#the recipient is an incredible artist too

[larachelledrawsfe]

Prompts: A fierce Ignatz, in battle, with forget-me-nots

Long time no Ignatz!

FE Artscuffle - Flower Friday Event

Drawn for @barbieburnanator

[johnskleats]

Hear me out: Katara with scarred hands.

There are a thousand metas about why this would work narratively, aesthetically, and thematically.

I'm here to talk about that logistically.

I am the lucky recipient of a very inconveniently placed scar, about an inch by a half inch (1 x .5) sized, on the first joint of my index finger. I am an artist. I paint, I write, I sew, I bake.

This is one of the singular most inconvenient places to be scarred activity-wise, in my opinion.

It's super sensitive all the time, even though it's healed. The skin is so thin and there are so many nerves, that the scar being somehow even thinner, is awful from a sensory perspective. I try to grab something and it puts the slightest pressure on the scar? Pain. I flex my finger? Pain. I don't even know if I can describe it as "pain", it's just Sensation and there's A Lot of It. Too much.

Now, aesthetically, as someone who works with their hands, I didn't realize just how distressing having a large, visible scar on my hand would be. I can see it all the time because it wraps around. I'm driving? I can see my scar. I'm cooking? I can see it (and feel it). It's on the first finger I see when I'm holding something, and somehow, it feels like not my hand anymore. It looks wrong, it feels wrong, my hands look like <insert image of my previously unscarred artist hands, which were lovely to behold>.

Zuko gets the benefit of simply avoiding mirrors. If he chances to see his reflection, he gets reminded of just how not himself he looks. He can also see that in people's reactions to his face.

Katara's hand scars, though? She can see them herself. She can't not see them. If she wears gloves, it's not to hide the scars, it's because they're sensation x 100, and the only way to touch things and have it feel somewhat normal and not ouchies is to have some kind of barrier to disperse the pressure.

People see hand scars? It's "oh no, what happened?" It's "got a little brave with the pan, or the knife, huh?" It's "oof, that looks like that hurt," because commenting on peoples face scars is too personal, but making snide comments about hand scars is considered somehow a common area. "How long did it take to heal?" "I can't imagine having scars on my hands" "oh next time be more careful! to avoid hurting myself, I <insert lecture on fire/knife safety here, as though I didn't know those things before and still happened to injure myself because you run that risk every time you use a potentially dangerous thing>".

And my personal favorite, "what a shame, you always had such beautiful hands."

Sigh.

Anyway I hope this helps someone writing a fanfiction about hand scars Katara because woof, there's a lot more going on there beyond just parallels with Zuko. Sifu Hotman would have incredible sympathy for Katara, not just because he has scars too, but because in some ways, having scars he could always see himself might seem worse to him. When he's by himself, he might be able to forget, for a moment, that it's there.

Katara can wear gloves, but people are always going to demand to know why, or for her to take them off, or whatever, and there's never going to be a real way to pretend, even for a second, she isn't scarred. And if she doesn't wear gloves or wrap her hands for sensation's sake, she'll get to see them every time she does anything. And that sucks.

AND ANOTHER THING:

it is always dry and flaking. Always. It's soooo dry I have to moisturize it several times a day. It helps with pain and mobility. Byyye

[studentinpursuitofclouds]

i think one of my favorite things i've seen online are couples that will gift their partners bouquets made of artificial, handmade flowers (such as being made of metal, cloth, or similar materials) and tell their partners that "when this flower dies i'll stop loving you"; considering the plant is fake, it will never die, and so they'll never stop loving. i think it's incredibly cute and sweet, even if initially it takes you off-guard if you don't process it properly LMFAO.

anyways, what about some headcanons with the bachelorettes (RSV + vanilla) about the farmer gifting them that when asking them out?

Oh, I've heard of this before. Usually it was the gift of a single rose, and the speech that it, like the giver's love for the recipient, would never wither. Pretty sweet, although a bit too sweet for me, to be honest 😅 If I was given a bouquet of goodies and snacks, that's what I'd be talking about 😁

Very cute idea though, thanks so much, dear anon, for the ask! 💕

_________________________________________

Stardew Valley:

Farmer thought at first that they had somehow broken Penny with their speech, for the girl froze in place without making a sound. But then they heard a sob from her, and were almost knocked down by a sharp embrace. Penny had never received anything like this before... *sniff* "Thank you, Farmer..." The teacher just overflowed with emotion, mostly happiness.

Oh, how touching and romantic! Emily had heard about this new tradition, and always thought it was a very beautiful symbol. And you can see that Farmer has put their creativity, strength and soul into this bouquet, which the blue-haired girl will cherish like a treasure. She will kiss her (already now) partner for such a gift.

Maru was also the kind of person who decided to give her friends and family unusual gifts with symbolism. More often than not, small inventions with messages. But roses that would never wilt was also a very lovely idea that melted the young ingenuity's heart instantly. Who would have thought that Farmer was such a romantic!

"Oh, stop it, you~" Though it seems like Abigail was complaining about so cheesy Farmer, there wasn't an ounce of dissatisfaction in her voice. Quite the opposite, the girl's heart began to beat even harder at the realisation that her crush had reciprocated her feelings, also proving the seriousness of their intentions with such an unusual bouquet. Of course she would accept.

It was probably the first time Haley had ever been so smitten that she couldn't get a word out. She'd had a bunch of admirers before, a whole line of them, but none of them had ever done anything like this to her. The girl's face would be as red as a tomato and she would turn away slightly, but then look at Farmer again with a tender and loving gaze before agreeing to date.

Leah laughed after Farmer finished their speech. "All poets around me," the artist thought, but her cheeks were burning with fire as this gesture is really very romantic and she had had feelings for Farmer for a long time. So lest the hopeless romantic should take her laughter as something wrong, the red-haired artiste kissed them, accepting their proposal to date.

Ridgeside Village:

There's about half a minute of silence before Irene makes a sound like the whistle of a boiling kettle. You'll have to excuse her, but she's just been secretly having a crash on Farmer for a month now, and the way they invited her over and gave her such a gift was beyond her dreams. It was just like a fairy tale...

"Yeah yeah, very funny, haha. Great prank." But with every passing second, Maddie realised that Farmer had said it in complete seriousness. The unique bouquet the young lab technician was holding was already adorned with a little dew that dripped from her eyes. Is this... really what's happening?

Kiarra had been so absorbed in her new design projects lately that she didn't realise the meaning of Farmer's words when they came to visit her. She woke up with a beautiful handmade bouquet of flowers in her hands (and a very cool one at that, Farmer is a master at everything!), and only now she realised that Farmer had just asked her out. That's so... She... She's said yes.

Flor felt her cheeks blush, and the first thing the red-haired teacher did was to hide her face behind her book. Both the bouquet itself, and Farmer's speech, touched her so much that she did not know what to reply. The whole thing had rendered her speechless...

"Is it.... really for me?" Of course it's for you, Alissa, why are you asking this? Farmer literally confessed their love for you, then gave you a bouquet of handmade flowers to symbolise their love for you. Even the flowers are Alissa's favourite - Aurorean Iris. So yes, Alissa, this is for you.

Even the customers who stood near the cash register of Pika's restaurant did not dare to interfere with their orders to Corine, who stood speechless and with the symbolic bouquet in her hands. Farmer almost regretted choosing a crowded place, not wanting to put the girl under pressure. But Corine accepted the flowers with a smile, calling Farmer a hopeless romantic- Oh wait, visitors!

Faye thought that Farmer had invited her to another friendly dinner at Pika's. Except that Farmer went from pleasant reminiscences to saying that they cared for the girl, and handed her a bouquet made by their own hand, explaining the meaning of the gift. Had it not been for the table, Faye would have been ready to throw herself into Farmer's arms.

"Ah, aren't you cute~" The slight teasing was expected by Farmer (after all, that was one of Daia's appealing qualities). But what Farmer definitely didn't expect were the tears on the girl's cheeks. No one had ever given her... any gifts at all, and this. Heh, how lucky she was to have met such a friend- no, not a friend anymore, something more.

"Heh, so I predicted the future, didn't I? Maybe I should become a clairvoyant, give predictions." Blair tried to make a little joke, but she was so full of joy that she couldn't get any more words out of her mouth. It was a bouquet she would definitely put in a prominent place to remember the night Farmer had told her they loved her.

When Farmer finished their speech, Ysabelle was calm, reciprocated their feelings and accepted this unique bouquet. But as soon as Farmer distinguished themself for a moment, the girl almost jumped to the ceiling with happiness, doing pirouettes and twirling all over the hotel lobby. A bouquet that would never wilt, a love that would never fade away. Ah~

A gentle embrace, a look full of embarrassment and love, a light kiss on the cheek - Farmer was afraid that Paula would perceive their bouquet and gesture as too pathos, but the girl didn't show them a single sign that she was bored with this whole event. The military doctor only gratefully accepted the gift, examining every detail of the fake flower petal, and shifting her gentle gaze to Farmer again.

[towns-end-bindery]

Six of Crows Duology 🐦‍⬛ - Leigh Bardugo

🗡️

Mental health issues have been kicking my ass these past few months, but somehow I managed to at least finish this rebind set, though it took longer than I had intended. I'm happy with them, and I hope the recipient likes it. The covers and endpapers were entirely designed by the incredible artist Omri Kadim. Definitely check out their stuff. They take commissions.

I don't own any foiling or cutting machines, so everything was foiled by hand. I used black deco foil for Six of Crows, and We R Memory Keepers gold foil for Crooked Kingdom. Bookcloth is from Hollanders. I used Black Allure Bookcloth and Deep Scarlet Pearl Linen Bookcloth.

I wish I had the courage to make a slip case for this set. I had never made any boxes before and I didn't want to waste time and materials messing it up, especially since this set isn't for myself. In my head, it's only okay to mess up on the stuff I make for myself 😅.

Feel free to ask me any questions you have about this bind, or about bookbinding in general. I don't check tumblr too often, but I'll answer when I do check in, I promise.

Also, here's my Instagram.

[cinberella]

Devil in Disguise

Artist: @skylar102

Thanks for the mood board and all the banners ❤️💕❤️

Rating: M Pairing: Malec Word Count: 48.500

This fic was created for the ​ Mini Bang 2023 presented by the @malecdiscordserver

CHAPTER 1/7 UNREACHABLE

It's challenging, almost impossible, not to look up at the restricted area where the very important people are. It is probably as difficult for Alec as it is for anyone else in the club. In fact, people keep dancing and having fun, mostly minding their own business. Or so it seems. Presumably, they are afraid to be caught gaping disrespectfully at one of the most powerful men on the planet, but it is easy to notice how the bravest ones among the crowd do attempt to throw a fleeting glance up to the VIP area, every now and then, certainly dreaming of being admitted into the inner circle of those - lucky bastards -  who can hang around the ridiculously stunning owner of the club.

Magnus Bane, High Warlock of Brooklyn and prominent object of desire is the even-too-aware recipient of all the ill-concealed curiosity, reverence, and a certain amount of suspicion coming from his diverse clientele. He must know even too well the emotions he arouses in the clubbers, the power he holds over them. Well, not over Alec. He is a Shadowhunter, after all. He’s no one to be easily intimidated. But aroused? Well, that he undoubtedly is.

There is something in the way the man looks so out of reach that makes Alec crave him badly and, at least, he can fill his eyes with the Warlock’s charm and incredible persona. It’s a treat he indulges himself in, but Alec has no false hopes or dreams to be able to get closer to the man.

Up there, the Warlock looks more like a King, actually, or a God looking down at humanity from his personal Olympus; maybe it’s the ridiculously huge throne he is sitting on that makes him look so regal, but the power overflowing him is almost tangible even from the underbelly of the club, where almost everything is allowed. Almost. Warlock Bane hates troublemakers and bad-mannered people. The audacious display of his power makes people behave rather properly and, in the end, he magnanimously stands there for everyone to admire him, mannerly and respectfully, but never up close.

Does Alec play by these rules? Well, yes and no. He has the impertinence of a 20-year-old young Shadowhunter on his part, and the black stark runes on his arms and his neck dissuade the numerous bouncers in defense of the VIP area from telling him to eye up at their boss with less insistence and insolence. After all, staring isn't illegal, maybe just a little daring or even a bit rude, but Alec's gaze is irresistibly drawn to that fucking throne strategically placed in the exact center of the elevated platform. From there, the club owner overlooks all the people dancing with an oddly detached grin.

He is magnificent and Alec wants him. He has wanted the man since the first time he saw him.

