas.

Everytime I passing gyul you peesaying masala….

Ma is a musical being. I would see that more clearly much later. When we are grown and she as not as busy tending the house, tending the crops, tending the animals and tending to us, her love for music is drummed out in dholak-speak. As most of us have left home spread across the diaspora in the Americas, she entertains herself recording old Bhojpuri songs of her days of yore, spiced with lyrics composed of the chutney of her own experiences.

Outliving many of her contemporaries, Ma drums up their memories in strains that stretch into once upon a time and a long long time ago…

The years shed away.

‘Everytime I passing gyul you peesaying masala,’ Ma hums.

Like the refrain, it’s an image indelibly impressed on my mind - Ma’s pressing on spices and herbs. Ma is sitting on her peerhah – a low bench just about one foot off the floor. She bends over a somewhat flat slab of stone that sits on the ground to a height of about half a foot, a sill, or seel, she calls it.

Self-sacrifice and surrender, Ma’s posture inspires metaphor: at the grinding stone - routine, the daily grind – toil; grind it out/stick to the grind – persistence, are all in Ma’s body bent over her sill and lorha, cradling me in her womb, protecting me, murmuring to me the secrets cures in her spices.

Ma is making her own masala. Ma is the Queen of masala-making. In one hand, Ma holds the lorha, which, when not in use, sits as a constant companion on the sill. It is a smooth, somewhat round stone.

The sill and lorha do only Ma’s bidding. Like Sita’s bow destined only to be broken by her Lord Rama, the sill will not budge later when I try to move it to sweep away dust and cobweb with my cocoyea broom.

The sill is glossy, as is its lorha, reflecting the stains of its years of service to spice routes.

Ma is surrounded with portions of her potions of parched pippali, dania, maithi/fenugreek, geera, dalchini/cinnamon, mace, nutmeg, cardamon, nigella, ginger, kolonji, turmeric, mustard …

‘Everytime I passing gyul you peesaying masala,’ Ma hums with her lorha.

The singing invade the twisted veins of my heart and they relax in confort, to hide their secrets for many years to come. Comforted in her womb, I am enveloped in scents sublime. Like the wafts from the havan pyre as the pundit performs puja, Ma performs her culinary ritual for harmony of the domestic spheres with a heart full of melody and a spirit overflowing with song. Household harmony is the Holy Trinity of three notes pressed out with a sill and lorha for world peace.

Ma’s lorha hums in harmony with the sill:

Peesaying masala, peesaying masala

Everytime I passing gyul you peesaying masala.

 Ma hums, a musical mixture of mystical melodies spiced with the rhythm of the lorha sliding over the sill. Holding the lorha with one hand, she scoops up some more grains. The seeds surrender their scents to Ma’s lorha, like Ma’s posture over the sill, cradling me in her womb. I feel the muscles of her stomach move around me as she grinds, and I sing with her lorha

Everytime I passing gyul you peesaying masala

She deftly moves her hand closely up and down the sill, applying pressure so the bits that are finely ground moves to the upper edge of the sill, and the coarse bits move back down the end closest to Ma, get a second roll of her lorha.

Everytime I passing gyul you peesaying masala, Ma hums, with her lorha.

The emerging strains linger on the senses from the scents, secrets of spirits escaping from Ma’s spice bowls onto the sill in rhythm to the lorha, humming, with Ma, this whimsical refrain:

‘Everytime I passing gyul you peesaying masala.’

‘Everytime I passing gyul you peesaying masala,’

Clan-destine confessions

I am a bastard. The name I carry is not the one I was born with. And I do not refer only to the truncated byline that accompanies this article.

(That was the Guardian’s doing. Days into what would turn out to be a career, not many moons ago, a dashing sub-editor faced me with the ultimatum of truncating my name or run the risk of not being credited for my articles. My given name would take up an entire paragraph, and space was a valuable newspaper asset, he argued, rather convincingly. I acquiesced. It reincarnated into Kris, his option over Krissy – that one had come in the late years of primary school, so christened by a teacher from “town,” fresh out of Training College.)

For years I harboured clandestine thoughts that I was a bastard. In times when I wanted to disown my family, I convinced myself I was orphaned; on better days I savoured my secret – that I was a love child!

While I combed her hair, made wavy from decades of plaiting, or massaged her back, I would smilingly indulge in this little secret I shared with my Ma. She groaned approvingly every time I massaged an ache out. I dread to think what her real reaction would have been had I voiced my thoughts…

But it was not just my imagination running wild. My bastardisation was the doing of the State.

It began when I discovered my birth certificate a few weeks before sitting the Common Entrance examination.

Under the column “Father’s name” there was a dash. Nothing else. A dash, then blank. Everyone assumed I was Rampersad because my many, many brothers and sisters carried one of my father’s names, and when you’re number 10 on the list you can’t really choose your name, or so they thought. I’d disprove it! Trice!

Though all my official records made me his, his name was not on the birth certificate. Instead, that carefully rolled, still crisp but yellowing piece of paper Ma kept in her secret place stated I was a Sookraj.

Even when Rampersad went to the Red House in Port-of-Spain to swear I was his, I reserved the option of being Sookraj when I wanted. Really, I should be Kris (blank) or Kris — (dash).

Three years ago, I again saw Sookraj’s named on paper. One then long-unknown cousin, Nelson Ramdeen, was tracing his maternal ancestors and it led him to my mother. He jotted down all our names, and the names of the children of my siblings, and the names of ma’s siblings, and their children, and her mother’s name, and her father’s name: Sookraj, a grandpa I had never known.

