#thesis phrase “touched by the gods”

[prettyinpunk]

plug in...

[droppingartintotheinfinite]

Having now reached home after reading Camus’ essay (“The Myth of Sisyphus”) in class, I am still filled with rage.

Albert Camus presents an interpretation of Sisyphus’ myth that I find myself utterly incapable of reacting to with any emotion other than blind, vicious loathing towards every paragraph, every sentence, every individual word with which he presents his argument.

To call it an argument is, perhaps, generous. That would require a clarity of intent that this essay seems unwilling to provide. The final line, the thesis statement, the phrase his conclusion rests upon…

“One must imagine Sisyphus happy.”

…Is a line that sounds deep and meaningful only until you actually pay attention to what the essay is about, under the flowery prose and mythological inaccuracy.

The thesis of the essay, though some room must be left for differences of interpretation, is one of the inherent futility and absurdity of life. In the eyes of Camus, we are all Sisyphus, doomed to forever push our own boulders up our own hills, and happiness can come only from making peace with this.

To be frank, it’s just not a very good metaphor. You can dress it up all you like — use poetic language and colorful metaphor, repurpose the trappings of ancient myth for modern ideal — the banality of the underlying meaning remains unchanged.

The usage of Sisyphus for this essay is something I find both unnecessary and actively contrary to the intended takeaway of the piece.

As we all know, all western intellectuals must present their arguments with extensive references to Greece or Rome, lest they become too accessible to the wider masses, those uncultured heathens with their roots in other traditions. As I am unfortunately guilty of this habit myself, let us continue to work within the trappings of Greek myth.

Why Sisyphus, specifically?

Camus is forced to recontextualize or outright alter significant portions of Sisyphus myth in order to present a story that could plausibly end with “One must imagine Sisyphus happy.”

Why not use Arachne, condemned for daring to compare herself to a goddess? Surely, one must imagine her happy, weaving now as much as she could ever want to, her punishment granting her freedom to do what she loves forever.

Why not Medusa? One must imagine her happy, given the tools to ensure no man will ever touch her without consent ever again. (Though, of course, I’m sure we’re all familiar with how that ends, though Perseus was little more than the weapon the gods used to end Medusa’s hard-won peace.)

Why not Persephone, if we’re allowed to use the interpretations that suit our goals? One must imagine her escape from her mother’s watchful and overbearing gaze, finding her freedom at last as she bites into the pomegranate. Her marriage to Hades is perhaps the most stable marriage of any on Olympus. Certainly, one must imagine Persephone happy.

Camus’ thesis on Sisyphus is one of acceptance towards pointless misery. He proposes that Sisyphus, rolling his boulder up a hill for eternity, must eventually learn to find joy in his labor.

And honestly? Fuck that.

Profanity, perhaps, is not considered acceptable in the intellectual context, but is this essay not about the toil of the masses? Surely the language of the proletariat must be considered appropriate when theirs are the struggles we discuss.

Thus, allow me to say: “The Myth of Sisyphus” by Albert Camus is pseudointellectual horseshit. It is a turd adorned in gold leaf, a meaningless, bullshit idea with no true substance to it.

To put it bluntly, Camus is full of shit.

By using Sisyphus specifically, in place of any other figure, he posits suffering and toil as inescapable aspects of life. He says we are all Sisyphus, and we all have a boulder, and we all must push it forever.

To push this ideal, he lobotomizes Sisyphus as a character. The actual myth (as opposed to the hollow, gutted corpse of it Camus parades about) presents Sisyphus as a trickster. He repeatedly schemes to avoid death, from conspiring with his wife for her to bury him without a coin to cross the river, allowing him to elicit Persephone’s sympathy and gain a stay of execution, to binding Thanatos himself when the reaper comes knocking. There is no point where he intends to go to the underworld peacefully — unlike what Camus presents, it was not that Sisyphus intended to accept his death and was simply too in love with the world to let it go, but rather that he refused to, point blank, and was willing to do whatever it took to avoid the underworld.

Though the original myth is one of hubris and the futility of defying the gods, it is certainly easy to reimagine Sisyphus as a hero, unwilling to bow to the harsh and often unreasonable edicts of the divine.

But to imagine him happy with his lot, content to push that boulder up the hill for eternity, is to imagine a Sisyphus who has utterly given up on everything that makes him himself, a Sisyphus who has utterly lost the conviction, the determination, the sheer undiluted refusal to bow that defines him.

One could imagine, perhaps, Sisyphus giving up on the gods’ empty promises and walking away from the rock to find his own way out. But to imagine Sisyphus happy to suffer for no benefit until the end of time itself?

Camus posits a world where happiness can only be found when you give up on things ever getting better. He posits a world where your only option is to say: “Welp! My life sure sucks! Guess this is completely inescapable and will never change at all!”

Camus posits a world where we have no agency in our own lives, and tells us we must imagine ourselves happy with this.

Suffering is inevitable, yes, but there is absolutely nothing requiring us to declare that every misery we suffer is inescapable, that every poor hand we’re dealt is one we ought to just accept, that every injustice we face leaves us with no recourse but to smile and turn the other cheek.

We are told as children that life isn’t fair, and this is true. It isn’t, it never has been, and it likely never will be.

But that doesn’t mean it can’t be more fair in the future than it is now, and it doesn’t mean our only choice is to give up on demanding better.

[lunarsilkscreen]

Problems with the [X-Men]

The X-Men comics were about a neglected and overlooked portion of humanity; the underdogs. And how they're often abused by the rest of humanity and the government. And the strife they have to face that not other person has to.

Why did it become so... For lack of better phrasing; problematic?

This has to do with the 80s mostly. The underdogs of society were the war veterans, the children in hospice, the kids put up for adoption and the ones lost in the system. And those born *different* that just didn't fit in with society. Either because they were autistic, or Queer, or disabled, or just never had a platform or family life to speak of.

The exemplary Mutants are the fan favorites; Wolverine, Magneto, Professor X, Rogue, Gambit, Angel, Night Crawler, and Deadpool.

There's a reason why I picked those. Nobody really cares about Cyclop's literal x-ray vision (in opposition to Superman's non-harmful variant)

Because he was just the kid with the coke-bottle glasses and given just... An awful power to make them feel better.

Which is kind of why X-Men and mutants started getting really outside of pop-culture. Cokebottle still became the boy scout football team captain engaged to the cheer team captain. So far away from the [Stereotype] he was meant to embody.

In contrast; Wolverine is the Vietnam vet who is just a bad ass and good guy, despite... Not being [all there] sometimes.

Professor X is the handicapped mentor, with seeming psychic ability, and despite knowing basically everything; is incredibly altruistic.

And Magneto; the Jewish Holocaust survivor, master of a technical trade (metalcraft) who sees the world "As it really is" in contrast to X.

Rogue embodies the negative side of being different. Having a superpower that literally kills others by touch. And thus; being the touch starved femcel.

Gambit; because God damn if audiences don't love the altruistic Tramp who nothing ever seems to work out for despite being really good at card magic.

Angel who literally cut off his own wings in order to fit into society, who then has to overcome his own trauma that keeping his wings brings.

And Deadpool.

There certainly are a lot of other heroes who are frequently overlooked; but that's usually because the writers don't really know where to take the character. And so readers stop reading because the stories just aren't that interesting.

But there's also a lot of characters who's loves are made miserable; and only really to make audiences miserable despite being incredibly memorable characters.

And then there was that one time they weaponized Aids because X-Men became a word synonymous with [Queer Community]>>>

You can see where the writers are trying to take the X-Men. But why is it always... Off to [Transylvania]? And this constant statement that [Mutants can't fit in with humanity]

"These mutants literally had no future, even in Mutant society".

And then; it becomes this anti-thesis to your traditional [Hero School] tale. Always embodying this constant despair and asking the question; why don't we just end the world]>

There is literally never anything good that comes from being a Mutant. And so they're trapped in this constant mutant civil war.

I think this why Disney went back to X-Men '97. They're trying to figure out *what made X-Men good in the first place* while also capitalizing on that '90s nostalgia.

So we see Anime from Japan like "My Hero Academia" who even manages to make the Frog Powers a likeable persona that Audiences wouldn't mind idolizing.

In opposition to X-Men's [Toad].

A stereotypical unhygienic nerd, whose powers just served to make him seem more unhygenic.

And what they were trying to do with the [Brotherhood] is to have a place where even the [X-Men] rejects could go.

Despite Magneto then being relegated to trying to turn them into [Project Mayhem]... I'm sure *Even he* knows that's not the wisest course of action. Not for the brotherhood's best interest, not for mutant-kinds best interest.

And it's that thing that turns Magneto from a good anti-hero jumping passed villain and going straight into "WTF, who is this idiot?"

Magneto is supposed to be wicked intelligent and Wise, and making the decisions that need to be made in opposition to Professor X; the altruistic who will refuse to make certain actions not for the good of the world and mutant+human relations, but just because of his "Morals".

And authors many times make Magneto no better than just making decisions because they're opposite what X would do.

Like a god damn child; not like the badass old man he is.

Why NightCrawler? I don't think anybody really knows. He's a demon spawn that can teleport. Son of a bi-gender shapeshifter.

Despite having a hot mom half the time and a uh... Something the other half; nobody really knows why he such a likeable character.

And writers can't either; constantly giving him back story and personality that clashes with his overall motif.

Personally; I pretty sure it's just his powers and his cool demon appearance, and everybody else just kind of... Tries to ignore everything else about him.

Which; is a kind of an allegory in itself. But doesn't really serve the media as a whole.

In exactly the same way all the other bits and bobs tend to make X-Men often lose momentum and require a reboot every short period of time.

Sure; Jubilee is my favorite X-Men, but she tends to be forgotten or left out. Like completely... And her stories just aren't popular enough to be picked up long term.