Tonight is just the same story as usual. He will play his staring game for a while, drink a few cocktails, and when he loosens up a bit, letting the stress of the day bleed out of him, Alec will give in standing on the sidelines and finally will look for someone else more attainable. It’s a familiar routine by now. As is the fact that the Warlock will populate his dreams. Later and in the next few nights. But at least in dreamland, Alec can indulge in doing unspeakable things to the hottest man he's ever seen.

Anyway, it’s way too early for that; Alec is still sipping his first Cosmopolitan near the bar; his siblings already vanished into the crowd. And he is still shamelessly enjoying his show. A show offered for free.

Tonight the Warlock is even more impressively dressed up than usual. And Alec almost drools taking in all the details of his perfect facial features, focusing on the bloated makeup around his otherworldly eyes - his demonic mark on display. The Shadowhunter is fascinated by those little specks of gold in them - and ok, yes, he may have activated a couple of runes to enhance his sight both from afar and in the dimness of the club, so what?

The High Warlock of Brooklyn is a man as much feared as desired, and in Alec’s opinion he knows perfectly well how wanted he is and enjoys it a great deal. Everyone wants to be in his good graces, to get close to him, even if it means spending hours kneeling at his feet like obedient pets. Pets who are dressed - or rather undressed - only in leather and piercings, Alec muses.

Oh, Alec would kneel before him… Not up there for everyone to see, he is not much of an exhibitionist, even if he knows he is quite attractive and that maybe, in another World, he could quite fit with the picture the Warlock makes for himself.

In fact, Magnus Bane usually surrounds himself with people who are aesthetically up to it; he uses them to make his public image even more suggestive. He may be naturally beautiful of course, but the way he dolls up? Perfect. That shirt perpetually open on his chest, those necklaces, not to mention his hair, always styled in a way that seems to defy gravity.

Magnus Bane looks unattainable, no… He is utterly untouchable. He is totally out of reach, especially for rune-bearing people like Alec, who in the end is just content to admire the man from the dance floor, and bask in the energy and grandness that emanate from him. Magnus Bane is like a rock star performing on stage. For everyone to look at, and for no one to get close to. The Warlock doesn't even need to hold his own glass, there's always someone there for him to promptly bring a drink to his mouth, just at the minimal gesture of his fingers. Fingers that are often glowing with an intimidating blue light.

His magic.

Alec is fascinated by the idea of so much power held by one man alone. He sighs. Surely the Warlock is the most attractive man he has ever seen. No one on the dance floor, not among Downwolders, nor among Shadowhunters, holds a candle to him.  Not by a long shot.

Well, Alec may have this little crush on Magnus Bane, but that doesn’t change a thing. Because he is just invisible to the man. Things are not so easy between their people and as proof of this, Alec has never been with a Warlock. Not once. Yet, given a chance, he would surely have one ride on the sex carousel with this particular Warlock.

Oh well, it’s just a stupid thought that Alec doesn't waste much time mulling over. What would be the point? Magnus Bane has a reputation, although it is commonly known that he never hangs out with Shadowhunters, if not for business. He despises them, to some extent; even though, Nephilim are allowed into his club. It would be too bold a move, politically speaking, to forbid them from dancing at Pandemonium. After all the Lightwood siblings and a few other Shadowhunters from the New York Institute are quite popular among the Warlock’s fellow Downworlders. So, free ticket to Pandemonium for them. That's how it works, and honestly, it works just fine for Alec.

He enjoys his little escapades at the club and Magnus Bane never looks down at him. Even if the Warlock must be aware of his presence in his club. Yet, he just seems not to care. He just ignores him, as well as the other Shadowhunters that usually come together. Alec is again  thinking of inexpressible things he would do to the man - and luckily Warlocks cannot read minds - until the last drop of his cocktail touches his tongue and he darts toward the dance floor to find someone not so out of his league to spend the night with.

It’s easy, as usual, and once again the guy he approaches smoothly while moving to the music is a werewolf. When their gaze met, his eyes gleamed with a greenish light and Alec knows what that means. And he is game, because why not. The young man is tall and has a knockout smile lingering on his mouth. Alec immediately knows he is going to walk off with him. On the other hand, this is why he came, this is how his evenings at Pandemonium usually go since he started coming a couple of years back. He has flirted, hooked up, and even had brief flings with a considerable amount of Downworlders, mostly werewolves. His sister Isabelle, on the other hand, has a weird penchant for vampires, while Jace has a preference for Seelies. Sure, they've gotten into trouble a few times, especially Jace, for having broken more than a few hearts in his wake.

Despite them being rather reckless in their dalliances, they have maintained good relations with a lot of people, having established a few good friendships and alliances, also because, Vampires, Seelies and Werewolves usually don't hold grudges for too long, not over trivial things like hooking up with a Shadowhunter.

Maryse and Robert Lightwood, the Heads of the Institute, had decided to ignore their children’s endeavors and, admittedly, have done a lot to build courteous relationships both with the pack of New York, and the local vampire clan, surely with more orthodox methods than exchanging body fluids. Connection with the Seelie Court was a bit more difficult, but the Queen wasn’t interested in getting in the Shadowhunters’ way and the established agreement was live and let live.

As for the Warlock community, well, every interaction with the Institute was based on business, on making financial deals, especially with a few talented healers and, rarely, the High Warlock himself. Everyone knows the Heads of the Institute have a lot to be forgiven for, but their leadership seems to work out well, after all. The only ones who seem unable to overcome what they did in their youth are their own children. Stories about the abuse they perpetrated on Downworlders have somehow come to their knowledge. The truth is that while other exponents of the Circle were exiled or sentenced to death, Mr. and Mrs. Lightwood were inexplicably pardoned and were even given an Institute to run. It was meant to be a punishment, but Alec hates them for having gotten away with their misdeeds so easily.

Alec was educated to be a politician, so he understands it was all a game of power, of honoring the Lightwood name in front of the Clave, of making alliances, but he can't help but be disgusted by his parents, whose hands are stained with the blood of so many innocent people, including children. That’s unforgivable in Alec’s eyes and conceivably, that is the reason why Warlocks in New York do not normally socialize with Shadowhunters. They are the ones who have suffered the worst persecution of all. They are half demons after all. While werewolves and vampires were once human and Seelies have also angelic blood in their veins, Warlocks were treated just like their demon parents and slain without mercy. Magnus Bane, being the High Warlock in the City and owner of one of the highest-ranked clubs in the Shadow World, can't always avoid dealing with the angelic people he loathes so much. Alec knows that his mother has met him on occasion at the Institute, but the Warlock has never been officially introduced to the younger Lightwoods.

It’s almost funny that Maryse is probably ashamed of them. In her eyes, they are not capable of a diplomatic relationship with such an important representative of the Downworld. 

They are disobedient, reckless, indiscreet, often insubordinate and recalcitrant in following her orders, and always prone to defy her authority. In the last couple of years, Maryse has turned from being constantly enraged to resignedly disappointed. Alec remembers the furious quarrels when she used to try to marry him off to one girl or another from Alicante. Alec flipped her out each time, not only metaphorically, and refused to abide by her unreasonable request. The main reason for his refusal to marry a girl is that he is gay. But even if they required him to marry a guy, he wouldn't do it. No way. He values his freedom too much, he is still young and is not ready to marry and have a bunch of children - even adopted ones. Moreover, their parents know he is gay, as well as they know Isabelle and Jace are bisexual. They came out together, right on the occasion of a family dinner, when Maryse continued to insist that Alec at least should date a girl of their choice, give her a chance. Their combined - and epic - coming out only exacerbated the already tense relationship, especially with Maryse. And since then her irate screams have turned into sad, almost pitying looks. Alec doesn't know what pisses him off the most. He knew how to deal with his mother yelling angrily at him. But not with those miserable eyes. He just wanted to tell her, "there's nothing wrong with me, nothing you need to feel sorry for." 

Alec has never questioned his mother’s love for them, but he knows she considers her offsprings her greater failure. So, they never get to be involved in her business even for something simple as showing the Warlock around to allow him to reinforce their wards. No. They weren't even considered capable of taking care of a task so uncomplicated.

On the other hand, though, she was also afraid of Magnus Bane, she didn’t trust him and so maybe she was also trying to protect her kids. Alec does not know, but one thing is for sure.  The High Warlock of Brooklyn doesn't seem to have gotten over the old grievances that seem to have festered since the end of the Uprising. It's been a little over 18 years since Valentine was killed, by his own wife and the man who had sworn to protect him with his life, his parabatai no less, but Magnus Bane has been distrusting the Clave and its people with the same intensity for all these years. If not more and more profoundly through the years.

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"Alec, my God, have you slept with a werewolf or have you tried something new and fucked a vampire?" Isabelle exclaims laughing and pointing at his neck.

Alec groans brushing his hand over the deflect rune on his throat, which is thoroughly bruised all around. As usual, after having been at the club and having parted ways for the night, the three siblings met at a nice bistro not far from the Institute for breakfast, before sneaking back inside. Their walk-of-shame is something that happens quite often and when they stride into the Op Room after a night out, their fellow Shadowhunters usually just give them a benevolent and a little envious look. Among all of them, they are the wildest and most devil-may-care.

"Shit… I know, he mauled my neck… didn’t he?”

Jace snorts not really in an elegant way. “You, dog!"

Alec laughs. His brother can be so crass.

“Technically, he was the dog. And a very satisfying fuck.” He deadpans sarcastically, making his siblings giggle. He knows how to be crude too apparently. But these dog-related puns with the werewolves are a common joke and no one gets offended by that anymore.

“Anyway, I'll heal it with an iratze.” He sniffs at his T-shirt and grimaces, “God, I do need a shower. What about you? All good?”

He asks casually sipping his black coffee. He must admit that he enjoyed his night with the werewolf at his place. It was intense and quite rough but it helped him to blow off some steam after the unsatisfying patrol they had been on. No demons to slay last night and a lot of pent-up energy to put to good use. Jace smirks proudly, as usual, and eloquently wriggles his eyebrows.

“Yeah, sure, mission complete. I went to Roselyn’s and well, her sister was there too, Miriel, Mariel, Muriel? Something like that, I don’t remember her name, but I do remember that she was very flexible... When I bent her over…"

"Jace, good Lord... we don't need details. We never do, really."

“Well, this could be educational for you, you know?”

“No, that would make me feel like I wanna throw up, so please, shut up.”

Alec rolls his eyes, trying not to picture his brother having hetero sex with two Seelie girls, while Isabelle is putting on her red lipstick, with a hand mirror, and lets out a muffled chuckle at her brothers’ bantering. Jace seems extremely pleased with himself.

“Ok, ok… well, I had fun anyway, thanks for asking. That’s all. But you’re such a buzzkill, bro. What about you Iz?”

“Uhm, all good. I spent the night at the Dumort Hotel, with Stéphane. It was lovely, he whispered French words to me all night, he was very… charming.” She clicks the mirror closed with a smug smile on her red lips.

“Ugh… Sure, you went there to listen to him speak French. That’s right.” Jace mocks her, with a playful patronizing tone.

“No… I went there to get laid, actually, and I did, but it was… sweet… He is a very nice guy, that’s all; maybe I’ll see him again.”

Alec thinks she might obliterate the poor guy, eventually. She never sticks around for too long with the same vampire and she has a couple of on-and-off relationships with a Seelie man and, incredibly, also with a Mundane. She says his obliviousness about the Shadow World gives her thrills.  Not that Alec cares, Isabelle can handle her flirts and hookups as she sees fit.

They dawdle at  the table, chatting and enjoying their coffees together, treating themselves also with some pumpkin muffins. Differently from the usual, there is no rush this morning. Their parents are in Idris - thanks to the Angels  - and they shouldn't be back in New York for at least another couple of days. They both have been summoned to Alicante for who knows what crisis impending the Shadow World. Not that their parents ever involve them in the Institute's political decisions. They are just little soldiers, mere executors of orders, and do not make much use of their theoretical privileged status of being the children of the Heads.

Indeed, quite the opposite of that. They are often punished for insubordination, put on ichor duty, or sent on night shift patrol for days without respite. The night before when they decided to go dancing, it was already after midnight, and they had been patrolling for more than six hours. However, the situation was unusually quiet along the streets, with no suspected demonic activity whatsoever, and so instead of returning back with the others, they ended up staying out all night. But as they say, when the cat's away the mice play, right? Or they go dancing... Or… Whatever.

Alec likes his life after all. It could be better, but it could be so much worse. And luckily he has his siblings by his side, and that’s all that matters.

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As soon as they set foot in the Op Room they stop dead, finding themselves in the presence of their parents. Well, none of them saw that coming.