Her unregistered Hindu marriage to my father not being recognised by law, not even 10 children later, I was stuck with her father’s name, her maiden name, hence her love child, and my romanticised bastard status.

So Rampersad is the name that defines my place in a place that didn’t recognise my parents’ cultural relationships – an oral culture – in a place where the emphasis is on things written.

Writing made things real.

In that way too, Moneah became real.

From Ramdeen’s research, she popped to life. He traced my mother’s lineage to this faceless woman, who, for whatever reason, at age 22, from a village in India, packed her husband, Ramchurn, and her Jahaji bundle; boarded the Hougoumont on October 13, 1870; braved four months of treacherous, unfamiliar kala pani, to arrive in Trinidad on February 15, 1871, one day after what would come to be known as Valentine’s Day.

Thus began her love affair with Trinidad, which would outlive two husbands, spawn 10 (known) children, some 50 grandchildren (and counting, some blanks still exist); each of those had on average 40 grandchildren; each of those some 30 grands.

Five generations later, I need a better capacity for math than I now possess to calculate Moneah’s contribution to Trinidad and Tobago’s voting and working population and to the Trinidad diaspora in North America, Asia, Australia, Europe and the Caribbean, which in a rough estimate is beyond 5,000 human souls in various places, professions.

(All except politics, the family jokes, and on the agenda is a motion to disown from Moneah’s lineage any who enters that profession at the next clan gathering – the first was 130 years after Moneah’s arrival, so the next might not be until another century or so.)

Moneah now lives: In the faces and the mannerisms and quirks of character of the some 3,000 women who can trace a bloodline to her.

From what I know of some of those women in her lineage, I could see her, on Ramchurn’s death two and a half years after their landing, pulling her widowed orhini over her head and shrugging off considerations of becoming Suti and being burned on a pyre with her husband, a tradition that died in the New World with the dying embers of the Suti practice. I could hear her saying, “Sati who? Mere nam, Moneah” (Meh name’s Moneah!).

She would mourn him properly in the traditionally defined ways, and two years later consort with our grandsire, Shewpersad, who said farewell to his cows and his village, boarded the Brechin Castle (ship) on December 26, 1874, to Trinidad and 25 years of Moneah.

Those two would seed Trinidad soil with cane and cabbages, pumpkins and pawpaws, and offspring like peas.

Though only one of her sons, one great grandaughter, and two great, great grandsons would demonstrably exceed her level of fertility, the average offspring of each of the descendants over five generations stands around six.

Several have inherited her genes of outliving husbands.

They include beef-eating Hindus, pork-eating Muslims, bhajan-singing Christians; through their veins have flowed T&T’s coconut water and Carib, French wine, Scottish whisky, Japanese sake, India’s lassi, and whatever other beverages rage in the places they have settled and spawned their own dynasties – in the USA, Canada, Europe, Australia and India.

A solid bridge now stretches seven generations – each step boldly labelled – towards. Because we know her name.

(Adapted from article fist published, Trinidad Guardian, June 1 2003. Elaborated in upcoming autobiography, Life! HoleHeartedly)

Dr Kris Rampersad work has spanned the arenas of Education; Literature, the Arts and Culture; Media Communications and Information; and Gender Equity, Empowerment and Advancement for access to opportunities from grassroots to high level agenda setting international arenas. This has enhanced the impact and ability to envision and advocate for meaningful gender and culture-sensitive approaches to sustainable development in ways that bridge and span gaps between and among fields and disciplines from agriculture, culture, industry, education, governance and ICTs for all ages and across gender divides.

She functions as an Independent educator, researcher, author, advocate, activist, advisor, mentor, facilitator and consultant.

Highlights of Media/Journalism Career: Spans print, television, education and advocacy across spheres of conventional and new media prnt and production 1988-2018.

v  Blog Demokrissy is a widely read by international think tanks, including the UN community. It won the BBC/UNESCO Communication Initiative policy development blogging for new media

v  Coordinated international media for Summit of the Americas and Commonwealth Heads of Government Meetings

v  First sitting journalist to complete doctorate. Inspired many journalist to pursue higher education.

v  Articles and columns have occupied and guided public opinion from editorial pages for some 30 years

v  Doctorate on process of literary development and influences of journalism on award winning writings considered seminal and ground breaking in its depth and scope that spans 100 years of socio-cultural-political evolution of Trinidad and Tobago. Published as Finding A Place

v  Wrote first book on the first female Prime Minister of Trinidad and Tobago, Through the Political Glass Ceiling,  released on the eve of election of 2010 with prophetic insights into premiership of Kamla Persad Bissessar.

v  Third book  LiTTscapes – Landscapes of Fiction from Trinidad and Tobago represents almost everything written in fiction from Sir Walter Raleigh 1595 to the turn of the 21st century was commemorative publication of 50th Jubilee Anniversary of Independence;

Presented ground breaking research at first World Summit on Information Society in Tunisia on engendering ICT policy. Has helped develop media, information and communication policy as integrated into achievmeents of Millennium Development goals and Sustainable Development Goals at global levels of agenda setting and policy making of the UN Commonwealth and OAS agencies.