Which isn't her fault; that's just par for the X-Course.

Anyway, that's why they needed to Give Scott a cooler brother with cooler powers; because nobody feels sorry for the popular kid.

And as for Jean Gray; The Phoenix story makes her character; while everything else about her makes her that forgettable cheerleader whomst peaks in high school.

[hergan416]

Chapter 7 - What Does Art Say About the Artist?

Chapter 7 is where Dorian Gray gets Basil to not look at the painting by pretending that he saw Basil's secret in the painting instead of his own.

It's a stroke of luck, but also one that results in Basil confessing to Dorian Gray.

In the manuscript I'm reading, this confession is at its most explicit. It's gorgeous, and I could feel Basil's feelings in it. Just really gorgeous prose.

But what I find most interesting is not the confession itself. It's this bit afterwards.

"Well, after a few days, the portrait left my studio, and as soon as I had got rid of the intolerable fascination of its presence, it seemed to me that I had been foolish in imagining that I had said anything in it, more than that you were extremely good-looking and that I could paint. Even now I cannot help feeling that it is a mistake to think that the passion one feels in creation is ever really shown in the work one creates. Art is more abstract than we fancy. Form and colour tell us form and colour, that is all. It often seems to me that art conceals the artist far more completely than it ever reveals him."

Basil stops looking at his painting and where his first instinct was "God I love Dorian Gray and anyone looking at this painting will know as soon as they look at it," to "must have been imagining it. Art is just art after all."

It's a really interesting discussion. What does art say about the artist? Does it reveal him? Or not?

The people trying Oscar Wilde for gross indecency certainly thought that the story indicted him for the crime. I'm not an artist, and I don't study art, so I can't necessarily relate to Basil (or Wilde) on that subject, but I do write.

I can't say I'm on par with Wilde or any other published author, certainly not a published author worthy of being taught in schools. And certainly, as a fan writer I am more likely to write what I enjoy, regardless of form or artistic style, which is to say that I do very little to hide myself in my writing.

But even then, there is a dichotomy between "what you can tell about me as a person because of my writing" and "what you can tell about my literary preferences because of my writing." Am I writing about this because I know something on the topic? Or because I'm having fun thinking about what it would be like? Or because I enjoy the concept of dramatic irony, or character-driven story, or tragedy, or third person limited narration? How can you tell the difference?

Wilde is quoted as having said he that put too much of himself in The Picture of Dorian Gray. I feel like in this moment he is speaking through Basil Hallward. Over his life, Wilde's thesis on art could be boiled down to Théophile Gautier's (translated) phrase "art for art's sake." Wilde defended a position of total separation of art and artist, that art was it's own thing, entirely separate from the one who created it. The form of the art was all that mattered, not something such as authorial intent.

But here this is drawn into question by Basil, whose fears about being "found out" because of his art seem at this point in time to be founded in reality. Dorian Gray found out, didn't he? (Of course, the reader knows that's not true. Something entirely different is happening with the painting. This certainly supports Wilde's point.)

I think the reality is that both are true. The author cannot write and the painter cannot paint too far outside their own view of the world. But their view of the world is larger than themselves. The elements they employ are larger than those that touch their own lives. You cannot sever the art from the artist; there will always be their subconscious biases there, and these things will be especially apparent to the artist. But, the artist is not all there is to the finished art.

One of my favorite fanfiction authors often quotes Louise Rosenblat: "A story's just ink on a page until a reader comes along to give it life." Once you have stepped back from a work and let it be seen, the author isn't the only one engaging in the work. The reader, the viewer-- they bring their own biases and interpretations, and the creator doesn't have any control over that. At that point, the work is collaborative between the reader and the writer, the viewer and the artist.

I really like thinking about writing this way. It's bigger than any one person. As much as it might be a window into the author's soul, that window is so old that the glass has started to pile at the bottom of the pane, and the glass has greened, and so the view is distorted, and the reader has to make their own assumptions about what the things they are seeing mean. So, what they see might be the author's intent, or it might not be.

Reading Wilde over a century after the work was written, I bring my own set of biases and assumptions to my experience reading his writing that he could never have predicted. My experience with this writing is going to be different than the experience of his contemporaries who might better understand, for instance, the lexicon of double meanings and innuendos that might describe homosexuality in Victorian England. There's only so much annotations can do to express the meaning of these phrases. The reaction isn't visceral in the way it is when I read works from my contemporary writing community.

But I can empathize with this quandary. With wrestling with it. What does my art say about me? And where does it stop speaking? I can't say I know the answer.

[fitz-higgins]

LGBT literature of the 1860s–1910s. Part 4

Well, it’s been a while. Here’s a new selection featuring three stories about love between students, lesbian poems, a comedy centered around a gay character, Proust's short story, and more

1. Bertram Cope’s Year, by Henry Blake Fuller (1919). Although this novel went unnoticed by its contemporaries, it is thought to be the first officially published American novel about homosexual men. It could be your perfect academia novel: Bertram, “no squire of dames”, is a self-conscious English teaching assistant at an Illinois university where he completes his thesis and tries to settle in life. Four women and three men are attracted to him, but Bertram is fond of “Dear Arthur”, his college friend Arthur Lemoyne who comes to live with him later. Interestingly, the story has a touch of comic and ironic, which was very rare for homosexual literature of that time. [Read online]

2. Le Monsieur Aux Chrysanthèmes (The Gentleman of Chrysanthemums), by Armory (Carle Dauriac; 1908). This is the first modern play (and a society comedy at that) that has a gay man as its main character. The character is Gill Norvège, a critic and writer, who uses a young widow Marthe Bourdon to get money. Marthe is hopelessly in love with Gill and borrows 30,000 francs from a poet Jacques Romagne, who, in turn, is hopelessly in love with Marthe. And then Gill sees Jacques one day and falls in love with him. [Read online in French or in English]

3. The Garden God: A Tale of Two Boys, by Forrest Reid (1905). Called “a classic of Uranian literature”, this story has it all: homoerotism, platonism, ancient gods and love at boarding school. In that school a fifteen years old Graham, who used to dream of friendship with a Greek god, meets Harold who looks exactly like that imaginary friend. But where there are gods there is also tragedy, so be prepared. [Read online]

4. Poems by Sofia Parnok. Parnok was the first open lesbian in Russian literature. She was in a relationship with another famous Russian poet, Marina Tsvetaeva, as well as with some other women to whom she dedicated a number of poems. Often called the Russian Sappho, she often refers to Sappho in her poetry and also used her famous phrase, “Someone, I tell you, in another time will remember us”. Some of Parnok’s poems are translated and more is available in Russian.

5. Teleny, or The Reverse of the Medal (1893). Not the first, but one of the earliest examples of English-language homosexual erotic novels (though rather sophisticated), its author is unknown, but some believe that it was written by Oscar Wilde. Here we have a tragedy again, a tragic love between a Frenchman and a Hungarian pianist, to be exact. There’s also something literally queer going on, because the Frenchman, Des Grieux, has a telepathic connection with the attractive pianist, Teleny. Eventually they meet, and Teleny introduces Des Grieux to the underground homosexual world of Paris. Bonus: the novel has a comic adaptation, Teleny and Camille, by Jay Macy, and also a “prequel”, Des Grieux, written in 1899. [Read online]

6. Anders als die Andern (Different from the Others), by Bill Forster (Hermann Breuer; 1904). The title is supposedly derived from a phrase that was popular among German gay men of that time, “We are, thank god, other than other people”. Herbert, the protagonist, falls in love with Ernst, the boy from his school. They go hiking together, and for some time they are close. But Ernst, although flattered by Herbert’s attention and feelings, rejects him twice, and it destroys Herbert’s life.

7. Avant la nuit (Before dark)by Marcel Proust (1893). A forgotten short story by Proust, written when he was only 22, despite what you might expect, tells about a lesbian woman. She is incredibly unhappy: she is in a relationship with a man, but wants to confess her true sexuality and suffers from her own dishonesty. Finally, she tells him the truth and asks for his compassion. In a way, this story defends homosexuality and explains why it cannot be condemned. [Read online]

8. The Prussian Officer, by D. H. Lawrence (1914). Praised as a masterpiece of short fiction by some critics, this story is rather grim. A captain slowly becomes attracted to his young, simple orderly. However, he represses his feelings and, instead of showing any kind of affection, turns aggressive and humiliates the young man. And it is not going to end well. [Read online]

9. Quelques Portraits-Sonnets de Femmes (Some Portrait-Sonnets of Women), by Natalie Clifford Barney (1900). One of the most famous lesbian poets of the 20th century, Barney wrote a chapbook of love poems to women that were so scandalous her father bought up all remaining copies and burned them. Two novels based on or about women’s affairs with Barney were also featured in previous chapters of this list. The book is not available online, but some poems can be found in English here and here.

10. The Intersexes: A History of Similisexualism as a Problem in Social Life, by Edward Prime-Stevenson (1906). Prime-Stevenson didn’t just write the first novel about gay men with a happy ending (featured in the previous part of the list), but also an interesting study, one of the earliest ones. Using science and history, he defenses homosexuality, which is why he is considered to be one of the first advocates for the rights of the LGBTQ community. A very progressive work for his time, it rejects the binary of masculine and feminine and insists that homosexuality is a natural result of human evolution. [Read online]

P.s. Previous parts are collected here.

[docholligay]

My Cousin Rachel

This book is like watching the Bachelor or the Circle or something--you know when you’re watching someone make horribly stupid mistakes right in front of you, and there’s nothing you can do but clap your hands to the side of your face and go, ‘What are you doing????” but it’s fun, because you don’t actually care about these people and their lives except in the most outside sense? That is the best non-spoilery review I can give of this book. It’s reality TV, but Victoriante though. 