Their furious, unsympathetic, disappointed parents are back. Hurray. As soon as Maryse sees them, she stalks toward them, stopping them from getting away from her clutches.

"Where the hell have you been?" She spits out through her teeth, angrily. Alec looks her straight in the eyes. He isn’t afraid, and they did nothing wrong.

"Out." He replies, flatly.

"Alexander..." There is a threatening hint in her voice, that makes Alec snap.

"What? We're all of legal age, we don't have to explain ourselves. We went on our patrol shift, dutifully, and got back in time for today's assignments. Who cares where we've been last night? Why do you even care?"

"Well, I care, because I already know where you've been... You went to Magnus Bane’s club, didn’t you?"

"And even if we were? I don't see how that can be a problem. You and Dad are such hypocrites…"

"We are just realists and we worry about you. That man… He is dangerous… And you are so naive.”

“Naive? That’s new…”

“Well, at least, you are unaware of the truth… You may not believe me, but  I was so worried… Your father and I need to talk to you, ok? It’s…urgent.”

She sounds oddly frantic and genuinely concerned.

“What is it?” Isabelle asks suddenly worried. She doesn’t like her mother’s attitude. What the fuck may have happened?

“I just can’t believe that we returned earlier from Idris just to warn you and you were dancing at that horrible place! By the Angel, how could you always be so irresponsible?”

“Mother, just tell us what’s going on, ok?” Alec interrupts her, exasperation clear in his deep voice.

“Ok…” she concedes and then sighs before continuing. “Disturbing news was brought to our attention and we must take measures about it as soon as possible. The Clave is counting on us and your father and I... you know the delicate situation we are in."

"Of course, we know, how could we not? Your alliance with Valentine has ruined our future. Despite our family name, all positions of prestige are precluded to us. Because of you and your fucking lack of judgment. So, pardon me if I don't pity you with your delicate situation."

Maybe this is not the best time to dredge up the past, but Alec is so angry with his parents. He can barely hold back. They are there, all judgmental and distraught, thinking they can tell them how to live their lives.

"Alec..." It is their father who has come forward, deeming it necessary for him to intervene.

"Look, we are perfectly aware of our mistakes and you know it. We have always been honest with you, never hidden our… past. But we were young and stupid and we've been trying for years to fix what we did and this may be the occasion to do something important. But we need your help."

"What? This again? I told you, I won't let you marry me off to secure your alliances in Idris."

"This is not what we want from you, in fact, I would say the opposite. We need your…   interpersonal skills."

Alec frowns at that. It’s quite unexpected and… unsettling. It is enough to make him shut his mouth and keep his frown on his forehead.

"What do you mean Dad?"

Isabelle asks warily, stepping closer to her brothers. Jace has only folded his arms over his chest in a defying stance.

"You know… Given your particular proclivities and tastes..." Robert begins, but Isabelle snorts loudly.

"Oh God… Proclivities?"

"Isabelle wait... This is important, ok? We need you to go on a mission for the Clave."

A mission?

They are suddenly more interested in what their parents have to tell them. This would be a first, after all. A real mission, not just patrolling around the city.

"What mission?"

Maryse sighs and looks at them more calmly, now that she and Robert have their attention.

"Someone is plotting against the Consul. There seems to be a coalition of Downwolders who believe that the Mortal Instruments are not safe in the hands of the Clave and that they are a danger to all the demon-blooded. We got very worrying intel. It seems that the leaders here in New York have allied with the Seelie Queen to carry out a coup in Alicante. Their final goal is to eliminate all the Shadowhunters, it is not clear how, but it seems there may be a spell capable of… deruning us somehow.”

Alec hears Isabelle gasp.

“What? That’s… horrible.”

“Exactly. Vampires as well as werewolves and Warlocks could be involved in this. What we ask of you is that you gather information. You are good at hanging out with them… Just be careful, now that you know the truth you wouldn’t want to trust them as blindly as you’ve done so far. You don't have to overdo it, nor expose yourself too much. Just try to figure out through the grapevines if anything is going on in the Downworld. Something shady or just… kept hidden.”

“What happened to we are worried about you. Are you ready to throw us into the lion's den now?"

Jace asks and then throws his hands in the air in an exasperated gesture. “You’re fucking incredible…”

“Jace, we are telling you this, so you can be prepared. But as I said, your peculiar skills may be too useful to think about missing this opportunity. I mean, Jace you could get closer to Camille Belcourt, while Alec may try his hand with Maia Roberts? We know you go to eat at the Jade Wolf quite often, and Isabelle? You are surely able to befriend Magnus Bane, aren’t you?”

The three siblings gape at their parents as they had gone insane all of a sudden. And then Jace chuckles hysterically, but it’s a sound that makes Alec shiver.

"You really don't know what you're talking about, do you? Camille has been deposed and the new head of the clan is Raphael Santiago, who is a very close friend of Isabelle’s. And Magnus Bane? He is just an asshole who won't let any of us get anywhere near him. And there's no way Maia could be charmed by Alec because, you know, Alec is gay and enjoys sleeping with male werewolves."

Maryse steps forward, her face a sharp, hard mask of anger, barely contained at this point.

Jace rubbing Alec’s sexuality in their face was the last straw.

“Look, I honestly don't care how you intend to pursue this task, and least of all, who you sleep with, as long as you can get info from your precious Downworlder friends. There could be a war, do you understand? A war! So we must do anything and everything to avert this crisis; we need to do it, at any cost. Also, we could finally get the chance to restore our name in front of the Clave. But we need your cooperation. So, you’ll do as you were ordered if you do not want to be transferred elsewhere with immediate effect!” The woman concludes with a wicked grimace.

“What? You can’t be serious!” Alec shouts in disbelief. But his mother laughs in his face.

“Oh, I can assure you I am. You have been nothing but a thorn in our side. And now… if you can't even achieve the one thing that is required of you, for the benefit of this family, for our future, and probably for the future of all Nephilim alike, well, I can only deem you so useless that you can go and fill the ranks in some other Institute with a shortage of personnel. You know… Seul, Lima, or Stockholm… they keep asking the Clave for recruits. And you know what? You could just go and be useful there, as far as I am concerned. Do we understand each other?”

Maryse’s outburst leaves them at a loss for words, so they just nod their heads, more to acknowledge her words than to agree with them.

“Good. Silence and compliance look good on you. You'll only report to me and your father. We count on your discretion. If there are no questions, you are dismissed. And go make yourself presentable. You look… obscene."

She adds scrunching her nose and looking intently at Isabelle’s skimpy outfit before striding away, followed suit by her husband.

Alec is speechless. Apparently, they are good to fuck around but not for real diplomatic, sensitive missions. What the Hell? Is this the idea their parents have about them?

He feels offended and unfairly belittled; it may be true that they weren't exactly cooperative during their adolescence and that they never missed an opportunity to embarrass their mother or piss her off, but Jace is a formidable warrior, Isabelle has strong diplomatic skills and Alec, well he's strong and resilient, an excellent fighter and with innate strategic and leadership aptitudes. And yet, it had always been clear that bearing the Lightwood name, they would pay the price for their parents' crimes. And they have never been inclined to make sacrifices to redeem themselves from something that wasn't their fault in the first place.

The most they can aspire to is to stay at the Institute for life, and maybe Alec can one day become Head, if he doesn't keep screwing up every chance to show off his skills.

Alec looks at Isabelle and Jace. They are as bewildered as he is, if not more. What their mother has asked them is basically to betray their friends, and double-cross them. But then another thought flashes through Alec’s mind. And an unexpected one at that.

Apparently, he now may have a chance to get closer to the man who has been living rent-free in his wet dreams for years. Sure, he doesn't like having to submit to his mother's blackmail, and honestly, he doesn't even believe that what Maryse reported can be accurate or true. New York Downworlders have been loyal friends to them, their relationship with the young Shadowhunters is based on cooperation and reliability, and now their parents want to jeopardize the lasting peace between them by sending them to spy on their allies? That’s insane. Isabelle and Jace are still looking at him with a baffled expression on their faces. But Alec snickers at them; there is nothing to worry about, actually. Maybe they just have to humor their mother for a while, faking to play along with her mischievous plan until the intel from the Clave turns out to be what it actually is, i.e. bullshit. And then everything will be back to normal.  This is just another glitch of the Clave, and Alec is used to dealing with their shenanigans. There is nothing to be concerned about. On the contrary, this could be a great opportunity. In fact, Alec now needs to come up with a plan to approach the most unapproachable of all Downworlders, a way to become his friend (and hopefully more than that). Magnus Bane is the most fascinating challenge he has ever found himself to face.  And the hottest of all. Alec is going to find out if the Warlock is really as unreachable as he seems.

But first, he needs to talk to his partners in crime, his perplexed and visibly worried siblings. They won’t let him down, Alec knows that.

[deke-rivers-1957]

Jailhouse Rock Review

This was I think the first Elvis film I ever saw in its entirety. As it's preserved in the Library of Congress for being so significant, I wanted to know if there was any merit to it. Even though this was my first film, I had to rewatch it after discussing it with some Elvis besties. I feel like discussing some scenes helped me better understand things. This also turned into a Vince character study so it definitely involves me going way too deep with this.

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I can't think of a better opening sequence of events for an Elvis film other than the opening of King Creole. In the matter of minutes, Vince goes from an everyday guy in construction, to a jailbird. We get to see who Vince is as a character already. He's a regular guy, but he also isn't willing to roll over if someone wrongs him. This bar fight showed how his anger got the best of him and it ended up killing someone. The expression Vince makes when he accidentally kills a man is incredible. It shows Elvis' range of an actor as he conveys the emotion of "oh my god I just killed someone. I was just trying to stick up for a woman and now I killed someone". At the same time, it also shows just how Vince's attempts to right a wrong ended up getting him into even more trouble.

Props to the writers of Jailhouse Rock for actually having someone other than Elvis sing uninterrupted. Hunk's rendition of "One More Day" works well from a thematic perspective. It reflects how in the past, country ballads were very popular. The first rendition of "Young and Beautiful" is cleverly done as it reflects how music changed and how singers like Elvis were going to be the next big thing. It shows that Vince has raw talent so of course the vocals are going to be good, yet still unpolished. Elvis conveyed that inexperience well down to how he's holding the guitar in an awkward way.

One thing I'm amazed at is how not only Hunk, but the warden of this prison willingly commit a felony by withholding Vince's fan mail. Under the US Federal law, withholding or obstructing mail from its recipient is a felony. This was written into law in 1948 so they broke the law. Even when considering that this is a prison, inmates mail could only be withheld if it contained contraband items. While the warden could inspect Vince's mail, there would still need to be proper procedures he'd have to follow.

In addition to Vince getting into a fight with the guards, it's easy to see why Vince was so angry. This scene is great in developing Vince's later characterization. This is meant to be his breaking point to show how he can't handle getting wronged by others anymore. It was Hunk's advice of protecting yourself before you get hurt, that possibly lead to Vince being who he would become. And later on, these actions would hurt Hunk's chances at making more money. Vince later found out that Hunk withheld his mail, so instead of Hunk receiving 50% of Vince's earnings, he only made 10%. It's a testament to Vince's character that he didn't tear up the contract altogether because of Hunk's crime.

Vince's new persona of a tough guy who doesn't take anyone's crap is now in full swing after he gets out of prison. Even when he meets Peggy, he can be sarcastic and rude. His second rendition of "Young and Beautiful" is another step of his evolution. He's getting polished but his anger issues are getting in the way of his ability to succeed. Him bashing the guitar against the table is a reflection of how Vince gets immediately defensive when he feels like he was wronged. We see this repeatedly throughout the film. The only time where he was in the right was when his song "Don't Leave Me Now" was taken and sold to another artist. To be a success, Vince had to break the mold and do things his own way.

Scotty, Bill, and DJ appearing all throughout the film is amazing. They just seem to follow Elvis around, even being in a prison scene with him. And yet they never seem out of place. They naturally fit in with the story as they act as Vince's band, so it would of course make sense that they met in prison. I love the sequence of making "Treat Me Nice" as we get an insight of what Elvis would've had to go through to make his original sound.

Of course I'm going to talk about this dance scene. I can almost guarantee that this dance scene is the reason why Jailhouse Rock is so iconic. It's easily the most memorable scene in the entire film and perfectly highlights how much of a natural performer Elvis was. Hunk's number being cut from the program also works well because it reflects how it wasn't Vince, but the executives decision to say that no one cares about country ballads anymore. Vince wanted Hunk to have his chance, but the executives decided to cut it. It also serves as a reflection of how out of touch Hunk was with pop culture and how most if not all of the advice he gave to Vince wouldn't work anymore.