Pioneered research on  gender sensitive policy making in areas of Freedom of Information, Access to Information, and other spheres for hemispheric, commonwealth and UN bodies   

v  Served as Editor of Sunday Guardian and presided over the transition from broadsheet to tabloid.

v  Founding journalist of Newsday – wrote first lead story, ‘5000 Lives Saved, dubbed ‘the good news reporter’

v  Youngest journalist to win BWIA media award for excellence in journalism. Won in social and economic commentary category for gender bender article, War of the Sexes Goes to the Calypso Stage from Discover Trinidad and Tobago series

v  Won Pan American Health Organisation Award for Excellence in Health Reporting

v  Top student of diploma course in international journalism , Rajasthan Patrika Award from Indian Institute of Mass Communication (Scholarship).  

v  Research and Writer of programmes of Cross Country for AVM Television (as well as AVM Special Report, Survival (food programme) Booktalk among others. Cross Country became rated as the number one local programme that held prime time television spot for its duration and won several BWIA Media Awards.

v  Awarded Nuffield Foundation Fellowship to Wolfson College, Cambridge

v  Awarded fellowship by Foreign Press Centre of Japan

v  Commonwealth Professional Fellow

Highlights of Gender Actions

For almost three decades Dr Kris Rampersad has been devoted to leveling the playing field for women and girls in pursuit of:

•Gender equality in the work place

• The elimination of all forms of discrimination against women by the promotion of gender equity.

• Legislative and cultural reform to ensure gender equity.

• Institutional mechanisms for the advancements of women.

• Economic empowerment by: overcoming marginalization, oppressive social norms access and rights to resources;

• Incentive and awards based initiatives encouraging women to fulfill their potential and

• Education- based programs, initiatives or personal action that offer and afford women broader choices & enhanced opportunities

Highlights of Gender Actions & Achievements

Highlights of such achievements in pursuit of implementation of the CEDAW recommendations  for the elimination of all forms of discrimination against women and promotion of gender equity include:

1.       Research, preparation of the pioneering comprehensive national report and spearheaded follow up action in the InterAmerican system to encourage State bodies to implement the CEDAW convention provisions and recommendations that informed the Summit of the Americas, Commonwealth and UN processes.

2.       Her work in awareness raising and building capacities to understand gender sensitive policy and legislation to strengthen the capacity of institutions in addressing gender inequalities as for reform to the child marriage act, gender sensitive budgeting and engendered political processes.

3.        She coordinated the outreach and advocacy for the Commonwealth Foundation’s campaign for gender equality for Commonwealth Women Affairs Ministers Meetings. This fed into the Commonwealth Head of Government Meetings to build acceptance of the Commonwealth Campaign on the slogan, ‘Where’s the Money for Gender Equality.’ It spotlighted and propelled the movement of gender equity beyond rhetoric to actioning developmental programmes.

4.       Her impact on gender equality in the workplace has been not just in pursuing the rights of colleagues in the workplace but for across-the-board equity in treatment, equity in promotions and remunerations; representation of women at higher levels of administration and decision making.

5.        She has been a strong advocate to removal of discriminatory practices and revisiting entrenched notions of gender roles within social systems and cultural practices through her work with traditional and grass roots communities across the Caribbean.

6.       She has herself blazed a trail for women in the media and has filled several senior level positions as well as being the first sitting editor to have completed a PhD while in the demanding and high-stressed environment of the newsroom, as well as in her actions in supporting women journalists.

7.       From the inception of her career as a journalist Dr Rampersad supported the global mandate for equality of women that came out of the Beijing Platform for Women, and has a substantial portfolio of articles, columns as Woman to Woman, interviews, investigations, that tell women’s personal stories of trials and triumphs, revealing discrepancies and imbalances from data, highlighting the plight of the underprivileged, unearthing inequalities in national life, in the homes and in the work place, and the campaign against domestic violence.

8.       She has also been actively involved in supporting and encouraging women’s development from community to international policy arenas.

9.       Her writings, from profiles of achievements to policy critiques have encouraging women in public , civic and entrepreneurial arenas, utilizing all her roles to this end.

10.   She has initiated and developed a number of awards for women.

i.                    As editor she partnered with the United Nations, corporate community, NGOs and others to spearhead the Woman of the Year Award. S

ii.                  She conceptualized and piloted to national and international acceptance the Commonwealth Caribbean ‘Women Agents of Change’ Award, which was the forerunner to introduction of the Medals for Women in Trinidad and Tobago.

iii.                She identified women to be recognized among others for the Trinidad and Tobago Publishers’ and Broadcasting Association Awards for Media Excellence.

11.   She created & produced television documentary as the series That is Woman that features leading women figures in national life to showcase women’s achievements and have them tell their stories in their own words, and researched and scripted many other stories of women for radio, television and print.

12.   For the most part of the last fifteen years she has been the spokesperson on women’s issues and gender parity, shaping and supporting the work of local and international Networks for gender equity and the advancement of Women of Trinidad and Tobago.

13.   As an educator, she also trained women in gender sensitive approaches to policy making, understanding and engaging with media.

14.   Among organisations that have benefitted from her input are UN Women/UNIFEM; UNESCO dedicated programme actions on its priority focus on women,  the Caribbean Institute for Women and the Commonwealth Women’s Organisation; CIVICUS – World Assembly for People’s Participation.

15.   She was researcher and lead spokesperson for gender equality for the OAS Active Democracy Network in the build up to and through the Fifth Summit of the Americas and presented pioneering research on gender sensitive approaches to changing development policy agenda in areas of Freedom of Expression, Access to Information .