And so some of you may say: Oh, so it’s not good then? No, it is FANTASTIC, and immense fun, and well-written, heavily atmospheric and touches of influence from the Gothics in the corners. But it is very much a mystery story, and you wouldn’t have to get anything deeper than that out of it if you didn’t want to. You can absolutely have a wonderful time reading this as a light entertainment. 

Spoilers under the cut!

----

I forgot how much I enjoyed du Maurier until I was about 100 pages into this book, remembering how much I like her turns of phrase and the subtle ways that she plays with character ideas. It’s a stroke of genius that she has the whole thing narrated through Phillip’s eyes. It does not allow us to really ever develop an outside idea of Rachel, drug through the twists and turns as we are by Phillip. 

I think what makes it so interesting as a reader is that, Phillip being our frame of reference and knowing how he loves Ambrose, we’re set to fight with Rachel as well. But what’s amazing is I think a lot of readers probably don’t go along with Phillip as he starts to fall in love with her. She begins to excuse her, but we do not, even given from his perspective, and I think that takes a fair amount of artfulness on Du Maurier’s behalf. She’s constantly trying to keep us on our toes. 

In some ways I wonder if this isn’t just her general idea of “guess how stupid men are, I will show you”. So much of it relies on seeing what Phillip is doing and watching in abject horror as he gives up everything to a woman because he’s taken by her aspect. The narrative even gives us another woman in the form of Louise to be astonished by all the things that Phillip ends up doing in service to Rachel. 

He actually is kind of a shit to Louise, who I think exists as the sort of balance to Rachel we’re meant to see. I don’t think Louise is out of line to imagine she might marry Phillip, given the time and place they both find themselves in, and the fact that they know each other well. But maybe that’s a part of what Du Maurier is saying: Men are not in love with women so much as they are in love with the ideas they project upon them. We see more and more of this as the book goes on, for example, when Louise is confronting Phillip about what he’s done for Rachel. He tells her that she’s wrong, that Rachel is a “woman of impulse and emotion, and hr moods are unpredictable and strange. God knows, but it is not in her nature to be otherwise.” 

He’s putting on her this mysteriousness, this idea that the things she does are a part of her but almost come from outside of her, something she can’t control, and Louise sees it for something very different: “Had you been less vulnerable,” she said, “Mrs. Ashley would not have stayed. She would have called upon my father, struck a close fair bargain, and then departed. You have misunderstood her motives from the first.” Louise sees exactly what Rachel is doing, and it’s interesting because there’s a point in the movel I can’t find right now where Rachel herself says that women see things much more clearly than men. I wish I could find the page. So is that, do we think, just more of Du Maurier saying, “Hi hello here is my thesis statement, that men can’t stop seeing what they WANT to see long enough to see what’s actually there?” This book was written in 1951, so remember that you have to take yourself outside of your current place and time and imagine her saying this back when women were considered like, the dark country that no man can know. I think that’s interesting! This idea from the author that these ~little wimmins~ are constantly outpacing and outthinking these men who control their lives and yet have no capacity to stop being blindsided. 

I’d be interested in knowing who comes down on the side of Rachel being guilty, and who comes down on the side of Rachel being innocent. Du Maurier herself is extremely intentional about avoiding answering the question--that’s part of the fun--she leaves just enough of an opening either way that you could make an argument. I think that she was guilty, and that says something interesting about me, I think. I would assume most people think she’s guilty, and I’d be fascinated to see who has a presumption of innocence here. 

Why do we think Ambrose and Phillip are so vulnerable to Rachel’s work, if we believe, as I do that it was all a trick? I think Du Maurier is saying something about what happens to men who deliberately keep themselves from women’s company. They allow women to become ideas and objects, and so have no ability to see them in the way that they would a man, to their extreme detriment. Ambrose makes a huge point of saying how he’ll never marry and woman are all a bother, and passes that idea onto Phillip, who idealizes Ambrose so highly that he literally wishes his name was Ambrose. Because they can’t see Rachel as a person, they can only see what they want her to be, and essentially romance themselves. Rachel gives them just enough rope to hang themselves. She takes the fascination of gardens, the planned wild, and manipulates it into perfection with Ambrose. And I don’t doubt that she does like gardens, but there’s something more to it than that, in the same way she sees that Phillip longs for someone who has an air of fineness about her. It doesn’t hurt that Ambrose loved her as well, given Phillip’s desire to be like Ambrose in all things. 

Who Rachel truly is, I think, is the real mystery. I come away having no idea what I think she likes or who she truly is, because I think so much of her life is about becoming that which she needs to be. She is a simple English woman for Ambrose, a particular woman of refinement for Phillip, a party girl for Sangalletti. Truthfully, I respect the hustle. I simultaneously want a story from her point of view and absolutely do not want any of the mystery of how she came to be so cunning and quick taken a way from me. Maybe I’m guilty of the same thing as Phillip, of wanting to project my desires for what she could be onto Rachel. 

Let’s say, though, that I’m wrong. And that Rachel was guilty of absolutely nothing. 

If Rachel was not guilty of the crime, than is Phillip guilty of murder by allowing her to go on her walk? Do we think that Phillip had an inkling that she would walk across the weak bridge, and that it could collapse beneath her? Because the second question must be true if we want to even bother engaging with the first. If he had no idea, he had no idea, and so there can be no sin but one of ignorance, right? We can’t be held to account for honest ignorance. But let’s say he had an idea, that Rachel would go there--she loves the gardens and the expansion of them was a major passion project for her--is allowing someone to come to harm when you could stop it the same as murder? For me, on a religious basis, it’s not the SAME, in that Judaism doesn’t do that “All sins are the same” thing, but it is most definitely prohibited and there’s even a rabbinic opinion somewhere about not overly protecting yourself, so like, you can and should risk a little danger to save someone’s life. But just standing by and letting someone die, or knowing there's a large chance of it? If she’s not guilty of the crime, I think that’s, if not murder, a cousin to it. 

 I mean even if she is, do we think, if Phillip knew, is he still culpable of something? I think he is. I don’t think we get to stop being moral when people hurt us. Especially if that hrm is because we’re fucking idiots and let ourselves be taken in by the idea of what we want someone to be. Whatever she did, it was not a capital crime. She didn’t deserve to die for taking advantage of a fool. Is it kind? No. Is it also something I would consider prohibited? Oh absolutely. But that is pretty much irrelevant to my idea of Phillip’s responsibility here. I think that if he knew, what he did was a cousin to murder, regardless of what she did. 

I guess, though, point here. If she was trying to poison him, it would have been a capital crime if she succeeded, but he in no way needed to kill her to avoid his death, he just needed to stop drinking her fucking tea, so, having had that thought and circled back, I still think that he can’t really claim self-defense or any of ther kind of reasoning for it. 

Let’s talk about the opening and ending! It’s going to go in the books as a top ten ending line for me, it just hit me like a ton of bricks and brought all of it home. “They used to hang men at Four Turnings in the old days. Not anymore, though.” I think I liked that the most of all, because at the beginning I had no idea where it was going with that, and the end implies that Phillip DOES see himself as a murderer. And when we think about the beginning in context with the end, where Phillip is talking about what the man’s wife might have done to push him to kill her, we can imagine Phillip telling himself all of these things and trying to square why he let her die, and THAT final line is why I think he must have known that she was going to go out on that extremely tempting bridge over the sunken garden, and he knew she was going to get hurt, and he let it happen. He let it happen because it was the only way for the property to revert back to him, and he’ll have to live with this because no one is going to hang him for the crime. 

I often say, and believe, that whether I liked something or not is the most boring thing I can say about anything, but I think at least part of these is people wanting to know if I liked the book: I did! I think it was an immensely fun book and I would recommend it to just about anyone who enjoys screaming at a fictional character about how stupid they are over and over again. I thought I was going to like this, based on how I liked Rebecca, but its always a delight not to be wrong on that.

[bonesingerofyme-loc]

You will turn back, sweet krill of hope. You will chose the Sky instead

In the Season of Arrivals the Darkness spoke with us, while Savathun tried to intervene. In Beyond Light, the Darkness granted Guardians with Stasis, giving access to it's powers as an argument to the Sky - if the Sky posits that given the chance, individuals will choose goodness and decency, the Darkness gave the active avatars of the Light the chance to prove the Darkness' thesis. That, when the going gets tough, all things turn to the logic of the blade.

The Dark Future is the conclusion of the Darkness' argument against the Light. It is proof that the chosen of the Light, Guardians, will, like all life, turn to the brutal and simple logic of the Deep and become conquerors and butchers. It was quite a move on the board by the Deep, by giving Guardians Stasis. As far as we know, no other species has been directly blessed by the Light in the same was as Humanity. We know the Ammonite were aided by the Traveler through 'paracausal weapons' and that the Traveler indirectly blessed the Harmony through it's manipulation of gravity and spacetime, but until Earth and Humans, there had not been, as far as we know, direct wielders of the Light.

So the Darkness reached out to the direct avatars of the Light and gave them a nugget of it's power. A power move.

Now - with Witch Queen, we see that Savathun has a ghost, has the light, and more - so does her brood. The phrasing around it is couched in terms of 'stealing the light' or in some way wresting control of it, but that's through biased voices like Ikora. I suppose we may see for sure this season, depending on the conclusion, but that remains in the future.

However. Consider Savathun. She was the first adopter of the worms. She led Aurash and Xi Ro to the worm gods beneath Fundament. She threw herself fully into the deal with the worms. In time, Oryx may have surpassed her as the truest, and closest adherent to the Deep, as seen by his actions, his theories and the Touch of Malice, but Savathun was the first.

What greater weapons of the Darkness were there than the Hive? This trio for a billion - billions? - of years have enacted the will of the Deep across the universe. Untold species, unimaginable complexity, all of it cut away by the sword.