After this point, the movie slows down and just adds necessary fluff to get from point A to point B. We need to follow Vince's rise to fame, to fully understand why from a character perspective he had to fall. The infamous couch kissing scene is the only highlight and even then, it's pointless. If Peggy is meant to be Vince's love interest, it doesn't make sense from a story perspective to just not have her present at all for a good part of the 3rd act.

Speaking of Peggy, I don't like how they set up the path of their relationship in this part of the film. I understand how up until "Jailhouse Rock" Vince has to act like a jerk and after becoming arrogantly famous, Peggy wouldn't want to be around him. However, you still need to try to develop chemistry so that the audience can believe that they work together as a couple. Peggy not even being in the film for a period of time until now, feels like we're focusing too much on a side plot that ultimately goes nowhere. There's no reason to focus so much on Vince dating his costar, if we know he's going to just ditch her for Peggy. In fact, it doesn't even make sense for him to ditch her for Peggy anyway because we don't see them having the chemistry for a relationship.

I will never understand why for a beach/pool party, Vince is dressed in a sweater and slacks while the band behind him are wearing t-shirts. "(You're So Square) Baby I Don't Care" while good on its own, doesn't add anything to the film. It just comes off as a song used to meet an Elvis film quota. Peggy just shows up out of nowhere for exposition that the same people who wronged them earlier want to buy them out. Peggy of course is upset, because it's basically implied she was financially backing this herself in the beginning. Hunk being upset however, doesn't make sense. His issues with Vince were self induced. It wasn't Vince's fault Hunk willingly withheld his mail. It wasn't Vince's fault Hunk's part of the program got cut. It doesn't even make sense to have Hunk fighting Vince to teach him a lesson about respect, because he has no on screen relationship with Peggy to warrant that. It just feels like they had to have a fight scene for Vince to metaphorically fall and realize that he needs to change.

As sweet as this scene is, it feels rushed. The weight of Vince realizing he had done wrong isn't there. Aside from the nearly fatal wound, Vince doesn't suffer any consequences for his actions. Hunk and Peggy forgave him rather quickly and Vince changes his attitude really quick. His redemption just feels muddled and I feel like it could've been redone. If they cut some of the fluff in the middle, they could've had a scene where Vince wakes after his surgery all alone in his hospital room. He realizes that because he was such a jerk to the only two people willing to back him up. He has no voice of his own at this point, so he goes through the efforts of writing a long apology letter to Hunk and Peggy.

If we had that sequence of events, it would've made the hospital scene even more emotionally powerful. The hospital scene was meant to reflect how the cycle of hurt ended because Vince found a group of people that he could trust. The facial acting Elvis has to do in this scene is beautiful because it reflects how Vince at this point is completely vulnerable without his voice and how Vince is no longer using this facade. By letting himself feel vulnerable, Vince is now opening himself up to the possibility of getting hurt. That's why this final version of "Young and Beautiful" is one of the most underrated ballads in an Elvis film. It's so overshadowed by "Jailhouse Rock" but I think this is one of Elvis' best songs. It 100% reflects this vulnerability Vince feels and yet it also reflects contentment with his life. He's actively asking Peggy to be with him in song, and is entirely letting that decision be made by her. I'm glad that they didn't kiss at the end because it shows Peggy just willing to be with Vince is enough. Vince is just happy to be alive and to at least have the chance to be with Peggy.

It's such a shame that Judy Tyler passed because I feel like she could've been a great actress and could've costarred in other Elvis projects. She also could've been a great friend to someone like Elvis who needed friends in Hollywood. Despite, my issues with Vince's interpersonal relationships, this film is a great depiction of this intrapersonal journey that Vince goes through. We see a confident man get broken in prison, develop a hardened heart and arrogance only to get broken again, and finally allow himself to be vulnerable. In fact, as a preview to my fighting tier list, I would rank Vince in C tier if not lower. He only won one fight by accident, and by the end of the film, he just hasn't shown enough skill to rank higher.

Ultimately, there are some story and character issues, but Jailhouse Rock is very well deserving of being preserved in the Library of Congress. It easily depicts how Elvis could've reacted to success and how in the world of white music, represents a change in pop culture. Country music was no longer popular because of artists like him. This film is a great summary of just how much things were culturally changing in the 50s and how Elvis himself was characterized. He, to the outside world, comes off as crude and aggressive, but when you take away the image and the bravado, he had a raw vulnerability of a young man just wanting to make it big. I would give JR a 9/10 and would highly recommend watching this.

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So sorry this took months to make. I think this is the review I had the most to say about. I had my opinions change about this film so many times that it was hard to right a clear review. I'm still open to discussing this film from an analytical perspective. Requests are still open so if there's an Elvis film you want me to review, feel free to send it in.

[joules-per-second]

When I'm on long stretches of highway, I like to put on my proverbial Hyperanalyzing Fangirl hat for the sake of celebrating media I love. Here's my deep dive into a couple of my favorite songs, both written by dear friends (and recipients of the Quad-Beard), the Ol' Joey Scrums:

"Pipe Dream" has a fascinating interplay going on between the instrumentals and the lyrics. The words to this song are incredibly jaded - there's a touch of optimism towards the end of the chorus, but even that is tempered by the "maybe" of "maybe someday we'll be the show you'd like to see". But even as the verses are self-deprecating to the max, and the chorus just barely brings itself out of a well of pessimism long enough for a couple of "maybe"s and an "I think" that things will get better, the instrumentals are playing another story. Every instrument is unabashedly optimistic, and it makes you really believe in that grain of hope offered by the lyrics of the chorus. For a song that contains the lyric "weathered from the rain, the pain, the cocaine, and the tears", it's one of the most concentrated joy-inducing songs I know.

"Self-Destructing Man" provides quite a case of emotional whiplash from "Pipe Dream", as it paints a clear image of a very depressing carnival attraction: "Step on up, just a five dollar ticket; Stand in wonder at the self-destructing man exhibit". The most intriguing aspect of this song to me is the narrator, a carnival barker of sorts. Throughout the chorus, the perspective seems to shift until the barker turns into/is revealed to be the titular Self-Destructing Man himself, calling "Why me?". That in itself is quite interesting, but a fascinating thing happened when I sang it on my own one day - I realized the entire mood of the song changes when it is covered by a woman. And unlike the changes that occur from feminine covers of songs like "Only the Good Die Young" or "December 1963", it was NOT to give the song sapphic vibes. Instead, when I sang it, the image of the song was no longer a man feeling like he's onstage in all his woe and insecurity, and using the imagery of a carnival barker to express this - instead, it became a scene of an actual carnival barker who is absolutely reveling in the despair before her, mocking the man with the final "Why me?" of the chorus. Removing the implied "self" from the self-deprecation of the song transforms it into quite a villainous piece! I love seeing how the same song can change so much from how different artists cover it.

Anyway, thanks for reading. :) I simply had too many thoughts going on to not share them, especially when sharing them could lead just a couple more people to find some music they might really enjoy!

[iftheshoef1tz]

Ho! Ho! Ho!

Sorry for being gone for a few days, I hope you are alright, my dearest secret santa recipient.

I need to tell you something…and this is that I feel like you are reading my mind (which is slightly creepy, but in the case of present planning actually quite fortunate!) I had a story idea in mind that kind of fits perfectly what you answered - the non-fiction aspect, the angst-fluff ratio and mean Eris…just perfect (like you and your blog😏).

And now, since I am your secret santa I obviously don’t come without presents or in that case (at least for now) questions.

Would you mind telling me your favourite tropes, and maybe if you have a favourite line from Azris? Or a line one says about the other? Can of course also be from fanfiction?

And maybe we can also talk about music? Do you have any favourite songs/pieces of music? Ones you love? Ones you can listen to all the time? And maybe also songs you connect with Azris? You can of course also name classical pieces (could be relevant for the story👀).

You can go into as much detail as you want, I love reading your answers and I am still incredibly happy that I get to gift you.

Yours sincerely,

🤶🏻

Oh god, I’m so excited, omg.

Okay, favorite tropes. “Only one bed” is probably one of my ABSOLUTE favorites. And the moment when one of them looks at the other’s mouth before they’ve acknowledge the Tension ™️ between them!! I am also a sucker for the moments where it’s “will they won’t they” and they both clearly want it in that moment, and then something pulls them away from each other. I don’t have a snappy name for that one lmao. As for favorite lines, i don’t think i have any in canon or in fanfiction, but the more romantic/makes-you-want-to-cry poetry lines always get me. Pablo Neruda (Love Sonnet XVII), Mary Oliver (Wild Geese), ee cummings (I Carry Your Heart) etc. (And ofc select Richard Siken poems.)

In terms of artists whose entire catalogue I could listen to on the regular, Vienna Teng (Dreaming Through the Noise especially) and Keane (Under the Iron Sea especially) are up there. I’m a new convert to Taylor Swift, and “Bigger Than the Whole Sky” kills me every time. (So does “Paper Rings,” but for different reasons.) When it comes to classical music, I love basically anything by Shostakovich and Tchaikovsky. The last movement of Strauss’s “Four Last Songs” (Im Abendrot) gives me goosebumps when it’s not making me cry, and I always cry when I listen to Hilary Hahn’s recording of the second movement of the Barber Violin Concerto. I love Oblivion by Astor Piazzolla; but unfortunately my favorite recording is by Joshua Bell. Caroline Shaw’s Partita for 8 Singers changed me the first time I heard it.

I associate Eris with “This Bitter Earth/On the Nature of Daylight” which is a, like, mash up of Dinah Washington and a string quartet playing a different piece (I think?) and it is so achingly perfect that it haunts me.

But Azris songs? Man, where to start lmao. First, DELIRIOUS BY SUSANE SUNDFOR. Gimme! Gimme Gimme! By ABBA. Never Be the Same by Camila Cabello. Desire by Meg Myers. Closer by NIN. Flesh by Simon Curtis. Hatefuck by The Bravery. Touched by Vast. Close by Nick Jonas and Tove Lo. Everytime We Touch by Cascada. Stray Italian Greyhound by Vienna Teng. So Heavy I Fell Through the Earth by Grimes. Tongue by MNEK. Middle of the Night by Elley Duhe. I Will Possess Your Heart by Death Cab for Cutie. (Strangely, I don’t have any classical pieces that jump out as Azris-coded, mostly just things that make me want to write (which is usually azris lmao))

I think that’s all I’ve got, I could literally go on for hours, tho. I’M SORRY IF IT’S TOO MUCH INFORMATION

Also thank you for calling them pieces?? Most people don’t know to call them that! (Songs have to have words, ofc.) I’m so excited to have you as my secret Santa, sounds like you’ve got some rad ideas kicking around in your noggin!

[blizzardsuplex]

CW: mention of substance abuse, discussion of death

My fiction brain isn't doing so hot right now, so I wrote a casual (and untitled) essay instead about jazz, poetry, and professional wrestling (LOL). Thank you @mobiblackout for the conversation this afternoon that inspired me to try and write this down in the first place. <3

When it comes to jazz, I'm mainly a clarinet enjoyer (Buddy DeFranco my beloved). Today, though—totally on a whim—I put on some Bill Evans.

In truth, I don't know much about the guy, save for three things: the first is that he's an incredibly influential jazz pianist. The second is that, for most of his life, he abused heroin. The third…

If you look on his Wikipedia page, there's a section in the biography labeled “After LaFaro’s death”. The very sparse first paragraph reads:

Scott LaFaro being the bassist (double bass, not bass guitar) of the original lineup of the Bill Evans Trio, alongside Evans and the drummer Paul Motian. Going to his Wikipedia page, you get (besides a note that his brief career and life still left him one of the most important jazz bassists ever) a little more about his death and its aftermath:

That second to the last sentence in particular intrigued me—not the least because it had no citation. That, plus the fact it didn't seem that many people visited his page often, meant it was fertile ground for someone to freely make stuff up. I mean, doesn't it sound like the kind of reaction to a death a novel or a biopic would have? Too poignant a tribute, too picturesque a portrait of grief, to be real: an artist willingly (“obsessively”, even) reliving a memory over and over.

Fortunately for my curiosity, and unfortunately for my world-weary mid 20s skepticism, the third to the last line had a source. Not just any random source, either, but an article published in The New Yorker about “jazz's perfect afternoon”: June 25, 1961, when the Bill Evans Trio played (and were recorded live at) the Village Vanguard club, ten days before Scott LaFaro’s fatal car accident. It looked like an interesting article, so I searched up “bill evans I loves you porgy” on YouTube, ended up finding the very version recorded over 60 years ago, and got to reading.