16.   At national level, she articulated to build awareness as the Outreach and International Relations Director of the Network of NGOs for Women and articulated the vision around the Put A Woman Campaign of the Network of NGOs for the Advancement of Women, which drew from the UN resolutions for gender parity in national decision making. It included the slogan, A Woman’s Place is in the House – Of Parliament, that saw the .drive for fulfilment of the quota of women in Parliament along with women in the positions of Speaker of the House and President of the Senate. The same campaign also supported the ascension into office of the First Female Prime Minister and first Female President of Trinidad and Tobago in one decade.

17.   She wrote the pioneering book, Through the Political Glass Ceiling, that along with mapping the journey of the First Female Prime Minister of Trinidad and Tobago through her speeches also includes revisionary research, study and analysis of the national politics of the day through gender and cultural sensitive lenses that has become a text for gender studies and analyses. This has become an important global text in appreciating the challenges of women in ascension public office.

18.   These contributions spilled over to her functions in other arenas. As the Co-Chair of the UNESCO Executive Board’s Public and External Relations Commission responsible for programme actions she drove and supported international actions and motions to strengthen UNESCO’s priority focus on women and gender equality as well as in championing rights of journalists and others and for injecting gender sensitive approaches to decision making in culture, education, information and other spheres.

19.    She was herself acknowledged and featured in Hazel Ward Redman’s celebratory series as CentreStage and Woman of Substance and has been featured in articles as Express Woman, ‘Helping Dreamers Dream’ and Newsday Woman’s Weekly as Changing the World With Ideas.

20.   She has mentored many at national and international levels

Pioneering Work

Dr Kris Rampersad's work is pioneering in relation to her research and fearless and courageous and selfless advocacy and actions in the face of tremendous odds and challenges of a small island society. She has enhanced the image of Trinidad and Tobago and women both in the national arena and abroad as a  flagbearer of national development interests through all her endeavours as journalist, editor, advocate, educator, development specialist.

Through her work and in networking with others she has actively created and improved the availability and accessibility of spaces for women in the public sphere and has helped spotlight challenges and streamline the focus on perceptions of their roles and functions in the private/domestic spheres.

Her groundbreaking research offer new insight into national phenomenon within local and international contexts to enlighten approaches to agenda setting, policy and decision making encompassing research, production, advocacy, institutional capacity building and enhancement through to face to face and hands on leadership and youth development initiatives in education and awareness and skills building for women and girls.

Her life and work putting service before self, often at little or no remuneration and at the expense of her health and a life threatening medical condition, she has given up many personal and professional comforts and security in her efforts at creating opportunities and advancement of women

Through her passion, energy, devotion, and commitment to actions for meaningful change, she has inspired women and girls of all ages and across national to international spectrums as an inspiration to women educators, women leaders, women in the media and in the sphere of arts and culture.

Awards/Recognitions & Service

Education

St Julien Presbyterian School New Grant Princes Town - Primary School:

St Stephen’s College, Princes Town - Secondary School:

PhD in Literatures in English University of the West Indies

BA Literatures in English, sociology, politics,  University of the West Indies

Diploma in Mass Communication - Indian Institute of Mass Communication, India and its highest award  Rajasthan Patrika Award;

Fellow, Wolfson College, University of Cambridge UK (globalisation);

Commonwealth Professional Fellowship

Participated and benefitted from numerous courses, lectures, workshops in  multimedia, information technologies, leadership, management, computing, managing diversity, and conservation and safeguarding of cultural heritage.

Scholarships and Fellowships:

Wolfson (Journalism) College, University of Cambridge UK;

Foreign Press Centre of Japan (journalism fellowship);

Association of Commonwealth Universities, Professional Fellowship;

UWI Post Graduate Scholarship;

Awards & Commendations:

Ø  Trinidad and Tobago Luminary Award 2015/2016

Ø  Winner Development Policy Blogs on New Media (BBC Trust/UNESCO Communication Initiative); 2011

Ø  Award for Excellence in Health Reporting 1994 (World Health Organisation/Pan American Health Organisation)

Ø  Award for Excellence in Journalism (BWIA) 1987;

Ø  Moms for Literacy Award for Literary Achievement

Ø  International Who’s Who in Cultural Policy Research (ConnectCP)

Ø  Award for Contribution to Literature and Culture; (Global Organisation of Peoples of Indian Origin)

Ø  Rajasthan Patrika Most Outstanding Student Award (Indian Institute of Mass Communication)

Ø  British High Commission Award for English Literature

Ø  UWI Award Student Awards.

Organisation Affiliations – International/National

Ø  Founding Adviser, International Institute for Gastronomy, Culture, Arts & Tourism

Ø  Founding Member, U40 Coalition on Promotion of Diversity of Cultural Expressions

Ø  Founding Member, Scientific Committee, International Culture University

 Served on numerous committees and boards, including  

Ø  UNESCO General Assembly, Chair Education Commission

Ø  UNESCO Executive Board, co-chair Programmes and External Relations Commission, member of Special Committee

Ø   Chair, National Museum and Art Gallery;

Ø  Chair, National Commission for UNESCO of Trinidad and Tobago 

Ø  Member Trinidad and Tobago Government Expert Panel on Arts and Culture Member, Trinidad and Tobago Registry of Cultural Workers Committee

Ø  Member, Trinidad and Tobago Heritage Tourism Committee

Ø  Founder,/Coordinator Awards for Agricultural Journalism

Ø   Founding member, Friends of Mr Biswas – St James House for Mr Biswas

Ø  Founder/Coordinator, Trinidad Theatre Workshop Fund for Literature, Drama, Film