But then Savathun started to question. She started to wonder. She started to buck the tenets of the Deep. She doubted her worm, and she had from long ago in the Books of Sorrow. She sought ways around it, loopholes - she betrayed the Darkness. Oryx never questioned his role or his position. He embraced the prospect of death, faithful that whoever slew him was merely doing the work of the Deep and helping the universe to it's final, brutal shape. If he died - he was meant to, as the Deep teaches. Savathun never accepted this.

And now, at long last, she turned her sight on the Light. Savathun wants to live at all costs. At all costs. This has been her driving force since she was a little krill all those eons ago.

But if one wants to live at all costs, is not the answer the Deep? After all, to become the Final Shape is to become synonymous with existence, to be the last man standing at the end of all things. No better immortality, right? But Savathun doubts that, despite being so steeped in the Darkness for so long. One who should be completely dedicated to this, but she questions. She isn't like Oryx, or even Xivu Arath as it seems.

So we return to a conversation, spoken by an agent of the Sky to three wayward krill.

—Quick-breeding krill people, I tell you++

++For eons I have watched your struggle—

—Clinging to the sharp edge of survival++

++Balanced between the Deep and the Sky.—

—FOR THIS IS THE DEEP CLAIM—

++Existence is the struggle to exist—

—When the struggle seems lost++

++when the safe place crumbles—

—everything turns to the Deep to survive++

++I REJECT THE DEEP CLAIM++

—You will turn back, sweet krill of hope.±±

++You will choose the Sky instead.—

"Existence is the struggle to exist. When the struggle seems lost, when the safe place crumbles, everything turns to the Deep to survive."

Emphasis mine. From the Leviathan of Fundament, this is the Deep claim. This is the position of the Darkness, which has been proven over and over again.

Savathun has turned on the Deep claim. She has rejected it. She is at the bitter end, when the struggle seems lost, when the safe place crumbles - she has fled her throne. She has left her brood. She is hunted by her own sister, with her brother slain. Her worm's hunger is insatiable. All of her plots and infinite plans have failed. Her murder battery failed. Her Taken were useless. IMBARU is IMBARN'T.

And at the bitter, deadly edge of this desperation, where did Savathun turn? Not to the Deep. She turned to the Light.

Oh, I'm sure she can dress it up however she wants, as sardonic or skeptical or cynical as she likes. But the fact remains that when the cards came down, she abandoned the Deep.

She rejected the Deep claim.

And she chose the Light.

What better retort to the Deep could the Sky possibly supply other than to bless Savathun with the Light? To take one of the fiercest, oldest, deadliest agents of the Darkness and give her the Light? To give her the chance to prove, like all life, that the Deep is not the answer. That there is more than just the mindless struggle of slaughter. This is the Traveler and the Sky's rebuttal to the argument made in Beyond Light. If the Darkness wants to try to tempt Guardians - the Sky can and will prove that nothing is beyond realizing the allure of the gentle nation, ringed by spears.

I hope that this is what occurs, that there is no deception, no stealing, no necromantic trickery. That the Traveler blesses Savathun and her brood with the Light because in the eschatological debate between these two forces, such a move brings the Sky closer to checkmate.

Final thought - but why would we fight Savathun? Why not? The Light doesn't demand, doesn't act, doesn't direct. That's the blessing of the Sky. Freedom of will, of choice, of being. Lightbearers have done atrocities in the past, during the age of warlords. Some do even now. That is part of life, there is good and there is evil. What matters is what you choose. Savathun has spent aeons practicing violence, she's not going to change overnight. But! The question is if she can. If she can prove the thesis of the Sky.

I think that killing Savathun and her brood, in this case, might be the worst possible outcome for the Light.

[katytheinspiredworkaholic]

Wip Wednesday

Untitled fic (Correspondence)

Summary/Story so far: HotchReid, slow burn, AU where Reid never joined the FBI, but got roped into consulting for the LA field office while working and teaching at Caltech. Hotch gets his email from a fellow agent, and they start to work on cases together -- until they start talking on a regular basis. Regular becomes frequent, frequent becomes constant. We are now months into this... tentative thing that is beyond friendship, beyond flirtatious, they still don't know much about each other on paper... but this feels a lot like dating. And then one day, Hotch abruptly stops answering his phone.

(Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3)

(Set in season 6, unbeta'd, still the first draft, text/email templates are temporary)

((Notes: Spencer's POV this time, he is 29 and working at CalTech, Hotch still doesn't know how old he is though he does know that he's at least younger than 45 now. Hotch has been MIA now for about 18 hours.))

.

Spencer spends way too long online that morning, searching for anything about the case Hotch is working. There's nothing about a raid, or a shooting, or even an arrest -- which could all just be apart of the ongoing media blackout -- but it also does nothing to stop him from panicking. 

With a drafted email pulled up to Ms. Penelope Garcia, the BAU's personal tech analyst, he ponders how to... even word this without it sounding too personal. Too much like he and Hotch have more than just a working relationship.

Because they do. They have... something.

Something that gives him fluttering sensations in his stomach, makes him check his phone constantly, and react to even the slightest chime similar to his text tone. Makes him smile when he sees Hotch's name on his notifications, in his email inbox, makes him message the man in the middle of the day at the most random thoughts. Just because he wants to make him laugh.

.

[]You're going to get me in trouble.

[][]Did I make you smile?

[]I'm at a crime scene. There's a dead body in front of me.

[][]Then why are you checking your phone?

[]You know why.

.

But that’s not something that is shared with the rest of the team, he’s sure. So he should be careful how he words his email, lest Ms. Garcia realize that Spencer isn’t asking purely as a colleague. 

Surely they know he has friends, though?

Chewing his lip, Spencer types out a brief email asking if Agent Hotchner is feeling well since he missed an appointment the night before and hasn’t been returning his calls. It’s a phrase he’s used often, so it comes naturally to Spencer as he types it out, and he realizes… he hasn’t called. He’s sent a dozen text messages, but not a phone call. Never a phone call. That was against the rules. 

He looks to his phone beside him on his desk, and tries to fight back the dueling forms of panic clawing at his chest. Panic that Hotch might not answer, panic what that means for the man he’s been… becoming more and more inclined to than any other person he’s met in so long. Panic if he does answer, breaking that barrier of written words to spoken, and the opportunity to hear Hotch’s voice. But he would also hear Spencer’s, and then there would be no hiding just how… how young he really is.

But his phone is in his hand before he can stop himself, and Hotch’s contact pulled up and his thumb hovering over the phone number with baited breath. 

Was he really going to do this?

He presses the touch screen and can hear the line connecting, the dial tone ring even before he gets the phone up to his ear and waits. It rings, and rings, and rings a fourth time -- before clicking over to voicemail. And Spencer’s hyper-fast thought processes realize he’s going to hear Hotch’s voice for the first time. Frozen in a panic, unsure if he wants to or if that had been something he wanted them to do together that the seconds slip by and suddenly it’s too late.

“You’ve reached the voicemail box of -- (703)-567-8790 -- this caller is not available. Please leave a message after the tone--”

It’s an automated, female voice that rattles off the numbers and generic call back message, and Spencer hangs up before it can begin recording him. Exhaling a shaky breath, that nothing had been ruined between him and Hotch thanks to an ill-timed phone call. 

He keeps the momentum going without much thought, and adjusts his email to Ms. Garcia before sending it. 

It feels so understated, and yet over dramatic the more he thinks about it. The more he reads it.

.

Please let me know of his well-being.

.

God, no wonder Hotch thought he was in his 60’s. 

But Spencer has to keep the façade up, not give away anything he doesn’t want to just because the emotional part of his brain is running rampant over the rational one. There are… many explanations as to why Hotch isn’t answering him. His gut feeling aside, he doesn’t need to be panicking like this. The world is still turning, he still has work to do, so Spencer tries to gather himself into some semblance of order and preps to talk to his doctoral students within the hour.

.

--

.

His morning routine progresses as usual, to start. Dr. Reid has his mandatory round up with his doctoral candidates going over thesis and dissertation parameters, class lecture schedules, updates, the works. Like morning announcements, but he requires them all to be there and to listen, and they all show up. Everyone knows of Spencer’s eidetic memory. He will certainly not forget a single date or schedule change, and he expects his students to not forget as well. 

But this morning Spencer is fully distracted, his mind elsewhere, somewhere in the state of Delaware with an agent who may or may not be in danger. Because Spencer cannot shake the feeling that something is wrong. It almost seems more like a fact than a feeling. 

He becomes even more distracted when his email pings, a response from Ms. Garcia of Quantico, VA flashing across his laptop screen, right in the middle of his department announcements. Spencer’s eyes skim the preview sentence in the pop-up box, and his voice trails off as his mind… whirls. 

.

Dr. Reid, I’m sorry to tell you I don’t know when Hotch will be available again. There was an incident, and he’s still in surg-

.

Surgery.

Surgery.

That vice-like grip of worry that has taken hold of him since last night tightens further, to the point Spencer can’t breathe. Hotch is hurt, he’s in surgery, and if he hasn’t been answering his phone since last night -- or even late yesterday afternoon -- it was not a minor thing.

Hotch is hurt. 

“Dr. Reid? Are you okay?”

“I--” he’s still looking at the email pop-up box, and is clicking on it before he can stop himself. Immediately disconnecting his laptop from the projector as his email loads there. It takes him a faction of a second to read the email. “I’m sorry, an emergency just came up. Kimmy, finish reading off the schedule for me?” He doesn’t even wait until she answers him, just picks up his laptop and retreats to his office as fast as his long legs will carry him.

.

--surgery and we’re still waiting on word. I know you 2 talk on the reg so I’ll keep you posted. 

Fret not, genius professor, our fearless leader has been through much worse than this.

.