Ah, I thought after seeing that last paragraph, while an audience of probably mostly dead people applauded three definitely dead men. So it wasn't made up. In fact, Wikipedia did what it did almost as well as outright lying on more obscure pages: kind of understating what actually happened.

I replayed the video—it’s a great track—and began to think. ~~~

There's that line from WandaVision that made people go insane, right? “What is grief but love enduring”? A memorable quote, for sure, if (apparently) a contentious one; my older sister told me that no less than Richard Silkin weighed in on X-open parenthesis-formerly-Twitter-close parenthesis.

Being the fencesitter I am, I'm unsure what judgment to pass. On one hand, I'm usually a little wary of any blanket statements regarding experiences as diverse and personal as love or grief. On the other, the sheer number of people it resonated with is no joke; I'm not here to condemn what consoles in hard times.

And, if I had a third hand and a belly in any color but yellow, maybe I'd say grief is (for some) just the first step. Okay, so it's a feeling you're, well, feeling. Does it truly endure if it stays inside you, a mortal being, bottled up? Is it truly love if it isn't expressed—in a smile, in a word, in something you create—to a recipient beyond yourself?

~~~

I'm that person who, when discovering something new that interests me, wants to tell others and ask their thoughts about it immediately. With the internet (and making online friends who are either night owls or in closer timezones), that can be done more easily than ever—which is why I ended up outright changing the entire topic of conversation with a “lucky” friend from pro wrestling to jazz (with permission!)

Rumi/Shams coded, they told me; what, I thought, like the poet? I'd heard of him, of course, read a few translated verses here and there and liked them well enough, but I knew little about the context of his work, even less about his actual life.

My mind was nonetheless still firmly in knowledge sponge mode, and so I asked my friend to explain. Helpfully, they sent me the pertinent sections of both Jalāl al-Dīn Muḥammad Rūmī and Shams-i Tabrīzī’s Wikipedia pages:

I could see why these two had been brought to my friend's mind after I'd told them about Evans and LaFaro: another relationship that inspired great creativity; another abrupt, devastating disappearance; another piece of art in memoriam. While Bill Evans almost always played I Loves You Porgy with no accompaniment from the accident onwards, however, a call with no response, Rumi added to the world where there once was nothing:

A moment of happiness, you and I sitting on the verandah, apparently two, but one in soul, you and I. We feel the flowing water of life here, you and I, with the garden's beauty and the birds singing. The stars will be watching us, and we will show them what it is to be a thin crescent moon. You and I unselfed, will be together, indifferent to idle speculation, you and I. The parrots of heaven will be cracking sugar as we laugh together, you and I. In one form upon this earth, and in another form in a timeless sweet land.

I am a sculptor, a molder of form. In every moment I shape an idol. But then, in front of you, I melt them down I can rouse a hundred forms and fill them with spirit, but when I look into your face, I want to throw them in the fire. My souls spills into yours and is blended. Because my soul has absorbed your fragrance, I cherish it. Every drop of blood I spill informs the earth, I merge with my Beloved when I participate in love. In this house of mud and water, my heart has fallen to ruins. Enter this house, my Love, or let me leave.

When poetry hits, it really hits; knowing a little more context than I did now, I got actual goosebumps. And, after the initial emotional reaction, with the Bill Evans Trio still playing in the background, I got to thinking again.

This reminds me of a third thing, I told my friend.

~~~ To express your love is all well and good—let the people you care about know you care about them. But what if whatever, or whoever, you're expressing that love to is a hundred percent gone?

I don't necessarily mean death, but I don't mean people in the process of phasing out of your life, either. The slow decline hurts like a bitch, too, but that's not what I want to talk about here. I'm talking a sudden, violent vacating of a space in your life, once-reserved and, from this point until your last breath, never occupied in quite the same way again. In other words: an unexpected and permanent absence.

And when faced with that absence, in that tear in your world, what do you do? Ignore it? Paper over it? Neither will give you the response desired, or indeed a response. Try and fill that hole in exactly, like there was never a hole at all? As Fiona Apple sang, “nobody can replace anybody else”—and no thing can, either.