Ø  Outreach & International Relations Director, Network of NGOs of Trinidad and Tobago for the Advancement of Women

Other Career Highlights

International Development Educator, Lecturer, Facilitator, Consultant: 21 years

MultiMediaMedia/Journalism: 30 years: editor, manager, investigative reporter, script and storyboard writer, producer/publisher in print, electronic and new media

Author: Finding A Place (Ian Randle Publishers, 2001); Through the Political Glass Ceiling; LiTTscapes – Landscapes of Fiction from Trinidad and Tobago

AudioVisual Producer/Director/Writer/Researcher:20 years

Academia - lecturing at tertiary level formal, non-formal and informal sectors, course design, development and evaluation - 22 years

Some 30 years’ experience in developing formal and informal education sectors as a researcher, writer, educator, outreach and communication specialist and analyst of culture, migration, rural and urban development, diversity, multiculturalism and related areas of cross sectoral sustainable development;

Holds a PhD in Literatures in English. Doctoral theses examined issues of globalization, migration processes of adaptation and society-formation drawing from global-local knowledge and experiences of media and literary development of a small island state.

Have written and published extensively on themes of identity, migration, adaptation, urbanisation, and rural development in contexts of youth, gender, trade, crime, ecology, education and other topics;

 Numerous peer reviewed articles and conference presentations, including three books that approach the issues of migration and social adaptations from various angles: journalism/information and communication (Finding a Place, Ian Randle Publications, 2002); gender appreciation (Through the Political Glass Ceiling - Race to Prime Ministership by Trinidad and Tobago’s First Female Kamla Persad Bissessar (2010) and popular culture (LiTTscapes – Landscapes of Fiction from Trinidad and Tobago (2012);

Educator/Train the Trainers & Capacity Building :

a: UNESCO: Training of Caribbean Stakeholders in diversity appreciation, activating Cultural Heritage and Creative Sectors: Belize, Trinidad and Tobago, Jamaica, Antigua and Barbuda, Guyana, Grenada, St Kitts/Nevis. UNESCO..

b. Caribbean Agricultural Research and Development Institute (CARDI). Training of Caribbean Agriculturalists in Outreach, Education and Development of Academic Journals and Publications:

c. National Institute of Higher Education Research, Science and Technology (NIHERST): Development of Outreach Initiatives for Science Popularisation:

d. Caribbean Institute of Women in Leadership: Develop Course Materials and Train Caribbean Women Leaders in Gender Sensitivity, Diversity Appreciation, Engagement & Outreach:  Guyana, Antigua, Barbados, Trinidad and Tobago, Grenada

e. The College of Science, Technology and Applied Arts of Trinidad and Tobago (COSTAATT):  Development and Delivery of Journalism and Literature Courses

f. Part Time Lecturer: Literatures in English; Foundational Courses; Literature and Caribbean Society: University of the West Indies.

g. External Supervisor, MSc Thesis Cultural Diversity Management: Institutional Reform

h. External Thesis Editor/Publication Adviser

i. Guest Lecturer: Literature, Culture, Media, Civic Empowerment for Sustainable Development, University of Catalona, Barcelona, Spain

Career Highlights: Education & Culture:

Educational Policy Development: Formal and Informal Education, Literature, Media Outreach, Lifelong Learning and Global Citizenship Education:

a. Capacity development for cultural and civil society communities across the Americas Successful trained stakeholders of all three Caribbean Small Island Developing States which achieved World Heritage status over the last five years (Antigua and Barbuda, 2016; Jamaica, 2015, Barbados, 2011 prior to this last inscription was in 1998).

b.       Pioneered several international level policies through UNESCO/other international agencies for relevant actions for integrated and transboundary approaches to positively impact the Sustainable Development Agenda and integrate culture in development, promote global citizenship, rationally explore issues of migration and adaptation.

c.        Devised models for multisectoral media and cultural outreach including one adopted from a model developed for the Caribbean for ACP-EU Seminar on Media and Agriculture, Brussels;

d. Development of the blue print of the action plan being used English speaking Caribbean countries for implementation of UNESCO Conventions; culling appreciation and development of incentive and award schemes; integrating developmental approaches across sectors and national boundaries and developing transboundary connections.

e.       More than 15 years’ hands on experience in development and implementing policy programmes and actions in the global to local cultural heritage and creative industries spheres in UN agencies, UNESCO, OAS, ACP-EU, Commonwealth and civil society glocal organisations;

f.       Keenly committed to working on realization of the sustainable development agenda, even beyond its stated goals to proactive engagement of culture-centred development for equity and fairness in all spheres and have participated in its development globally & locally;

g.         Lifelong experiences of NGO work and community level experience in cultural development and have both culled international policy and worked on implementing such areas as Creative Cities, World Heritage, Intangible Heritage, Diversity of Cultural Expressions, Creative Industries, Copyrights, Trade and Development;  Slave, Silk and Indentured Indian Immigrant Routes, Memory of the World, Rural and Urban cultural development, policy and legislative reform, civil society, youth and gender participation, empowerment and equity

Career Highlights: Journalism, Media, Information and Communication

j.         More than 30 years as a communicator and journalist and about a decade as producer and publisher in multimedia forms exploring comparative cross-cultural and issues;

k.          Extensive experience in research,  writing for multimedia forms and presentation of messages on  migration, diversity, inclusion for sustainable development, with intimate knowledge of most of international policy instruments in these regards and devising, developing, implementing and evaluating policies and strategies, advice and technical support, managing the process and content, transactions and operations in these areas and combined experiences in Management, having been a staff manager of a major media house before an independent career in cultural project management and policy development in the cultural and allied spheres of education and communications

l.     Extensive experience in networking and collaborations both internally and externally, across boundaries, sectors, stakeholder interests, institutions and agencies with considerable successes in devising and developing networks around cultural matters, working with the diplomatic community, embassies, intergovernmental agencies, regional and international organizations, the European Commission and the European Council, Organisation of American States, Commonwealth Secretariat and commonwealth Foundation, InterAmerican Institutions and other organisations of  the UN system, and Africa, Caribbean and Pacific Regions.