She’s using informal speech patterns, which she has never done before. It bleeds her nervousness, and worries Spencer even more. Ms. Garcia also revealed she knows he and Hotch talk, but surprisingly that doesn’t have the effect he thought it would on his already rattled nerves. Instead, any and all reservations fall away as he types out a response much in the same way he and Hotch had started their friendship all those months ago.

.

Please, is there anything you are allowed to tell me about the case or his condition? We --

.

Spencer pauses, bites his lip as he considers crossing this boundary into the uncomfortable unknown, and then thinks about Hotch on a hospital operating table three thousand miles away.

“Screw it,” he mutters and continues to type.

.

--We’ve become good friends and I’m very worried.

.

The reply is almost immediate.

.

That makes 2 of us, boy wonder, but I’m already hacked into the hospital records database and Prentiss is in the waiting room.

I’m sending you the case files and the incident report from last night. Maybe you can see some shiz we can’t b/c the bossman is tough but he’s been in surgery a long time. 

.

Of course, whatever he can do to help. Spencer’s heavy heart-beat triples in his chest as pulls up the files and immediately prints them out so he can read through them faster. But then his mind sticks on something from the email. 

Boy Wonder.

Ms. Garcia knows how young he is.

She must have done a background check on him, that would make sense since he’s been consulting so much lately. But why would Garcia know his age, and not Hotch?

.

Ms. Garcia, did you update my dossier with the bureau after you ran my background check?

.

If you’re referring to why Hotch seems to think you’re rocking the senior discount at restaurants and not still getting carded for beer, then no I didn’t update it. I’m very anti-gov files having every detail of our lives in them, that’s what I’m for, and I figured there was a reason he didn’t know. Your secret is safe with me, sugar bean.

.

The real reason is Agent Anderson of the LA field office is a dick, with a bully streak he never outgrew after high school, and didn’t bother filling out a full file on him the first time Spencer consulted for the FBI. Then, he couldn’t be bothered to update it when his consultations became more than a one time thing.

But that was all in the past now, and Spencer can’t even be upset about it. Because now he has Hotch.

.

Thank you, Ms. Garcia. I’ll let you know my findings soon.

.

He skims the file quickly, pulling information out at lightning speed. It appears a very straight-forward case. As straight-forward as a murderous sociopath can be, anyway. Very anti-establishment, specified targets that devolved to anyone in a uniform. Anyone who appears too official, or lables as official. 

It’s easy to see, now why the unsub attacked Hotch instead of running from him. He practically served himself up on a silver platter. But there’s something about the kills that’s bothering Spencer. The knife wounds, bludgeoning, even the gunshots during the first murders -- it’s all overkill. Rage. Every single target has died from massive internal bleeding, M.E. reports all label the knife wounds and beatings as the cause. But the amount of blood left over, measured during autopsy, doesn’t add up. They bled too much. No wounds indicating intentional bleeding occurred, and the tox screens are all clean. 

Except, every victim has elevated potassium rates.

“Oh, God,” Spencer whispers, quiet and horrified. “Hotch.”

There’s no time for email.

He picks up his phone, goes to an older email that has full contact details in the footer, and dials Ms. Garcia’s direct line in Quantico.

“Speak, and behold greatness.”

“Ms. Garcia, it’s Dr. Reid,” Spencer says, and his tone and quickened speech patterns gives way to his panic.

“Dr-- Dr. Reid?” 

“Yes, quick there’s no time. Do you have Hotch’s hospital records in front of you still?” 

“Yes,” Garcia says, her voice a musical thing even in it’s breathless reaction to his heightened state of haste. “Updated every two minutes.”

“Is his potassium elevated?”

Some quick typing of keys that move faster than even he could ever hope to type. “... Yes.”

God. “Okay, okay I need you to call the hospital right now,” Spencer says in a spiel that all sounds like one word. “Whatever you have to do, he needs Sodium Polystyrene Sulfonate as soon as possible, to counteract the chemical imbalance or he’s going to go into kidney failure and bleed out.”

.

tbc...

[terrainofheartfelt]

"It's you, it couldn't be awful"

A Playlist For Dair Appreciation Week, Day 7 - Fave Quotes & Lyrics

I haven’t the faintest idea how to make gifs (seriously I think all of you are witches) so I made this playlist, because there is nothing I love more than scrolling through my spotify library and just projecting all over it.

Track listings and links with opinions & lyrics under the cut, because this thing is long, because I have no restraint.

(Note: I intentionally left off all tswift bc if I didn’t, we’d be here all day)

Section 1: The Bops

Little of Your Love - HAIM

A bop that embodies the energy of the 4b arc, and an energy of “Oh for crying out loud, Humphrey”

You’re just another recovering heart / I wasn’t even gonna try / you wouldn’t even give the time

Stop runnin’ your mouth like that / ‘cause you know I’m gonna give it right back

Hate That You Know Me - Bleachers

It’s “You owe me ten / You owe me twenty!” & “I was hoping it would go away / I was humiliated” & basically all of While You Weren’t Sleeping, tbh

Some days I, I wish that I wasn't myself / No luck! / And I hate that you know me so well

I Like Me Better - Lauv

Heavily featured in all y’all’s gifsets—and rightfully so!!! It’s also like the perfect counter to the previous song.

To not know who I am but still know that I'm good long as you're here with me

Sweet Talk - Saint Motel

It’s about Blair roasting Dan for filth and him being completely charmed by it.

when you laugh / I forget that it's about me / But it's alright / Yeah, cause being your punchline / Still is something

No Reason to Run - Cold War Kids

In the perfect version of the show that lives in my head, this is the end credits song that plays as the two of them frolic in Rome.

I have evolved like a fish growing legs / Woke like a lightbulb clicked in my brain

You Make Lovin' Fun - Fleetwood Mac

The song for the couple that fucked in an elevator. Bless the work.

Sweet wonderful you / You make me happy with the things you do

No Matter What You Do - covered by Jakob Dylan and Regina Spektor

The energy is “I have a lot of affection for you but you are so annoying.” And this is the obligatory post-breakup s6 song.

No matter what in the world you do / Hey, I'll always be in love with you

Don't Take the Money - Bleachers

I see so much love for tswift on this website (valid) but I feel like the world as a whole sleeps on her collaborator Jack Antonoff bc he is brilliant and his act Bleachers has some of my favorite songs ever. Like this one. Antonoff has said before that the title phrase is more metaphorical than literal, like an idiom that means don’t take the easy way and give this up, because it’s genuine. Real “I want to have a sleepover with you” vibes.

Somebody broke me once / Love was a currency / A shimmering balance act / I think that I laughed at that

In the Morning - Nina Simone

It’s about the domesticity! And the “Our relationship is our world”! And the “we’re young and still have so much life to live so everything’s gonna be okay.” did i title a smut fic with lyrics from this song maybeso.gif

Please be patient with your life / It's only morning and you're still to live your day

This Must Be the Place - Talking Heads

This is a canon dair song bc @mysteriesofloves titled a fic after this song, them’s the rules. But for real, this is such a good one. The lyrics are intentionally scattered, a little bewildered, like “how did we get here? how did this happen? who found whom?” and finally “who cares? we found a home in each other.”

The less we say about it, the better / We'll make it up as we go along

Cleopatra in Brooklyn - Frank Turner

Chosen for the title obviously, but the lyrics capture the royal/5b arc pretty well, I think. The narrator carries this tongue-and-cheek comparison of the woman he’s singing to to Cleopatra through the whole song, comparing himself to Marc Antony, and ending with this really earnest kind of declaration. I’m obsessed with this songwriter he’s a genius please give him a listen.

These people are adjectives to your proper noun

I'll come find you when your fortunes fail you / I'll die with you when the gods desert you

Morphing into Section 2: Pure Vibes

Walking on a Dream - covered by Andrew McMahon in the Wilderness

The original is by Empire of the Sun (and omigod I just realized the coincidence), but I first heard it covered by McMahon, and he’s one of my favorite musicians of ever so I just love his rendition. And this song is sort of like...about finally deciding that the reality of love with someone is so much better than the idea of it.

Thought I’d never see / The love you found in me / Now it’s changing all the time

Wake Me - Bleachers

Jack coming for my life yet again. This song is so romantic but also so melancholy? Which is such a Daniel Humphrey Vibe.

And I'd rather be sad with you / Than anywhere away from you

All I Want - Joni Mitchell

I’m a white girl with a mother who grew up in the 60s, so I love Joni. And this song is so bubbly and joyful, but it’s also about a relationship between two imperfect people and wanting it to work anyway. Big “Despicable B” vibes!

All I really want our love to do / Is to bring out the best in me / And in you, too.

Dust to Dust - The Civil Wars

A friend in undergrad got me into the Civil Wars by showing me their live videos, and they have such incredible musical chemistry - like, the synchronicity of their ensemble is so good that it even comes through on their studio recordings and it makes these simple lyrics hit SO HARD.

You're just lonely / You've been lonely too long

NFWMB - Hozier

Ok, this had to be like the first ask I ever sent @bisexualdanhumphrey bc they wrote this fantastic meta post about Hozier and Derena but I said: “consider: NFWMB is a Dair song.” And they said, “You right.” I stand by it, and that’s why this song is on this list.

If I was born as a blackthorn tree / I'd wanna be felled by you / Held by you / Fuel the pyre of your enemies

Friday I'm in Love - covered by Phoebe Bridgers

This song - especially this cover - gives such Secret Friendship Arc vibes a la the end of 4x16...the inherent romance of eating pizza and falling asleep on the couch together

Always take a big bite / It’s such a gorgeous sight / To see you eat in the middle of the night

A Case of You - Joni Mitchell

Queen Joni again. Like! I am a lonely painter / I live in a box of paints. & The “You’re the star of Dan’s book” of it all in these lyrics!

I remember that time you told me / You said “Love is touching souls” / Surely you touched mine / ‘cause part of you pours out of me / In these lines from time to time.