But, if that's the case, where does the love go?

~~~

Do you know who Plum Mariko is? I asked my friend.

Nope.

A joshi wrestler active in the 90s. Inventor of the stretch plum submission (used now by one Eddie Kingston). She died in the ring from a back bump.

Damn… they replied.

The fatal move was a Liger bomb given by Mayumi Ozaki. She'd done it a million times, and Plum knew how to take it, but this was the final straw after a bunch of wear and tear. 

They held a memorial show, I continued. The main event was Cuty Suzuki and Dynamite Kansai (two big names) versus Ozaki and…Plum Mariko. She, or rather her picture, gets an entrance, her parents are at ringside with another photo, all that.

Then the match begins. It is in essence, of course, a handicap match: Ozaki getting beat up for minutes in front of a mostly-quiet crowd, building up heat that never resolves for a partner who can't tag in. After Ozaki gets pinned and the roster gets in for the ten bell salute, everyone's stone-faced or crying. And for years, at least (I don't know if they still run it now) Ozaki’s promotion did a Plum Mariko-branded memorial show.

I don't know what to say, my friend told me after a few moments. If something similar happens right now…the other person would be crushed for life.

Yeah, I said. In my browser, the audience of the Village Vanguard clap one final time. I pray it never does. ~~~ Questions, questions—and no answers. No universal ones, anyway. As much as I'd love to say Art is love, or grief, or any other emotion immortalized, I don't think I can with a straight face. Sometimes people just want to make things. Sometimes things that are made, regardless of depth of emotion or intent, are forgotten. And is professional wrestling even art?—

So, instead of either deflecting with more questions or being brave enough to give a straight answer, here is an observation:

These are three stories about three different people from three different fields, cultures, and time periods, but they're still connected, both by great loss and getting something like closure from creative expression. Whether memorial shows, or leaving space for a killer baseline, or breaking out into spontaneous verse and song; Art may not have all the answers, but it can help. 

…or maybe it's not about what is expressed, specifically. Maybe it's simply the fact that the act of creating something is what was shared between them. Individual pieces or even whole bodies of work may fade into obscurity—but as long as jazz, or poetry, or professional wrestling, or your field, exists as a whole? So can the love you both channeled and you can still channel into it, even if the only person to recognize it is you. 

It's in Bill Evans saying fondly, five years after LaFaro’s death, that he played like “everything was bubbling over”. It's in Mayumi Ozaki, after the match, looking at Plum's ring gear and saying “if I see her costume, not before long I feel that I have to keep on persevering”. And it's in what Rumi said upon going back to Damascus and not finding Shams there:

Why should I seek? I am the same as He. His essence speaks through me. I have been looking for myself!

[akiiyamashun]

Please do not reblog if you are not the author or the recipient of this gift!

I have recently commissioned Ark (over at @arkeresia) for some Daigo & Akiyama art as a gift to @sixthxchairman​ in celebration of (almost) one year of our friendship! Ark is one of our favorite artists and Dawn has bought me some merch from her (that I’m yet to get because of moving countries, haha) and then I decided to get her something, too!

Honestly, asking anyone else to draw our favorite canon-based ship (that is so niche and tiny that it is a rarepair canoe at this point, but which we FIERCELY LOVE) felt like treason to me, so Ark was the only choice in my heart. I love her work with the RGG characters and I couldn’t be more impressed with her talent and sheer ability to capture just what I had in mind! Considering how Daigo & Akiyama barely interact in canon, it feels like a dream to see them brought in life in such incredible art and very much in line with the million words we’ve used for them.

Here’s to many more friendship anniversaries and squealing over the best RGG bois, no matter what the RGG studios or the fandom says! ♥ Thank you for bringing so much of Daigo goodness to our lives! You & your son are a gift to us. :)

[irltechnoblade]

How does anything you do help; a breakdown on why kin help blogs aren't necessarily helpful, changes to the formula I think would make them more helpful maybe?

My assessment is based on the fact that these are *kin* help blogs, and thus discuss how useful the things help blogs offer are in helping people who are fictionkin (and otherkin) with those parts of themselves. It's also very much personal opinion and I don't know how well any of my suggested alternatives would work, they're just my own thoughts on things I'd like to see in blogs like these instead.

Divination:

There's a reason some big fictionkin blogs refuse to boost blogs that do divination requests. Introspection is important in understanding being 'kin and people will instead go off of which direction a crystal swings when dropped. Divination can be incredibly useful in introspection, used correctly, it can also be very very wrong and lead you down the wrong path entirely if you choose to believe blindly. I would always suggest a more detailed method of divination carried out and interpreted yourself.

Alternatively you could design tarot and/or cartomancy spreads to answer questions that the requester can then carry out themselves. Write out advice for interpreting different methods of divination. Make it easy for those who want to use divination to explore this stuff. Interpreting divination results is very different when it comes to analysing this stuff than predicting the future.

Headcanon requests:

Personally, I thought at first glance "hey this sounds like a great idea" and when I was struggling with some stuff, I did actually request some from a blog once. They didn't help at all, quite the opposite actually. Most headcanons I already had contradicting memories for, the one that was actually possible in my timeline, I'm fairly certain now isn't something I remember. It's very easy to create fake memories though.

Alternatively you could create a list of questions for the requester to ponder and possibly meditate on in order to figure out their own memories? Questions sorta, focus your brain in and guide you towards answers.

Kin assignment:

Similar to an alternative for headcanon requests, a list of questions to focus on based what the asker has disclosed.

False positives with no introspection required. My friends who have known me years at this point all say that if they'd had to guess one of my kintypes they would have suggested my brother.

Doodles:

Actually these are pretty neat I approve they're very good and make a lot of sense to offer to those who aren't artistically inclined.

Playlists:

Theoretically good, actually. Useful for controlling shifts and using during the introspection thing. But to do well the request blog has to have a vast amount of music they're familiar with in order to be able to come up with a reasonable list of songs, and then not all of the songs they find will be useful to or even liked by the person who requested the playlist in the first place.

Stimboards:

Love stim boards. They're very pretty and stimmy, as you would hope. Not a bad thing to say about boards themselves. My only criticism is. Why are they on kin help blogs. How do they help you specifically with the whole being 'kin thing?

Recipies:

Another very good one actually! Put it in the pile with playlists and doodles as actually having a pretty good use!

Care and Fashion kits:

Make some sort of sense, but are often expensive, contain consumables (bath bombs and sweets can only be enjoyed once), and don't necessarily include the comfort you want. Blankets seem to be chosen for colour rather than material when they show up. Now, the correct colour certainly can help with homesickness, but matching textures and materials where possible is infinitely more valuable.

There's also issues with trying to recommend these products internationally. Generally better for someone to pick up things themselves as they go through life? Maybe suggesting the types of things that might help, with possible products afterwards. Having to give a justification for why each thing is included should increase the quality of these kits too.

Moodboards and aesthetics:

Once again, for those not artistically inclined, these can be very nice, and being able to shove a bunch of information into a request can net you can get one very relevant to your timeline which can be useful for introspection purposes, though never as good as one you put together yourself, using as many pictures and themes as you want. It's usefulness is actually very limited in the end and these are very common for some reason. They are pretty and nice to have I guess? Big problem with unsourced images used for these. Mostly just made to be pretty and not actually used, but that isn't the moodboards' fault.

Miscellaneous:

As someone who is fictionkin, do you know what would help me? Advice. Advice would help me. Also little things like *blank* helped me with this thing, maybe it would help you.

In conclusion. Kin help blogs are weird and do a lot of things I wouldn't describe as helping the asker with otherkin related issues, but they do offer a few very nice and helpful things.

[blackswaneuroparedux]

Anonymous asked: As a beginner in Classics I love your Classicist themed posts. I find your caption perfect posts a lot to think upon. I suppose it’s been more than a few years since you read Classics at Cambridge but my question is do you still bother to read any Classic texts and if so what are you currently reading?

I don’t know whether to be flattered or get depressed by your (sincere) remarks. Thank you so much for reminding me how old I must come across as my youngish Millennial bones are already starting to creak from all my sins of past sport injuries and physical exertions. I’m reminded of what J.R.R Tolkien wrote, “I feel thin, sort of stretched, like butter scraped over too much bread.” I know the feeling (sigh).

But pay heed, dear follower, to what Menander said of old age, Τίμα το γήρας, ου γαρ έρχεται μόνον (respect old age, for it does not come alone). Presumably he means we all carry baggage. One hopes that will be wisdom which is often in the form of experience, suffering, and regret. So I’m not ready to trade in my high heels and hiking boots for a walking stick and granny glasses just yet.

To answer your question, yes, I still to read Classical literature and poetry in their original text alongside trustworthy translations. Every day in fact. 

I learned Latin when I was around 8 or 9 years old and Greek came later - my father and grandfather are Classicists - and so it would be hard to shake it off even if I tried.

So why ‘bother’ to read Classics? There are several reasons. First, the Classics are the Swiss Army knife to unpick my understanding other European languages that I grew up with learning. Second, it increases my cultural literacy out of which you can form informed aesthetic judgements about any art form from art, music, and literature. Third, Classical history is our shared history which is so important to fathom one’s roots and traditions. Fourth, spending time with the Classics - poetry, myth, literature, history - inspires moral insight and virtue. Fifth, grappling with classical literature informs the mind by developing intellectual discipline, reason, and logic.

And finally, and perhaps one I find especially important, is that engaging with Classical literature, poetry, or history, is incredibly humbling; for the classical world first codified the great virtues of prudence, temperance, justice, loyalty, sacrifice, and courage. These are qualities that we all painfully fall short of in our every day lives and yet we still aspire to such heights.

I’m quite eclectic in my reading. I don’t really have a method other than what my mood happens to be. I have my trusty battered note book and pen and I sit my arse down to translate passages wherever I can carve out a place to think. It’s my answer to staving off premature dementia when I really get old because quite frankly I’m useless at Soduku. We spend so much time staring at screens and passively texting that we don’t allow ourselves to slow down and think that physically writing gives you that luxury of slow motion time and space. In writing things out you are taking the time to reflect on thoughts behind the written word.

I do make a point of reading Homer’s The Odyssey every year because it’s just one of my favourite stories of all time. Herodotus and Thucydides were authors I used to read almost every day when I was in the military and especially when I went out to war in Afghanistan. Not so much these days. Of the Greek poets, I still read Euripides for weighty stuff and Aristophanes for toilet humour. Aeschylus, Archilochus and Alcman, Sappho, Hesiod, and Mimnermus, Anacreon, Simonides, and others I read sporadically.

I read more Latin than Greek if I am honest. From Seneca, Caesar, Cicero, Sallust, Tacitus, Livy, Apuleius, Virgil, Ovid, the younger Pliny to Augustine (yes, that Saint Augustine of Hippo). Again, there is no method. I pull out a copy from my book shelves and put it in my tote bag when I know I’m going on a plane trip for work reasons.

At the moment I am spending time with Horace. More precisely, his famous odes.

Of all the Greek and Latin poets, I feel spiritually comfortable with Horace. He praises a simple life of moderation in a much gentler tone than other Roman writers. Although Horace’s odes were written in imitation of Greek writers like Sappho, I like his take on friendship, love, alcohol, Roman politics and poetry itself. With the arguable exception of Virgil, there is no more celebrated Roman poet than Horace. His Odes set a fashion among English speakers that come to bear on poets to this day. His Ars Poetica, a rumination on the art of poetry in the form of a letter, is one of the seminal works of literary criticism. Ben Jonson, Pope, Auden, and Frost are but a few of the major poets of the English language who owe a debt to the Roman.

We owe to Horace the phrases, “carpe diem” or “seize the day” and the “golden mean” for his beloved moderation. Victorian poet Alfred Lord Tennyson, of Ancient Mariner fame, praised the odes in verse and Wilfred Owen’s great World War I poem, Dulce et Decorum est, is a response to Horace’s oft-quoted belief that it is “sweet and fitting” to die for one’s country.

Unlike many poets, Horace lived a full life. And not always a happy one. Horace was born in Venusia, a small town in southern Italy, to a formerly enslaved mother. He was fortunate to have been the recipient of intense parental direction. His father spent a comparable fortune on his education, sending him to Rome to study. He later studied in Athens amidst the Stoics and Epicurean philosophers, immersing himself in Greek poetry. While led a life of scholarly idyll in Athens, a revolution came to Rome. Julius Caesar was murdered, and Horace fatefully lined up behind Brutus in the conflicts that would ensue. His learning enabled him to become a commander during the Battle of Philippi, but Horace saw his forces routed by those of Octavian and Mark Antony, another stop on the former’s road to becoming Emperor Augustus.

When he returned to Italy, Horace found that his family’s estate had been expropriated by Rome, and Horace was, according to his writings, left destitute. In 39 B.C., after Augustus granted amnesty, Horace became a secretary in the Roman treasury by buying the position of questor's scribe. In 38, Horace met and became the client of the artists' patron Maecenas, a close lieutenant to Augustus, who provided Horace with a villa in the Sabine Hills. From there he began to write his satires. Horace became the major lyric Latin poet of the era of the Augustus age. He is famed for his Odes as well as his caustic satires, and his book on writing, the Ars Poetica. His life and career were owed to Augustus, who was close to his patron, Maecenas. From this lofty, if tenuous, position, Horace became the voice of the new Roman Empire. When Horace died at age 59, he left his estate to Augustus and was buried near the tomb of his patron Maecenas.

Horace’s simple diction and exquisite arrangement give the odes an inevitable quality; the expression makes familiar thoughts new. While the language of the odes may be simple, their structure is complex. The odes can be seen as rhetorical arguments with a kind of logic that leads the reader to sometimes unexpected places. His odes speak of a love of the countryside that dedicates a farmer to his ancestral lands; exposes the ambition that drives one man to Olympic glory, another to political acclaim, and a third to wealth; the greed that compels the merchant to brave dangerous seas again and again rather than live modestly but safely; and even the tensions between the sexes that are at the root of the odes about relationships with women.

What I like then about Horace is his sense of moderation and he shows the gap between what we think we want and what we actually need. Horace has a preference for the small and simple over the grandiose. He’s all for independence and self-reliance.

If there is one thing I would nit pick Horace upon is his flippancy to the value of the religious and spiritual. The gods are often on his lips, but, in defiance of much contemporary feeling, he absolutely denied an afterlife - which as a Christian I would disagree with. So inevitably “gather ye rosebuds while ye may” is an ever recurrent theme, though Horace insists on a Golden Mean of moderation - deploring excess and always refusing, deprecating, dissuading.

All in all he champions the quiet life, a prayer I think many men and women pray to the gods to grant them when they are caught in the open Aegean, and a dark cloud has blotted out the moon, and the sailors no longer have the bright stars to guide them. A quiet life is the prayer of Thrace when madness leads to war. A quiet life is the prayer of the Medes when fighting with painted quivers: a commodity, Grosphus, that cannot be bought by jewels or purple or gold? For no riches, no consul’s lictor, can move on the disorders of an unhappy mind and the anxieties that flutter around coffered ceilings.