Find Dr Kris Rampersad on Social Media as:

KrisRampersad: LinkedIn/Instagram/YouTube/PInterest/

KrisRampersad1: Facebook; @krisramp – Twitter;

Blog Demokrissy – https://ift.tt/2pwwUvl

Related Links:

Contact: Website. FB KrisRampersad1. T @krisramp. LinkedIn. InstaGram. PInterest. YouTube

Website: https://goo.gl/FDLQdg:

The Funeral Scores. Sir Vidia Naipaul final farewell in a fanfare of Naipaulian fictive irony https://goo.gl/NQibgR

Year of LiTTributes to Laureattes  https://goo.gl/oW81Nm

Demokrissy trends with worlds leading think tanks https://goo.gl/ua3rXm

My Collision with Stephen Hawkins: https://goo.gl/Fx47Ak

Reflections on the Death of Nobel Laureate Sir Vidia Naipaul see link https://goo.gl/7eBP5a 

Authors Tete-aTete Dr Kris Rampersad and Sir VS Naipaul  https://goo.gl/gU11Jv 

Noble Tears of a Nobel Bard Death of Nobel Laureate Derek Walcott  https://goo.gl/WXbMpv

Sportscapes Cricket Games We Play LiTTours: https://goo.gl/ENum7X

TheMagic and Realism of gabrial Garcia Marquez RIP https://goo.gl/s7y2oc

Earth Quake Earthquake

Youtube video: https://youtu.be/A8TgWZPuEkE

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Five Year Old Child Stars at LiTTribute: https://goo.gl/fn3oTR

One LiTTle bookshop: LiTTscapes and the Nobel Laureate https://goo.gl/cpvr2T

Launch LiTTribute: https://goo.gl/g1mmED

Through Novel lenses Youtube   https://youtu.be/_zWHPEQCqHA

LiTTscapes Child Star Tops SEA: https://goo.gl/iNqt32

Prophesy A.Bourdain and Aboud. Port of Spain and Lebanon :  https://goo.gl/zwtyWq

Devil’s WoodYard, Earthquake Aug 2018 https://goo.gl/myXCAQ

Migrants Motherlands Mothercultures https://goo.gl/MGrnPQ

Heritage a vehicle of understanding against extremism violence https://goo.gl/gpfGPp

Gender Bender Mia Mottley takes political helm in Barbados https://goo.gl/xL3DEd

In the News LiTTributes attract award winning newspaper https://goo.gl/n2GsG9

Bridging Cultural Gaps LiTTribute to ToronTTO. See link https://goo.gl/jLHTBE

Yo Ho Ho Piracy and Heritage: https://goo.gl/TvXOHU

A Diaspora Celebrates: LiTTribute to the Americas See link https://goo.gl/brUkjH

Join us or commission your own Creative Conversations: https://goo.gl/qPBzef

Arresting the Tears Hayti I’m Sorry https://goo.gl/6sy3y6

Towards State of the Art Museum: https://goo.gl/FfHfJL

Murder and the Museum: http//goo.gl/FHs3Fr

Celebrating Nationhood But Can new Save the Nation https://goo.gl/qSqJtT

my-discoverie-columbus-lost-and-found https://goo.gl/ixGu7y

Pat-bishops-last-struggle-killings https://goo.gl/tQUySt

Them-red-house-bones

A-tale-of-two-skeletonsJurisprudence An Ode https://goo.gl/Gmn7l0

Ah Drinking Babash https://goo.gl/GhMncz

Lagahoo-tribute-to-independent-spirits https://goo.gl/P6gP2Q

 Murder and the Museum  http//goo.gl/FHs3Fr

Woman in the mirror https://goo.gl/pvnX9d

The Triumph of Gollum in the Land of Shut Up Suicide of the Fellowship of Partnerships Book 11. A Sequel Futuring the Agenda Forward  https://goo.gl/HU3rp3

Celebrating Jamettry The Sacred and the Sacriligious

https://goo.gl/oCk1PB

Demokrissy https://goo.gl/FHs3Fr

The Human face of constitutional reform https://goo.gl/6escjj

Pat-bishops-last-struggle-killings https://goo.gl/tQUySt

Them-red-house-bones

A-tale-of-two-skeletons

Arresting-tears-for-us-and-haytian-globe:

Yo Ho ho and a bottle of rumhttps://goo.gl/TvXOHU

 Demokrissy https://goo.gl/FHs3Fr

Changing the World with Ideas  goo.gl/Pa6jAk

Lagahoo-tribute-to-independent-spirits Nationhood in contestation with globalisation: http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/2017/08/nationhood-in-contestation-with.html    https://goo.gl/KWdUtx

https://ift.tt/2vv44gW

http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/2015/08/a-world-inspired-littscapes-turns-3.html   https://goo.gl/J1EFn5

https://ift.tt/1vYaD4K /from-beirut-to-port-of-spain-how-west.html

The-price-of-passion-awards-and-rewards

 https://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/2017/07/the-price-of-passion-awards-and-rewards.html

Exploring a World Through MultiCultural Lenses https://ift.tt/2veR3ei

 Power Failure Media Blackout Brets Muffled Threats and Ransoming Father: https://goo.gl/YjbBgx

Jurisprudence-rip-obituary-walcott.html

my-date-with-narendra-modi-dat-merkel affair

Of-diasporas-migrations-arrivals.