Longing to Belong - Eddie Vedder

This is my thinly veiled attempt to tell more people about this: a song written and performed by Pearl Jam’s Eddie Vedder on ukulele, that is actually the softest love song in the history of western music.

All my time is spent here / Longing to belong to you

Bones - Josh Record

Okay, so, that Moment on the Couch at the end of 5x02? That’s this song.

And darling, when your feet are cold / Wait up, I'm coming home / And all of you I will hold / My love will clothe your bones

Cinnamon Girl - Lana Del Rey

The song for when you reach the end of plausible deniability - One all consuming paralyzing thought & You need to go back to Brooklyn - and it scares the heck out of you.

There's things I wanna say to you, but I'll just let you live / Like if you hold me without hurting me / You'll be the first who ever did

You and Me - You + Me

You can be flawed enough but perfect for a person

Section 3: Songs for Dancing in the Kitchen with Your Lover at 1 am

Cigarettes and Coffee - Otis Redding

The “Dan and I have a real connection song.” It’s about the romance of commonplace things when they’re with the right person.

But it seemed so natural, darling / That you and I are here

I'd Be Waiting - Nathaniel Rateliff and the Night Sweats

It’s “I just want to spend the day with you” but in like, slow-dance, sexy harmonies format.

If you ever get lonely if you never did

Never My Love - covered by Jakob Dylan and Norah Jones

The “Words of Affirmation” love song they deserve, and an underrated love song from Laurel Canyon, imho

What makes you think love will end? / When you know that my whole life depends / On you

Dancing in the Dark - covered by Morgan James

Okay so these lyrics are such Dan lyrics to me, it’s charmingly self-aware and self-deprecating. And this cover by Morgan James turns this staple rock song into something ~sexy~

I'm dying for some action / I'm sick of sittin' round here trying to write this book / I need a love reaction / Come on, gimme just one look

Oh Me Oh My (I'm a Fool for You) - Aretha Franklin

They’re literally always making each other laugh! It’s about feeling safe enough to be uninhibited and unselfconscious in your joy.

To make you laugh / I would be a fool for you

I Fall in Love Too Easily - as done by Chet Baker

No one, but no one sounds as sweet or as smooth as Chet. I know it, you know it, Hozier knows it. And this song and it’s titular thesis is so Them, it’s such a central part of their respective characters, and one of the things that makes them compatible.

My heart should be well schooled / 'Cause I've been fooled in the past

For Me Formidable - Charles Aznavour

Due entirely to this fic (Part II of a god tier s4 au) This is the end credits song for their full feature length Nora Ephron romcom.

NSFW Honorable Mention: Dinner & Diatribes - Hozier

it’s the definitive “men get pegged” representation, iykyk

[auroraaboraaborealis]

There are few critics whose work can be read for style alone, and many of the best of those are essentially impressionists or appreciators, like Whitney Balliett and Henry James, idiosyncratic enthusiasts who wrote most often to explicate a new, if sometimes baffled, love. There is a still smaller number who, though passionately opinionated, and as often inclined to damn as praise, manage to turn opinion itself into a kind of art form, who bring to full maturity the moral qualities that hide in violent judgment—qualities of audacity, courage, conviction—and make them come so alive on the page that even if the particular object is seen in a fury, the object seems less interesting than the emotion it evoked, while some broader principle always seems defended by the indignation. Of that still rarer kind, those who come first to mind in English might be Tynan and Shaw on the theatre, Johnson and Jarrell on poetry—and to those names must be added that of Robert Hughes, the Australian (and, latterly, American) art critic, who died this week.

Hughes was many kinds of writers—his hugely popular account of Australia’s founding, “The Fatal Shore,” and his two marvellous books on the cities he loved, “Barcelona” and “Rome,” as well as his biography of Goya were all memorable in their kind—but his fame rightly rested on his thirty or so years of art criticism for Time, and (as he knew) above all on the series and book “The Shock of the New,” still much the best synoptic introduction to modern art ever written. “Nothing if Not Critical” was the title, taken from Iago, that, with mordant self-mockery, he used for a collection of his criticism. And he was a pure critic: both his memoirs and his essays on cities came most alive when he was laying into someone, or pouring praise on something, explaining why one fountain in Rome is more beautiful than another, or why someone he met in the course of life was not beautiful at all. The critics’ work was his work—not disclosing, but describing, fixing, defending, denouncing.

He was, first of all, an artist who just missed having a career as one—as a young man, a cartoonist, his line was said to be ridiculously, fluidly nimble. (There is a wonderful portrait of the young, inspired, angelic-looking Hughes in Clive James’s “Unreliable Memoirs”; indeed, a fine biography might be written of Hughes and James and of the conquest of Anglo-American opinion by Australian energy and unspoiled ambition.) He thought with his hands. When he was defending a notion of permanent value in his mid-nineties “culture war” polemic, “The Culture of Complaint,” it wasn’t with a sniffy reference to Plato or Dante, but through his direct experience as an amateur carpenter, of the practice of planing, sawing, varnishing, and getting it right. There were good tables and bad tables; master carpenters to make them well and miserable ones to make them badly. Craft attempted with passion—that was his critical touchstone. Though it was part of his achievement to help end for all time the notion that novelty in art is in itself a virtue, or that “radicalism” or progress was in any way a reasonable end for creativity, he did so without becoming a reactionary. He had only contempt for the cheap smug conservative taste that risked nothing and tried no new thing, and rooted its suspicions in bile and bad faith. He much preferred a rough-worn and unvarnished table made by passionate hands to a smooth one made to pattern.

His values rose not from some distant imagined past, but from the European modernism that still vibrated with excitement in the Australia of his youth, where no one yet knew it well enough to have grown tired of it. Shaped—some might say scarred—by a resolute Jesuit education, Hughes had as a teen-ager drunk in the images and ideas of that faraway modernism without the least touch of complacent familiarity. (Mechanical reproduction heightened, enhanced its value for him.) In the same way that his contemporary Barry Humphries relished the dandy-art of the eighteen-nineties in a way that few Brits could, or that Clive James kept faith in the power of the heroic couplet to communicate, Hughes believed in modern art with something close to innocence. Although “The Shock of the New” is in many ways an account of the tragedy of modernism—the tragedy of Utopias unachieved, historical triumphs made hollow, evasions of market values that ended by serving them—that tragedy is more than set off by the triumph of modern artists. The thesis of “The Shock of the New,” if such a work can be reduced to one, is that what art lost when it could no longer credibly be a mirror of nature it had gained as a transmitter of lived experience, so that, if the surface of the world had been ceded to the photographic image, the essentials of existence—desire in Picasso, physical ecstasy in Matisse, or the agonized alienation in Giacometti, or all of them at once in Van Gogh—could now be expressed with newfound urgency.

Hughes had an impressive line in indignation, but he was allergic to irony. If he seemed at times out of place in New York it wasn’t by virtue of unorthodox opinions; it was because of a kind of robust, unashamed absence of irony, or meta-awareness, in his work, an absence of sentences placed in inverted quotations or of any despair about the ability of plain speech to achieve plain ends. What he really detested was mannerism, in all its guises, whether the mannerism was the Italian kind that had to be cured by Caravaggio or of the postmodern kind that had yet to be cured at all. If this left him blind to the virtues that mannerism may contain—elliptical thought, the tangle of reference, stylishness—well, who would not want to be in a minority clamoring for truth and passion in a mannerist age?

A radical conservative, a skeptic about the avant-garde in authority who relished the trespasses and achievements of the avant-garde in opposition, he was like Swift, someone who had been driven into reaction only by the excesses of the reforming party in power. He could be rough and even brutal, and, like every critic, his hits and misses are, in retrospect, in about even balance. The odd thing was that, in conversation, he was immune to the habit of turning differences of taste into differences of value. If you explained to him why, say, Jeff Koons or Damian Hirst was not quite the monster he had imagined, he would listen patiently, and then sum up your wavering, hesitant hems and haws in a neat phrase: “Hmmmn…Well, Yes. You’re saying that Koons is to sex what Warhol was to soup cans?” A machine gun burst of laughter. “All right, then!” As with all first-rate writers, the bite, and even occasional bluster, was covering up something, and in Bob’s case this was an enormous vulnerability: to experience, to people, to art. The images that arrive from a quarter century of sporadically intense friendship are not of enemies excoriated but of gentle gestures attempted, of poetry recited and far-distant masterpieces evoked.

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“Ah, yes!” was his usual start to a sentence, eyebrows raised in memory followed by the single name of whomever or whatever was about to be quoted or praised or described: “Ah, yes! Auden!” he would say, and then he would give you, from memory, the entire nativity section from “For the Time Being.” (I knew no contemporary writer of any kind who had so much poetry committed to memory; it was part of the rote-learning side of his Jesuit education.)

He was as touching a man as you could hope to meet: when our first son was born, Bob arrived at our loft with arms full of stuffed Australian animals for the newborn. “Now this, you see—this is … the Joey!” he said, showing him the baby kangaroo in its pouch, as though he were describing a work by David Smith. (When, a decade later, he called in the middle of the night, with the news that his only son, Danton, from whom he had long been estranged, but loved all the same, had taken his own life, it was with a desperate, apologetic grief that I have not, and hope never again, to hear equalled.) And, above all, he was a writer: I write this far from both from the Internet and from my own library and yet Hughes’s sentences and phrases stick in my head without either having to be consulted. For all the violence of his disdains, they are mostly phrases of enthusiasm: his insistence that Eric Fischl’s suburban vision “smells of unwashed dog, Bar-B-Q lighter fluid and sperm,” his evocation of the nineteenth-century American landscape artist as “God’s stenographer,” his description of a Morris Louis stain picture as “the watercolor that ate the art world,” or, more profoundly, his explanation of the rococo play of line and painterly weather in a Jackson Pollock and of how it belied his reputation as a mere paint-thrower.