Caelum non animum mutant qui trans mare currunt (they change their sky, not their soul, who rush across the sea.)

Part of Horace’s persona - lack of political ambition, satisfaction with his life, gratitude for his land, and pride in his craft and the recognition it wins him - is an expression of an intricate web of awareness of place. Reading Horace will centre you and get you to focus on what is most important in life. In Horace’s discussion of what people in his society value, and where they place their energy and time, we can find something familiar. Horace brings his reader to the question - what do we value?  

Much like many of our own societies, Rome was bustling with trade and commerce, ambition, and an area of vast, diverse civilisation. People there faced similar decisions as we do today, in what we pursue and why. As many of us debate our place and purpose in our world, our poet reassures us all. We have been coursing through Mondays for thousands of years. Horace beckons us: take a brief moment from the day’s busy hours. Stretch a little, close your eyes while facing the warm sun, and hear the birds and the quiet stream. The mind that is happy for the present should refuse to worry about what is further ahead; it should dilute bitter things with a mild smile.

I would encourage anyone to read these treasures in translations. For you though, as a budding Classicist, read the texts in Latin and Greek if you can. Wrestle with the word. The struggle is its own reward. Whether one reads from the original or from a worthy translation, the moral virtue (one hopes) is wisdom and enlightenment.

Pulvis et umbra sumus

(We are but dust and shadow.)

Thanks for your question.

[ladyartemesia]

✔︎ Why did you choose this URL?

Artemisia Gentileschi was an incredibly talented female Baroque artist who painted her way into history with determination and cleverness. A woman who overcame outrageous odds and tremendous challenges to be a female standing tall in what was a man’s field. She was one of the original girlbosses and I consider her the patron saint of my blog. I changed the spelling of her name to ArteMEsia to reflect—well… ME 😂🤣

✔︎ Any sideblogs? If you have them, name them and why you have them.

@cafeartemesia (my fic rec and review blog)

@artemesiareads (where I reblog any fic I want to read or looks interesting to check out later)

@artemesiacreates (where I reblog my artistic creations, any writing or editing resources I find, anything that inspires me to create, and any images I may want to use in a creation)

@violavante (my regular/not BTS blog where I reblog memes and diverse nonsense from a variety of fandoms…really just anything that I want with no theme whatsoever)

✔︎ How long have you been on Tumblr?

I had a blog for a different fandom in 2017 (and it’s pretty much dormant now). I created this blog in November of 2019, but I didn’t write anything until March (I think?) of 2020. 

✔︎ Do you have a queue tag?

I do! But I always forget to use it 😭 it’s #across the queniverse

✔︎ Why did you start your blog in the first place?

Um. So. I was looking for BTS memes and wanted a place fo collect them… heh 🤡

✔︎ Why did you choose your icon?

I made my icon from one of the ICONic new Taehyung headshots because he literally looks so ethereal and gorgeous. My art style is bright and kind of bold so I edited the picture accordingly. I actually produced several versions before I was truly satisfied with the result.

✔︎ Why did you choose your header?

I made my header too! I just really liked the paint splatter color palette so I did an overlay collage of my biases, my wrecker, and Jin (who I refuse to give a title to on principle because he’s rude).

✔︎ What’s your post with the most notes?

That honor goes to my Daechwita fic, The Mark of Yunki…

✔︎ How many mutuals do you have?

I have no idea 🤡

✔︎ How many followers do you have?

Way less than some of the amazing creators who tagged me, I’ll tell you that. But I’m grateful for every last one of them! 🥰 I have the best followers in the world.

✔︎ How many people do you follow?

A bunch 🥺 I love stories. I am a voracious (and fast) reader and I gotta keep the beast fed, ya feel me?

✔︎ Have you ever made a shitpost?

Not intentionally 🤡

✔︎ How often do you use Tumblr every day?

Really depends on the day. Some days I’m popping in here and there basically all day. Then there’ll be a stretch of days that I’m not on at all for various reasons.

✔︎ Did you have a fight/argument with another blog once? Who won?

Ana (@xjoonchildx), D (@untaemedqueen), Lindy (@ppersonna) and I fight every night in the back alleys of tumblr like entitled 18th century white men dueling over a woman’s honor. There’s a lot of flowery language and firing into the air. Lemon (@lemonjoonah) referees when she’s bored.

(In all seriousness—no. I’m too tired and too busy for that. Most people are on here just trying to have fun. I’m not about drama in any form. I prefer to give people the benefit of the doubt and vibe with my followers and moots.)

✔︎ How do you feel about “you need to reblog this” posts?

There are so many versions of those... There’s the ‘luck’ ones and the ‘awareness’ ones and the ‘help needed’ ones. It’s hard to categorize them as a group really…

I do worry because many of those types of posts contain harmful misinformation and/or misrepresent facts. As a history teacher, sources and information bias matter a great deal to me and I’m very wary of anything I read. I encourage all of you to check the sources and facts of any information you consume. Nothing should be accepted at face value—no matter who posted or reblogged it.

✔︎ Do you like tag games?

I do! But sometimes I forget I’ve been tagged or I lose the tag and then I feel bad 🥺 but I really do like them even if I don’t always have time to play because they make me feel like I am part of a community. It is also a delightful way to learn new things about my mutuals and followers. I do tend do go overboard with them aesthetically sometimes though 😅

✔︎ Do you like ask games?

Yes! But I’m really picky about the ones I play and I’m so far behind on asks I feel guilty playing them 🤡

✔︎ Which of your mutuals do you think is Tumblr famous?

I don’t believe in being Tumblr famous. It’s against my religion.

✔︎ Do you have a crush on a mutual?

They are all the recipients of my intense platonic adoration 😂🥰😍😘🥺

tagged by:

@floralseokjin • @propinqxity • @yoonia • @bts-bay-bee • @xjoonchildx • @sunshyngal @caiuscassiuss • @ppersonna • @youarejesting • @kithtaehyung • @taegularities • @sumzysworld (I think that is everyone please forgive me if I missed you, it wasn’t on purpose I PROMISE)

tagging:

@untaemedqueen • @lemonjoonah • @kinktae • @jessikahathaway • @chateautae • @hobi-gif • @cutechim • @hobidreams • @xiaokoo • @ilikemesometaetaes • @hueseok • @extravaguk • @pjmsdior • @illneverrecover • @johobi @writtenwhalien • @blueversaillesdreams • @gyukult • @monoismytherapist • @remmykinsff • and anyone else who wants to play! Just say I tagged you 🥰 • this is just for fun so don’t feel any pressure to play or respond • I just hope it brings a smile to your face to know that I was thinking of you 🥺 •

[azure-firecracker]

"Paint me"

The idea for this comes from a little fandom head canon of mine that I alluded to in "One Step at a Time".

Basically, the perfectionism learned from Ozai is too ingrained in Azula's personality for her to completely move past. So her therapist suggests finding a healthy outlet for it and she decides to take up painting, something she learned that she enjoyed during her Academy days which Ozai put a stop to, citing it as a waste of time.

I can totally see Azula spending hours upon hours making sure the finest details are perfect.

How would I tie this into Azutara? I always imagined Azula doing significant acts for her partner as a love language (the way she was raised (neglected, touch starved, not shown unconstitutional love) makes it incredibly hard for Azula to verbally or physically show affection, however, she loves receiving it. So, hearing from Katara that they are constructing a palace in the Southern Watertribe, she begins working on pieces to fill the future empty walls of the palace. Recreating pre-war images of their capital, asking Katara about cultural lore/stories/mythology and painting them, a portrait of Hakoda who lead their people through the last stages of the war, etc. She gifts her work to Katara and the tribe upon the completion of the palace. I think Azula contributing to giving back the culture her grandfather and namesake helped destroy would be a nice redemption move and a way for that often overlooked detail of the story to come full circle. As you can imagine, it would also be extremely touching to Katara, who wants to see her home recover.

Whether you wanna flesh that scenario or come up with your own is entirely up to you. I know whatever you decide to write will be awesome! 🙂

What an awesome idea! Your AUs are always so detailed and intricate! Sorry this took a while. I was just trying to come up with the right thing to say (also you’re so nice😊)

***

Azula stood on top of a ladder, reaching to paint the final detail on the top of the mural. It was by far the most ambitious project she’d ever attempted, and she took pride in the effort every brushstroke had required, the hours she’d spent planning and painting. She took pride in the work she’d put in to make every detail perfect.

Technically, Azula had been warned against wanting things to be perfect. But this was for Katara, and she was more than willing to put in the work to make it as perfect as it could be. After all, though she would never say it, in her eyes, Katara was the most perfect person she knew. A perfect person deserved a perfect gift.

Satisfied at last, Azula climbed down and stared at her work. The Southern Water Tribe as it was a century ago looked back at her. The painting was so detailed that Azula could have walked into it and visited the place herself.

Footsteps echoed in the hallway, and Azula turned to see the painting’s recipient coming towards her. Katara was wearing the traditional robes of a Water Tribe princess, something Azula had never seen her wear before. She looked absolutely breathtaking.

Katara stood next to her and stared at the mural. « Azula...that’s amazing » She turned to her girlfriend. “Thank you.”

Azula felt her face flush. « Well, I suppose it’s only fair. It was my ancestors who destroyed this place. It’s only the natural order of things that I attempt to repair it. »

Katara looked away. « Oh. Well, I think that’s very...nice of you. » Her disappointment was clear. Katara had never been one for hiding her feelings.

Azula sighed.  « I didn’t mean it that way. I want to fix what my ancestors did... »

« I know you do. »

« You didn’t let me finish. But I also want to do it for you. This place means the world to you. You’re something special, Katara. You deserve to have everything you dream of. »

Katara blushed and Azula felt the waterbender’s hand slide into her own. « Well, whatever the cause, it looks incredible. You’re really the best artist I’ve ever seen. »

« I thought I was the only artist you knew. »

Katara laughed. « Well, you’ve seen Sokka’s drawings. »

They sat in silence for a moment, staring at the mural as it was lit up by the light of the setting sun. Then Katara turned to Azula.

« This place isn’t all, you know. »

« What? »

« You said this place means the world to me. It’s not all that does. » Quick as lightning, Katara leaned over and kissed Azula’s cheek. It was over in less than a second. « You mean the world to me, too, you know. »

Azula felt her heartbeat speed up. Katara had managed to articulate exactly what Azula had been trying to say the entire time.

But perhaps, she thought as she looked at the mural she had made for the girl she loved, she hadn’t needed to say it out loud at all.

***

Thank you so much for the prompt! I hope you enjoy, because I really enjoyed writing it:) Your idea is amazing, as usual!

[starlitwhispers]

saccharine. soulsilvershipping - 2400 words A flavorless au by yours truly. happy quarter century birthday to my boo @silverbuttercups

Heat. Pounding heat. Warmth beating into his cheeks like the summer sun, except it was her instead. He can’t get it to work, he just can’t. The paints keep meshing and clumping; it’s like his sweat is mixing with the acrylics. And it’s all her fault, because she won’t get off his mind. The idea of her sits atop his head, weighing him down — it’s like he can’t breathe. The air, it’s thinning, he’s panting, the taste of her skin is flashing back into his mind — he’s panting, remembering the feeling of her panting back onto him. His mind races, his heart races, time seems like it’s elapsing faster than the speed of light —

He breaks out of his trance. The drops of sweat trickle down his scrawny biceps and a wet stain darkens the front of his dirty, yellow and faded wife-beater. He’s alone. It’s just him as he glances around his disgusting, cluttered studio. Musty, dusty, he peers at the ivory, canvas curtains by the window, and watches the specks of dirt and grime waft through the air in the beams of light peeking through the cracks. He sits in silence, redirecting his eyes to his easel once more. Trash, he thinks at first, looking at the mess of paints and lines, how there’s no depth and no character. The brown he chose doesn’t match… it’s not the right shade. Absolute trash.

Blinking, he thinks again. He does not know what day it is, or month even. Now that he no longer works in that dingy office, contact with the rest of the world has vanished. He makes his way out of the studio, trudges down the hallway and walks right past the master bedroom. The master bedroom that has been tightly shut for more than a year. All the blinds, everywhere, in every window, they are closed. Ready to-microwave meal boxes pile in the trash bin and even fleck across his kitchen floor and countertops. Not a dish in sight, except for used scotch glasses with empty bottles not too far behind. His bed, the couch, has multiple blankets sprawled across it and a coffee table in front full of trash. His eyes focus on the trash, or more specifically, the crumpled up balls of his sketch pad paper. The balls of paper could be found as far as the corners of the kitchen floor, behind the counter and by the fridge.

He has quite the arm, although he appears thin. His strength multiplies with his frustration and anger. He sits himself in a rather indented spot on the couch, less cushioned than the rest of the sofa from months of his weight pressed in this one area. His hand reaches for the remote and turns on the television, afterwards he fixes himself a glass of scotch in a used glass nearby and his fingers shimmy their way into his back pocket. From within, his index and middle fingers pull out a cigarette box. He shoves a smoke between his dry lips and lights it. Between the alcohol and the nicotine, it’s just enough.

Just enough to get the taste of her out of his mouth. For now.

He sits back as he watches the afternoon news. He stares at the journalist’s lips, sees how they curve into coy smiles as she laughs at the corny jokes the daily anchorman voices over into her ear. Just another normal girl, reporting normal things, in her normal life, he observes. Disgusting, he reflects, a normal life is disgusting.

He huffs the cigarette smoke towards the living room ceiling, shutting his eyes. Reminiscing the day he first moved into the home, how bright, clean, and airy it felt then. It’s almost as if everything else in the house is a shell of its former self… including him. A couple envelopes shoot through the golden lips of his front door — today’s mail has arrived — he thinks about the stacks of mail piling by his front door. He makes a faint guess she has not changed her mailing address on some things yet, which gives him false hope on good days or this burning misery that perhaps she has moved on in more ways than one. Changed her name? Married? Then again, she never came back for any of her other belongings. Maybe she already had a back up plan set in motion.

But the truth is, he never saw it coming. Perhaps that is what makes the stinging pain after all this time feel so fresh. What was that, she said a long time ago? That she loved him? He sniggers at himself, at his stupidity, at his unfulfilling life that he tirelessly plays out everyday. At the end of his frumpy sofa, his cellphone rings. Or, at least, he feels the vibrations.

In foolish—hopeless—optimism, he shoves his fist into the edge of the couch digging around for the device. Frantically, he drudges it up from the crevice, along with stray hairs and crumbs, and his eyes yearningly glance over the caller ID. His heart falls beneath the pits of his stomach. It’s just his PR agent. Disappointed, he declines the call and tosses his phone onto the coffee table. He stares at it, somewhat in disbelief and somewhat dismayed with himself for even hoping for it. For her.

By the moment the sun sets, he fiddles with his phone, his finger hovering over the dial button on her number… Of course, he does not call her. He shoves the device into his back pocket. Of course, by the moment the sun sets, he has finished another bottle and another pack. And he has passed out on the living room sofa, again. In a drunken stupor, he awakens, angry, and storms the hallway to his studio. Throwing a blank canvas to the easel, he begins his work once again until dawn. And in this instance, he allows the idea of her to drown him, flood his lungs like the oils and acrylics starting to spatter his body, until all he breathes is the image of her. An exposé of his love, his hatred, his loneliness. They have banned nudity everywhere except the museums.

Wasn’t that their first date? A museum? He stops mid-stroke and clutches his brush a little tighter. He tries to remember, when was the last time he was in a museum?

…Just like the day before, the sun begins to peak through his blinds, but this time, the work before him satisfies. His paint covered fingers nestle their way into his pocket, he presses the dial key and lifts the phone to his ear. The recipient of his call picks up.