Elixirs-of-entrepreneurship-The Emperor and I 

Ah-drinking-babash-in-this-fo-rum

Nobel-tears-of-and-for-nobel-bard

Things-that-make-me-go-steups-stars https://ift.tt/2haopDO

The Walcott Files LiTTscapes for Littribute to the Antilles  A LiTTribute at UNESCO  Inscription by UNESCO of Poems Small only in Size UNESCO Executive Board told World in a Fishbowl A Musical Heritage walk UNESCO Creative Cities

Breezes-of-tropical-arab-spring

In-war-and-peace-from-hiroshima-to-home.html

A-path-out-of-mayhem-and-murder

Turning-our-dreams-to-shame-rip-asami

Focus-resources on real crime

jus-call-me-cooligan

The world-in-fishbowl

The-other-magnificent-seven

Tribute-to-literary-mentor

The-human-face-of-constitutional-reform

The-ghost-of journalism past

OverCopulation - The Archbishop The Priest The Politician & The Journalist

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Diplomats get stimulating LiTTour 

Murder She Wrote: Death Written in Stone in Dana Seetahal Assassination Creating Centres of Peace in Trinidad and Tobago The Price of Independence:#DanaSeetahalAssassination Conceive. Achieve. Believe Demokrissy: Wave a flag for a party rag...Choosing the Emperor's ... Oct 20, 2013 Choosing the Emperor's New Troops. The dilemma of choice. Voting is supposed to be an exercise in thoughtful, studied choice. Local government is the foundation for good governance so even if one wants to reform the ... http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Old Casked Rum: The Emperor's New Tools#1 - Demokrissy - Blogger Apr 07, 2013 Old Casked Rum: The Emperor's New Tools#1 - Towards Constitutional Reform in T&T. So we've had the rounds of consultations on Constitutional Reform? Are we any wiser? Do we have a sense of direction that will drive ...http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Demokrissy: Valuing Carnival The Emperor's New Tools#2 Apr 30, 2013 Valuing Carnival The Emperor's New Tools#2....http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ See Also: Demokrissy: Winds of Political Change - Dawn of T&T's Arab Spring Jul 30, 2013 Wherever these breezes have passed, they have left in their wake wide ranging social and political changes: one the one hand toppling long time leaders with rising decibels from previously suppressed peoples demanding a ...http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Demokrissy: Reform, Conform, Perform or None of the Above cross ... Oct 25, 2013 Some 50 percent did not vote. The local government elections results lends further proof of the discussion began in Clash of Political Cultures: Cultural Diversity and Minority Politics in Trinidad and Tobago in Through The ...http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Demokrissy: Sounds of a party - a political party Oct 14, 2013 They are announcing some political meeting or the other; and begging for my vote, and meh road still aint fix though I hear all parts getting box drains and thing, so I vex. So peeps, you know I am a sceptic so help me decide. http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Demokrissy: T&T Constitution the culprit | The Trinidad Guardian Jun 15, 2010 T&T Constitution the culprit | The Trinidad Guardian · T&T Constitution the culprit | The Trinidad Guardian. Posted by Kris Rampersad at 8:20 AM · Email ThisBlogThis!Share to TwitterShare to Facebook ...http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Related: Demokrissy: To vote, just how we party … Towards culturally ... Apr 30, 2010 'How we vote is not how we party.' At 'all inclusive' fetes and other forums, we nod in inebriated wisdom to calypsonian David Rudder's elucidation of the paradoxical political vs. social realities of Trinidad and Tobago. http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Demokrissy: DEADLOCK: Sign of things to come Oct 29, 2013 An indication that unless we devise innovative ways to address representation of our diversity, we will find ourselves in various forms of deadlock at the polls that throw us into a spiral of political tug of war albeit with not just ...http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Demokrissy: The human face of constitutional reform Oct 16, 2013 Sheilah was clearly and sharply articulating the deficiencies in governmesaw her: a tinymite elderly woman, gracefully wrinkled, deeply over with concerns about political and institutional stagnation but brimming over with ... http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Demokrissy: Trini politics is d best Oct 21, 2013 Ain't Trini politics d BEST! Nobody fighting because they lose. All parties claiming victory, all voting citizens won! That's what make we Carnival d best street party in the world. Everyone are winners because we all like ...http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ New Media, New Civil Society, and Politics in a New Age - Demokrissy Jan 09, 2012 New Media, New Civil Society, and Politics in a New Age | The Communication Initiative Network. New Media, New Civil Society, and Politics in a New Age | The Communication Initiative Network. Posted by Kris Rampersad ...http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Demokrissy: T&T politics: A new direction? - Caribbean360 Oct 01, 2010 http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Oct 20, 2013 Choosing the Emperor's New Troops. The dilemma of choice. Voting is supposed to be an exercise in thoughtful, studied choice. Local government is the foundation for good governance so even if one wants to reform the ... http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Old Casked Rum: The Emperor's New Tools#1 - Demokrissy - Blogger Apr 07, 2013 Old Casked Rum: The Emperor's New Tools#1 - Towards Constitutional Reform in T&T. So we've had the rounds of consultations on Constitutional Reform? Are we any wiser? Do we have a sense of direction that will drive ...http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Demokrissy: Valuing Carnival The Emperor's