He loved most of all art that danced on an edge between manifest accomplishment and audacity, where a painter managed to bring his or her sheer talent to bear upon the world—and then made the inadequacy of talent alone to bear adequate witness to the world manifest, too. The painters of the London School, which he did so much to raise in the world’s estimation, earned his trust because they echoed his virtues: a love of craft married to an allergy to mere elegance; a feeling for the life-giving qualities of healthy vulgarity and a love of life and the world as it really is, displayed without apology. The smears and howls and broken lines and awkward bodies, the will to truth evidenced in the open, blunt statements of Bacon and Auerbach and Kitaj and Freud—these artists were not so much his best subjects as his truest equivalents.

Criticism serves a lower end than art does, and has little effect on it, but by conveying value it serves a civilizing end. If Bob’s last years were in many ways sad, and at times agonized by the pain that his horrific 1999 automobile accident had left him, the work never stopped, and his affection for those round him never dimmed. Through it all, his mind would rise and a phone call would arrive, and one would race downtown to spend time with him; he would read page after page of whatever he was working on, reciting, in his gruff, warning voice, some masterly combo of verdict, examination, evocation, summary—and then, being Bob, look up, anxious as a schoolboy, and say, “But do you think it’s any good? Do you, really?” It was so much better than good that no good words came to mind. At the end of the evening he would dismiss you, as one raised Catholic and still surprised in the presence of the world, with a simple, “Bless you!” His writing will live as a repository of experience fixed in place by a consciousness tormented but never overthrown, and his memory will survive not as some hanging judge of the museums but as one of the indispensable mavericks of modern humanism.

Illustration by David Hughes, from Robert S. Boynton’s 1997 profile of Robert Hughes.

[thesinglesjukebox]

LADY GAGA WITH ARIANA GRANDE - RAIN ON ME

[7.21]

A collaboration of two raining pop stars...

Wayne Weizhen Zhang: When was the last time you felt queer joy? a friend recently messaged me. It's not the only message that I've gotten like it, coming from someone reflecting on how hard it is to find love in our queer identities when the spaces and support networks we've spent our adult lives creating are no longer easily accessible. Lockdown is hard for everyone, but queer people have it especially rough. I have friends who chose to stay alone rather than return to uncomfortable family situations; friends who chose to find shelter in other countries rather than go home; friends in nominally progressive, loving environments who still feel constantly micro-aggressed against. Due to COVID, I've been forced to live with my parents for four months now, during which time we've managed to avoid a huge confrontation about my sexuality--but I still feel so lonely and unseen. "Rain on Me," however, sees me. This song is big and dumb and flawed, and probably designed as fan-service, but it is so, so gay. The more-is-more sound, the delightful camp aesthetic of the promos, the millions of memes, the outrageous Chromatica merchandise are all as extra as I wish I could be. For God's sake, at one point, Ariana literally sings the words, "Gotta live my truth, not keep it bottled in." Two of the biggest gay icons in the world coming together to sing about their traumas in the pouring rain would have been cathartic pop under any circumstances, but under these, it feels like nothing short of triumphant, torrential queer joy. [9]

Tobi Tella: For the Gay Event of 2020, that beat drop is cribbed right from 2013. The two work well together, and the result is hard not to like, but I'm also finding it hard to love. [6]

Will Adams: "Stupid Love" worked as a return to form for the maximalist Gaga of yester-decade. "Rain On Me" works even better for the sweet surprise at how much energy she injects into filter house, a genre whose recent re-emergence has often felt lifeless. The growl she adds to the "RAIN on me" that punctuates the instrumental break does plenty on its own. The presence of Grande and the alternate chorus at the very end implies that there could have been more but what was left on the cutting room floor doesn't really matter when the final 3-minute product is this electrifying. [8]

Joshua Lu: At times "Rain on Me" feels like two separate dance tracks spliced together: one with Lady Gaga's hefty vocals serving as the backbone for a groovy instrumental, and another with Ariana Grande's lithe voice adroitly dancing on the pounding synths. Either can succeed on its own, but when they mix, they hamper one another. It's most evident on the bridge, where Ariana's breathy delivery clashes with Gaga's campy deep voice, which shouldn't be used there regardless -- hearing it for an entire section makes it less powerful when it pops up as the pre-chorus. [5]

Edward Okulicz: This Lady Gaga single is okay to pretty good, but the chorus is basically just "Rain Over Me" by Pitbull. [6]

Scott Mildenhall: Not everything has to be "Telephone," but Gaga's statements about "Rain on Me"'s personal significance hit home how run-of-the-mill the song feels compared with something so conceptually walloping. The deep personal connection Gaga felt with Grande is sadly inaudible, and the boldest it all gets is with her spoken delivery of the title, an appreciably camp touch in a song that is content and perhaps correct to colour within the lines, however brightly. [7]

Katherine St Asaph: Did not expect my first thought upon hearing a Gaga song to be Shut Up Stella. This shrinks a bit after hearing Chromatica, which has more massive tracks. [6]

Jacob Sujin Kuppermann: Gaga and Ari are pop music's two greatest theater kids. Every note, every line on "Rain on Me" is perfectly calibrated to demonstrate this, to make clear their skill at acting out the role of the pop star. The musical frame of the song is sturdy enough (it's not "Fade" or "Electricity" in terms of '90s house pastiche, but it grooves deeply enough to not seem lightweight), but "Rain on Me" is driven by their performances. It's most obvious on the song's bridge, where the combo of Gaga's imperial declarations and Ari's upper register meld together in kitschy glory. "Rain On Me" isn't a perfect song-- it's a bit underwritten, and the water metaphors don't fully come together-- but it's a near-perfect performance. [8]

Ryo Miyauchi: "I'd rather be dry, but at least I'm alive." It's a hook that's surely, and most likely unintentionally, informed by post-COVID life, but it also reminds me of the apocalyptic pop that flourished about a decade ago when dubstep was in full swing. That subgenre's structure still lives on at a elemental level, with the chorus devoid of lyrics, just now swapped for a chic, Justice-style electro-house. While any hint of doom might be more the beckoning of the current time, Lady Gaga and Ariana Grande's eager sense of abandon taps into now as much as it does to a recent past, and I hope it will speak to us in a similar way in the future when our world seems to be collapsing again in whatever context. [7]

Jessica Doyle: The more I listen to this the less it hangs together. Is the rain heartbreak or guilt? Is Lady Gaga the victim of it or using it for her own destructive ends? (Rain can be healing; tsunamis never are.) Why does she throw that cold, commanding "Rain. On. Me." refrain into a song that's supposed to be about vulnerable acceptance? And why isn't it "I'd rather be drunk, but at least I'm alive"? (Darn it.) I'll cede some power to the image of Gaga and Ariana Grande, both wounded and relatably self-aggrandizing, stomp-dancing around together in the rain, but stripped of pop-gossip context the song won't stick around. [5]

Leah Isobel: Lady Gaga is pop Jenny Holzer. She doesn't write lyrics, she writes slogans. I'D RATHER BE DRY, BUT AT LEAST I'M ALIVE isn't quite on the level of I WANT YOUR WHISKEY MOUTH ALL OVER MY BLONDE SOUTH, but the contrast between her severe consonants and Ariana's airy open vowels provides enough scaffolding that it works anyway -- and it doesn't hurt that the bass hurtles around that line like a Ferrari. If Gaga's oeuvre is a monument to the power of sheer determination, "Rain on Me" is what happens when she wills her sadness into release, her trauma into mere prelude; it's American pop myth-making at its purest. In that sense, it's an old-fashioned kind of triumph. [8]

Oliver Maier: Lady Gaga is too much of an auteur to really relinquish control. This is why her me/us-against-the-world cowboy songs suck, because she is at her best when she rules the reality that the music inhabits. On the strongest of her imperial-era singles, desperation and desire are either crystallised into museum exhibits or performed with such dark melodrama that they feel more like elaborate theatre for which she plays both director and lead role. "Rain On Me" is about giving in and letting herself cry, but the drop hinges critically on the spoken command that opens the floodgates; it's catharsis issued with total precision. Ariana, the reigning pop queen of emotional honesty, is at home on her confessional verse and then, having run out of stuff to do, sticks to ornamentation (it's funny that she gets a "with" credit for what is very much a "feat."). There are smart decisions -- the compact runtime, the way that the aqueous filtering drives the imagery home -- and then there's the simple, house-beats-go-brrrrr monkey brain joy of dance music that sounds this sure of itself; what it's doing, where it's going, how hard it slaps. [8]

Alex Clifton: Was this designed to get me through my next run? Through the next time Louisville is pelted by rain for days at a time? Through the pandemic? I'm not sure, but I've sold my soul to Gaga and Ariana for the above reasons and am more than happy with the results. [8]

Jackie Powell: I didn't really understand how this collaboration was going to work until I remembered the similarities that Grande and Gaga share. Besides the obvious that both are Italian, both have witnessed trauma in real-time and in front of the world. "Rain On Me" is a conversation that manifests in the music itself but also in all of its accompanying media, such as promotion its Robert Rodriguez-directed video. The moment when Lady Gaga pulls the knife out of her leg is purposeful Right as Gaga forcefully hauls the knife out of her thigh, Grande begins her verse. We can't move through pain and trauma alone; that invitation into conversation and togetherness is part of the healing. The melody of "Rain on Me," which I'm assuming was written mostly by Grammy-winning Nija, was orchestrated as an internal battle-cry that is designed to be spouted out. Gaga begins singing as we expect her to, with a deep darker belt in her sweet spot. But once we hit the pre-chorus goin into the chorus, she switches into bright head voice, which is where we expect Grande to be. Ari then sings deep in her chest, around the pre-chorus and into the chorus. There's a pattern. During the bridge, they switch again, and then again in the outro. As to what's going on with Gaga and her vocal fry in that bridge and the last phrase of the chorus, some say it's just classic Gaga, The Fame Monster Gaga. While that's correct, she uses it as a tool with multiple functions. It serves as a "c'mon let's go to #Chromatica" statement, but it's also a transition that facilitates the journey. It sets up the glorious bassline that not only explodes into the ears, but was directly interpolated from Gwen McCrae's "All This Love That I'm Giving." But back to the pre-choruses: They give the listener the track's thesis and its heart. In the first pre-chorus when Gaga belts that she's ready for the rain, she's not fighting it anymore. All of that emotion is happening. The second pre-chorus is the reformation of the feeling. It's not comfortable, but we need to just let it out, let it fall, and let it be felt. "I'm ready. Rain on me." [10]