The voice on the other end starts, “Hey, dude, I’ve been trying to reach you—”

“I’ve got something good,” the artists interrupts.

“Well, why didn’t you say so earlier?! I’ll be over later to check it out.”

----

“And, that’s all the time we have for today, love,” her producer tells her from the side as the cameraman lowers the device from his shoulder.

She sighs, scratches the back of her ear, and smiles in unison with a nod. A small drop of sweat trickles from her temple, why does she have to be the on-scene reporter today? She saunters to the news channel’s van and with its open side door, she scoops a cold water bottle from the mini cooler. The sun continues to beat down on her rose-tinted cheeks. The buzzing of cicadas whiz through her ears and into her thoughts… some guy from work had asked her out for drinks later tonight, but suddenly she’s feeling a raincheck about to be typed on her phone.

She’s not ready yet. How can she be? Her right hand absentmindedly finds its way to her other hand, brushing over her now naked ring finger. A shame, really, that it didn’t work out. She really wishes it would have.

“You can head home now, of course,” her producer begins. “Do you need a ride home?”

“No, thank you,” she respectfully declines. “I think I’ll walk home.”

The staff executive eyes her in confusion, as she clearly does not enjoy the summer heat. He shrugs his shoulders in defeat, “Whatever floats your boat, honey.”

The young brunette collects her bag from the van and stuffs her hand into it, rummaging for make-up remover wipes. She takes out her compact and begins cleansing her face. If she plans to walk home, she would rather not be recognized. However unfortunate people may see it, her occupation does come with some less than desired fans. To top off her “disguise,” she removes the hair clip, lets her hair down and places a pair of sunglasses over her eyes.

On her way home, she stops by a local café for refreshment and a boost of energy. Sitting for a moment in the air conditioned shop, she takes frequent sips of her hazelnut iced coffee.

“Have you seen the new exhibition at the museum yet?” She overhears two young students chat with each other. “It’s honestly incredible.”

“Really? I guess I’ll have to check it out later today. Who’s it by?” The other voice asks.

She finally takes the last sip through the straw, and the liquid slurps from the leftover ice.

“Oh, uh… I forget his name… He was really popular a few years ago, though,” the first voice falters.

The young reporter stands up, slugs her bag strap over her shoulder, and heads for the door.

“Uh, Silver, something?” The first voice remembers. “He’s actually supposed to be at the exhibition today, doing an expository with some press over his inspiration and meaning.”

As the bell rings with her opening the door, she throws her empty cup into the trash followed by an exuberant “thank you for coming!” from the barista behind the counter.

She did not hear the last part from the student in the café.

In her trek home, she stops in front of the museum. In the pit of her stomach, she feels bubbling. Her intestines become upset from anxiety and emotions she wished to never feel again flash back into her senses. That feeling, of dread somehow turned into addictive ecstasy, floods into her veins, and her feet compel her to enter against her better judgment.

As she passes through all the marble walls, the scent of the canvases and oil paintings make her heart race and palms sweat. She anticipates something bad will happen, as something bad always happened when they were together.

All his rough yelling, all their petty disagreements over the things she wanted and the things he did not want, all the noise of hatred bred from what she promised to be forever with him. Stopping to admire a piece, she realizes that has become far from reality. Forever with him… part of her wishes she could go back and part of her desires ever so strongly to never see him again.

In the depth of these paint strokes, she observes and ruminates. What if she were to return and to feel his cracked, warm lips against hers? The sweat of his red hairs behind his neck as they pressed their bodies together, hearing his grunts.

She swallows. She’s warm at the thought of someone she hasn’t touched in almost three years. Being his wife isn’t the worst thing she has done when she thinks about the things they have done together in bed… Her tongue wets the bottom lip and she bites down. This is wrong, she thinks to herself, she left him for a reason. A good reason.

All the miserable nights, the crying, the loneliness. She cannot see him again. If she sees him again, it might sway her. She may want him back. She cannot see him again.

She wants him back.

—--

Here he stands, a month after the original piece he produced in a drunk, inspired stupor, with a brand new exhibition. His agent clinks a glass of champagne to the drink in his own hand, a smile plastered all over his consultant’s face. Of course there is a smile all over his face, the work he has promoted to the city has doubled the money in his pockets. Although the actual artist himself could care less for the revenue. He glances around the section of the gallery that has been sectioned off for exclusively his exhibition and the expository conference.

In his mind, the worst part of this event has ended. The few cameras and interviewers have left and now only art dealers, consultants, and critics remain. The moment he realizes he can slip away to breathe on his own, without being bombarded by awful, intrusive questions he can’t be bothered to answer, he does so. The other areas of the museum are far quieter and the company of the crowd makes his scotch taste bad. As he takes small, frequent sips with each step, he would much rather be drunk at home away from all these people.

He has finally done something he promised himself he wouldn’t ever do again: create art inspired by her. That alone makes him want to become blackout wasted. Or so he thought. He stops in his tracks as he downs the last drop of his drink. I should have just grabbed the damn bottle.

Standing a couple feet from him, peering into a painting, the nightmare from hell that dragged him down under and left him there. Dropping the glass in his hand, he doesn’t think much before his body moves towards her—all the anger manifested inside of him—she quickly becomes aware of his on-coming presence, surprised by the sound of broken glass and his person, and he grabs her by the shoulders.

Forcing her against the wall, she still stares wide-eyed in shock and he does not to hesitate to press his mouth against hers with ferocity. Her eyes still agape, he slips his tongue in quickly and gruffly releases her from his grip. He stares down into her eyes with disdain and she stares back with confusion.

“Silver, I—“ she begins, her voice somewhat hoarse from surprise.

But his expression silences her. He brutishly wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and turns away from her. He starts walking away.

In that swift instance, he realizes.

He does not want her back.

[uomo-accattivante]

I recently came across a bunch of press articles and photos about Oscar Isaac that are so old, they appear to be out-of-print and pre-date social media. Considering they were probably never digitally transcribed for internet access, I’m guessing that the majority of current fans have never seen this stuff.

Even though a lot of these digital scans are challenging to read because they are the original fuzzy news print, I think there some gems worth sharing with you guys. Over the next several weeks, I will transcribe and share those gems on this page. Hope you enjoy them!

Let’s start with this fantastic 2001 profile piece done before Oscar was accepted into Juilliard:

South Florida’s rising star isn’t just acting the part

By Christine Dolen - cdolen@herald.com

February 4, 2001

As fifth-graders at Westminster Christian School in Miami, Oscar Isaac and his classmates were asked to write a story as if they were animals on Noah’s Ark. Oscar turned in a seven-page play – with original music – from the perspective of a platypus. Then he starred in the production his teacher directed.

He hasn’t stopped expressing himself creatively since. Today, Isaac is one of South Florida’s busiest young theater actors, and certainly its hottest. And not just because he’s a slender five-feet nine-inches tall with an expressively handsome face and glistening brown eyes.

Since making his professional debut as a Cuban hustler in Sleepwalkers at Area Stage in July 1999, he has played an explosive Vietnam vet in Private Wars for Horizons Repertory, a pot-smoking slacker in This Is Our Youth at GableStage, another Cuban on the make in Praying With the Enemy at the Coconut Grove Playhouse, the entrancing narrator of Side Man at GableStage, a Havana-based writer in Arrivals and Departures for the new Oye Rep and, most recently, a young Fidel Castro in When It’s Cocktail Time in Cuba at New York’s Cherry Lane Theater.

Beginning Wednesday, he’ll be juggling five roles in City Theatre’s annual Winter Shorts festival, first at the Colony Theatre in Miami Beach, then at the Broward Center for the Performing Arts. But that is not all: During the two weeks he is doing Winter Shorts, he’ll also be playing dates with the punk-ska band The Blinking Underdogs (www.blinkingunderdogs.com), which features him as lead singer, guitarist and songwriter.

Oh, and he just got back from auditioning for New York’s prestigious Juilliard School of Drama.

All this for a guy a month shy of his 22nd birthday.

Sure, you could hate a guy who’s that talented, that charismatic, that transparently ambitious. But the people who have worked with Oscar Isaac don’t. On the contrary, they’re all sure he has it – that magical, can’t-be-taught thing that transforms an actor into a star.

Playwright Eduardo Machado, who put in a good word for Isaac at Juilliard, says “he does have that star quality that makes your eyes go to him. It’s great that someone with that talent still wants to train.”

“He has a star quality that’s rare in a young actor,” adds Joseph Adler, who directed him in Side Man and This Is Our Youth. “Without a doubt I expect to be hearing great things from him.”

‘I JUST LOVE CREATING’

Isaac, who also makes short films, can’t say exactly why he was attracted to acting. He just knows it makes him happier than anything, that it’s what he was meant to do. And he’s been doing it since he was a 4-year-old putting on plays in his family’s backyard with his sister Nicole.

“I just love creating, whether it’s music or films or a character on a stage. I love taking people for a ride,” he says. “In Side Man, every night I would love being that close to the audience. I felt like I was talking to 80 of my closest friends.

“I could feel what the audience was feeling.”

His powerful, mournful-yet-loving monologue near the end of the play, he said, “worked every night. I knew it would get them. I’d hear sniffles.

“But it had less to do with me than with the atmosphere [created by the playwright and director].”

You could understand if Isaac, surrounded as he is by praise and possibility, had an ego as burgeoning as his career. Instead, he channels the positive reinforcement into confidence about his work.

“He has such a charm and an ease onstage, but he’s very modest,” says New York-based actress Judith Delgado, who shared the stage with Isaac in Side Man. “He’s hungry. He’s got moxie. I was blown away by him.

“He saved me a couple of times. I went up [forgot a line] and that baby boy of mine came through. He’s a joy.”

FORGING HIS OWN PATH

The son of a Cuban-American father and a Guatemalan mother, Isaac was never a stellar student. But he found ways of turning routine assignments – like the Noah’s Ark story – into creative challenges.

His science reports were inevitably video documentaries underscored with punk music. He acted through middle and high school, though he had a falling out with his drama teacher at Santaluces Community High in Lantana over his misgivings about a character. When she refused to cast him in anything else, he got his English teacher to let him play the dentist in Little Shop of Horrors his senior year.

His skepticism about authority and love of playing the devil’s advocate have long made him resist doing things the usual way. His post-high school “training” consisted of one semester at Miami-Dade Community College’s South Campus (where he met his girlfriend, Maria Miranda), touring schools playing an abusive character in the Coconut Grove Playhouse’s Breaking the Cycle, and working as a transporter of bodies at Baptist Hospital, where he absorbed the drama of people in emotionally intense situations.

“It was the most magnificent dramatic institute I could’ve attended,” Isaac said. “I was able to observe the entire spectrum of human emotion, people under the most extreme duress. I was mesmerized watching the way people interacted with each other in such heightened situations.

“I learned everything about the human condition, and it was real and harsh and brutally honest.”

Yet even given his propensity for forging his own path, something nudged him another direction while he was in New York making his Off-Broadway debut in December. Walking by Juilliard one day, he impulsively went in to ask for an application. Though the application deadline had passed, Isaac persuaded Juilliard to accept his, noting in his application essay that most of the exceptional actors he admires had acquired “a brutally efficient technique” to enhance their talent by studying at places like Juilliard.

Though he won’t know whether he has been accepted until the end of this month, his audition last weekend went well, he says. He did monologues from Henry IV, Part I and Dancing at Lughnasa, adjusting his Shakespearean Hotspur to a more fiery temperature at the suggestion of Michael Kahn, head of Juilliard’s acting program – though not without arguing that Hotspur wouldn’t be speaking to the king that way.

Isaac, not surprisingly, loves a good debate.

Adler, GableStage’s artistic director and a man who is as liberal as Isaac once was conservative, savored the verbal jousting they did during rehearsals for Side Man.

“He knows exactly how to pull my chain,” Adler says with a laugh. “Intelligence is the cornerstone of all great actors, and he’s bright as hell.

“He has relentless ambition but with so much charm. He’s very hard to say no to. He has incredible raw talent and magnetism that is very rare in a young actor along with relentless energy, perseverance and ambition. I see his growth both onstage and off. He’s mature in both places.”

Part of his growth, of course, will necessarily involve dealing with the rejections that are part of any actor’s life. His career is still too new, his string of successes solid, so it’s anyone’s guess how failure will shape him. But director Michael John Garcés, who picked him for When It’s Cocktail Time in Cuba after Isaac flew to New York at his own expense to compete with a pool of seasoned Manhattan actors for the role, believes his character will see him through.

“Oscar is realistic, but he’s so willing to go the whole nine yards,” Garcés says. “He didn’t go out when he was in the show here. His focus earned the respect of the other actors, some of whom have been working in New York for 30 years.

“He hasn’t had a lot of blows yet, when the career knocks the wind out of you. But he has talent, determination and focus, and if he has perseverance – my intuition is that he does have it – he could achieve a lot.”

FAMILY TIES

His father and namesake, Baptist Hospital intensive-care physician Oscar Isaac Hernandez, couldn’t be more proud. (Isaac doesn’t use the family surname in order to avoid, in his words, being “put in that Hispanic actor box.”)

“I’m ecstatic that he’s probably going to be going to the most prestigious drama school in the United States,” he says. “School will help him focus his energies and give him discipline. He’s got the raw material and the drive.”

Isaac’s mother, Maria, divorced from his father since 1992, is a kidney-transplant recipient who acknowledges that she’ll miss her son if he moves to New York. But, she adds, she wants him “to live out his dreams. He amazes me every day. He calls me every day. I’m very proud of him.”

Even the other guys in The Blinking Underdogs are fans of Isaac’s acting, though it could take him away from South Florida just as the band appears to be, Isaac says, on the brink of signing a recording deal (it has already put out its own CD, The Last Word, with songs, lead vocals and even cover photography by Isaac.

“Oscar’s the leader of the band, a great musician who amazes me and motivates us,” says sax player Keith Cooper. “I’ve been to see every one of his plays. He’s a phenomenal actor.

“I completely buy into his role in every play. As close as I am to him, I forget it’s Oscar.”

His South Florida theater colleagues credit that to Isaac’s insatiable desire to learn and grow.

Gail Garrisan, who is directing him in Donnie and One of the Great Ones for Winter Shorts, observes, “It’s not often that you find a young actor who is willing to listen and who doesn’t think he knows everything. He loves the work.

“He really brought the young man in Side Man to life. When I saw it in New York, it seemed to be the father’s play. When I saw it here, I felt it was his [Isaac’s] play.”

Oye Rep’s John Rodaz, whom Isaac calls “the best director I’ve ever worked with,” gave the actor his first important job in Sleepwalkers at Area Stage. They met when Isaac came to see Area’s production of Oleanna and the actor, knowing Rodaz ran the theater, introduced himself.

“He has so much energy and such a sparkling personality,” Rodaz says. “He knows how to move in the world. He seems to take advantage of every situation in a good way; he’s not a cold, calculating person who’ll stab you in the back.

“[But] he wants it so badly. Everything he does, he’s the leader. When I was 21, I was taking naps.”

Rodaz coached Isaac on his Juilliard monologues and found the experience energizing.

“I got chills just watching him. That happens so rarely. I was so exhilarated when I came home that I just had to go out and run. You just know he’s got all the tools.”

Christine Dolen is The Herald’s theater critic.

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