New Tools#2 Apr 30, 2013 Valuing Carnival The Emperor's New Tools#2....http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ See Also: Demokrissy: Winds of Political Change - Dawn of T&T's Arab Spring Jul 30, 2013 Wherever these breezes have passed, they have left in their wake wide ranging social and political changes: one the one hand toppling long time leaders with rising decibels from previously suppressed peoples demanding a ...http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Demokrissy: Reform, Conform, Perform or None of the Above cross ... Oct 25, 2013 Some 50 percent did not vote. The local government elections results lends further proof of the discussion began in Clash of Political Cultures: Cultural Diversity and Minority Politics in Trinidad and Tobago in Through The ...http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Demokrissy: Sounds of a party - a political party Oct 14, 2013 They are announcing some political meeting or the other; and begging for my vote, and meh road still aint fix though I hear all parts getting box drains and thing, so I vex. So peeps, you know I am a sceptic so help me decide. http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Demokrissy: T&T Constitution the culprit | The Trinidad Guardian Jun 15, 2010 T&T Constitution the culprit | The Trinidad Guardian · T&T Constitution the culprit | The Trinidad Guardian. Posted by Kris Rampersad at 8:20 AM · Email ThisBlogThis!Share to TwitterShare to Facebook ...http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Related: Demokrissy: To vote, just how we party … Towards culturally ... Apr 30, 2010 'How we vote is not how we party.' At 'all inclusive' fetes and other forums, we nod in inebriated wisdom to calypsonian David Rudder's elucidation of the paradoxical political vs. social realities of Trinidad and Tobago. http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Demokrissy: DEADLOCK: Sign of things to come Oct 29, 2013 An indication that unless we devise innovative ways to address representation of our diversity, we will find ourselves in various forms of deadlock at the polls that throw us into a spiral of political tug of war albeit with not just ...http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Demokrissy: The human face of constitutional reform Oct 16, 2013 Sheilah was clearly and sharply articulating the deficiencies in governmesaw her: a tinymite elderly woman, gracefully wrinkled, deeply over with concerns about political and institutional stagnation but brimming over with ... http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Demokrissy: Trini politics is d best Oct 21, 2013 Ain't Trini politics d BEST! Nobody fighting because they lose. All parties claiming victory, all voting citizens won! That's what make we Carnival d best street party in the world. Everyone are winners because we all like ...http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ New Media, New Civil Society, and Politics in a New Age - Demokrissy Jan 09, 2012 New Media, New Civil Society, and Politics in a New Age | The Communication Initiative Network. New Media, New Civil Society, and Politics in a New Age | The Communication Initiative Network. Posted by Kris Rampersad ...http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Demokrissy: T&T politics: A new direction? - Caribbean360 Oct 01, 2010 http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Others: Demokrissy: Old Casked Rum: The Emperor's New Tools#1 ... Apr 07, 2013 Old Casked Rum: The Emperor's New Tools#1 - Towards Constitutional Reform in T&T. So we've had the rounds of consultations on Constitutional Reform? Are we any wiser? Do we have a sense of direction that will drive ... http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Demokrissy: Valuing Carnival The Emperor's New Tools#2 Apr 30, 2013 Valuing Carnival The Emperor's New Tools#2.  http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Wave a flag for a party rag...Choosing the Emperor's New ... Oct 20, 2013 Choosing the Emperor's New Troops. The dilemma of choice. Voting is supposed to be an ... Old Casked Rum: The Emperor's New Tools#1 - Towards Constitutional Reform in T&T. Posted by Kris Rampersad at 10:36 AM ... http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Demokrissy: Carnivalising the Constitution People Power ... Feb 26, 2014 This Demokrissy series, The Emperor's New Tools, continues and builds on the analysis of evolution in our governance, begun in the introduction to my book, Through the Political Glass Ceiling (2010): The Clash of Political ... http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Envisioning outside-the-island-box ... - Demokrissy - Blogger Feb 10, 2014 This Demokrissy series, The Emperor's New Tools, continues and builds on the analysis of evolution in our governance, begun in the introduction to my book, Through the Political Glass Ceiling (2010): The Clash of Political ... http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Demokrissy: Futuring the Post-2015 UNESCO Agenda Apr 22, 2014 It is placing increasing pressure for erasure of barriers of geography, age, ethnicity, gender, cultures and other sectoral interests, and in utilising the tools placed at our disposal to access our accumulate knowledge and technologies towards eroding these superficial barriers. In this context, we believe that the work of UNESCO remains significant and relevant and that UNESCO is indeed the institution best positioned to consolidate the ..... The Emperor's New Tools ... http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Demokrissy: Cutting edge journalism Jun 15, 2010 The Emperor's New Tools. Loading... AddThis. Bookmark and Share. Loading... Follow by Email. About Me. My Photo · Kris Rampersad. Media, Cultural and Literary Consultant, Facilitator, Educator and Practitioner. View my ... http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/

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