[Read, comment and vote on The Singles Jukebox]

[sir-adamus]

So a lot of people seem to think the gods are good, or at least can't be judged because 'gods' or that at least the GoL is good and also that they are all wise, all powerful and at best only limit themselves to respect the free will of their creations and that at most defiant the series might have Ruby telling the gods they don't have the right to judge them or something. What's your take, on the gods in general and their potential narrative role & Scope of powers ETC?

i think a lot of the reason people think the gods are ‘good’ is for the same reason they think Ozpin ‘did nothing wrong’ (ie, because they’d rather blame a woman for everything). but they’re outright confirmed in the commentary to be based on Greek gods (famously abusive bastards) and Miles outright calls the God of Darkness an asshole

and they can absolutely be judged, the gods are by and large absolute bastards and just because they’re gods doesn’t mean they can’t (or shouldn’t) be held accountable for their awful actions just because they have a twisted sense of morality (it’s them who can’t judge humanity; they’ve got the power to destroy living, sapient beings who are just existing at any given moment for the pettiest of reasons, and they think they have the right to make that call)

and the God of Light isn’t remotely wise, otherwise he would’ve actually helped Salem with her grief instead of going “get over it lol” and then throwing a temper tantrum when she tried to convince his brother to help instead (a brother he actively mistreats while convincing him they’re equals - “oh yes brother, we are equals and created humanity together, now go back to your gross hole where they hate and despise you so they can keep adoring me” like he clearly has more power and influence over humanity than his brother does - to the point that the latter is genuinely surprised and touched that Salem came to visit him and was willing to break the agreed upon rules just as a favour to her)

‘wise’ gods wouldn’t get pissy the moment people stopped having faith in them and rage quitting (which the God of Light was obviously cool with - and then went behind his brother’s back to break the rule that caused this mess in the first place by bringing Oz back to life specifically for the purpose of summoning the gods back to Remnant to hang that sword of damocles back over their heads and phrasing it like he’s doing humanity a favour), ‘wise’ gods would actually value their creations autonomy and not treat this whole thing as an amusing experiment that they’re done playing with when their toys are too smart for them

and like, the God of Darkness’s parting words to Salem was “Still demanding things of your creators?” like, that’s such an abusive parent line! and this whole shit started because Salem was horribly abused by her father (oh yeah and the God of Light obviously already knew about that because he didn’t need context to know who Salem wanted him to resurrect, so he also apparently has more power than his brother - namely omniscience - yeah some equal partnership, and he also did nothing about that, some good guy) and understandably didn’t know how to deal with grief and the parting shot she gets (before she’s crushed by a chunk of the moon and left to wander the planet for eons, unable to even die) is that reminder of her father? yeah, they’re clearly the good guys who can be reasoned with - hell Salem’s whole gambit was banking on how fallible they actually were (a fact they really didn’t want humanity to know, apparently, given how the response was to kill everyone; they’re clearly not as all powerful as they pretend to be, even if they are major threats)

and like, why on earth would the heroes stop at Salem? someone who is only the way she is because of how she was mistreated time and again until she snapped (because let’s face it, none of that would be good for anyone’s sanity), and then when the people who put her in that position show up the heroes go “nah you guys are chill”? how does that make sense?

on top of that, it’s actively ignoring the inspirations that RWBY takes - this series is so blatantly inspired and influenced by JRPGs like Final Fantasy, and in those games, if there are gods, they will end up showing up, they will be bastards, and you will end up killing them because fuck the destiny they’ve written - it doesn’t make sense to treat that level of threat as ‘too big to handle’ and so just... not actually dealing with having those shitheads around; especially when the thesis statement of the show is that anything is possible when you work together

[lunahearts]

Some Star Wars thoughts, in no particular order

Preface: I really liked this movie. Spoilers below, obviously, but not many more than what was already leaked. I try to keep stuff vague, so if you like... know a couple of big things that are being talked about (way too much for some reason honestly oh my god) and are trying to decide if you want to see the movie, this should be safe!

Okay first, to get it out of the way... some complaints

Finn should have had more screen time, as usual. I do like was done with him in general, but there should have been more of it, and his biggest hero moment unfortunately felt a little underwhelming. I’m also pretty uncomfortable/disappointed with how he seemed to be portrayed as having like this one-sided thing for Rey that was even framed comedically at times. That being said they end the second to last scene and strongest emotional beat on him and it was very good (and tbh the scene that followed felt more like a stinger to me, as far as I’m concerned the movie closes on Finn finding a family, and a happy ending, and I love that)

The whole thing was jammed with at least a movie and a half’s worth of plot. *looks at tlj* no idea how that could have happened. I think it does a good job with what it has to work with, and tight writing + good set up and payoff make it work most of the time, but... room to process their feelings, characters have not.

The kiss was stupid. It also, imo, was entirely fanservice and if you removed like two shots and replaced them with something platonic GIVE US THE FOREHEAD TOUCH TAKE I KNOW IT EXISTS then I think that Rey and Kylo’s interactions were very well done. It’s not romantic unless you are already looking for it to be romantic. Except for the kiss. Which was stupid and sudden and out of place.

Okay anyway I am gonna gush now

So first of all I just think the plot and pacing of this movie was really well executed. It wasn’t the most exciting or daring of plots, but also it didn’t need to be. The rule of three set up and payoff was outstanding though, and that’s really what carries it. A lot of the time it’s easy to see that payoff coming, or at least see that it is coming, but it mostly feels like being a bit spoiled for a really good story - even if you have a good idea where it’s going you can still really enjoy the journey. And you probably don’t know exactly where it’s going, anyways.

my favorite example of this is something they set up really early about Rey and Kylo’s force bond, and a thing it can do. 

This first time it happens is a super fast “woah holy shit that can happen???” moment.

The second time its a “oh. oh no. it can happen and has happened in the worst possible way”

and the last time is “OH! OH!!! ITS GONNA HAPPEN ITS HAPPENING OH MY GOD.”

The THEMES. Holy shit the themes. This movie 100% sold me on Kylo redemption, as someone who was VERY uh... lets say I was very unimpressed by the idea of it going into things. And I’ll talk more about why I think “redemption” isn’t even exactly the right word, but for now yeah I’ll just say I really liked what they did with Kylo.

BUT ANYWAY THEMES. OKAY. I think it is so so vital and good to have a story so devoted to Doing The Right Thing. But not just doing the right thing. I think the absolute heart of the movie is just... no matter what you’ve done, no matter the mistakes you’ve made, choosing to do the right thing matters. It always matters.

Like okay I really think there’s a shift in how this movie deals with ye olde dark side compared to the first two, bc it’s very personal, and feels very grounded in trauma and fear and a phrase Liz said last night that I loved which is, “the seductive pull of despair.”

If I had to write is as a thesis statement I’d absolutely use that phrase, it would be something like...

“There is never a moment in which it is too late -- generationally, individually, or globally -- to resist the seductive pull of despair.”

But also like the other thesis is just “every good thing you do matters.” Which is probably one of my favorite power fantasies in the whole world.

Like there’s a group of people established at the midpoint of the film, who are just like, People Who Did The Right Thing. And they have been living ever since then taking care of each other, trying to unlearn the way they were raised, trying to resist despair in their own corner of the galaxy.

And like, in some ways it would be cool to just have them there! A nice story, a nice group of people, a nice expansion in the world of Star Wars. But that’s NOT where it leaves them, and very specifically there’s a moment in the final big confrontation where the big nasty man is like “do a thing! stop them!” and it doesn’t work specifically bc of an aspect of these people and the life they’ve built makes it not work. It’s funny and satisfying and a wonderful emotional payoff all at once.

And basically this is why the Kylo stuff works for me. Because it’s really not about him, it’s about Rey and Leia. It’s about Rey and Leia choosing to do good, and how that matters. If Kylo had stayed a shitty evil brat until the end, then their stories wouldn’t have been as powerful.

Kylo “I’m only here to reinforce themes” Ren

Okay but to touch a bit more on redemption, I really don’t think he’s redeemed. Or like, he’s not redeemed because it’s not about balancing anything out, or him going down in history as a Good Man, or other characters forgiving him. It’s about him spending the whole movie saying “you can’t go back Rey, once you do something bad you are bad and you can’t go back home.”

And they Rey does something bad

She does something bad and IMMEDIATELY LOSES HER CHANCE TO MAKE IT BETTER WITH THE PERSON MOST HURT BY HER ACTION

And then she does something good anyway

Because you can always do something good, and you can always go back. Even if you hurt someone you love. Even if you become, for a moment, what you are most afraid of. Even if you can’t unmake your mistakes. You can still do good. You can still make the world better.

And that is why he chooses to change. And that is a good reason to change. To see someone demonstrate that there is always room for kindness? To see that and find a hope you had lost years ago? That’s good shit! That’s what Star Wars is about babey!

Also the banter was back and good and the Trio Content oh my god. Thank you. Finally.

New droid is baby and I love them.

The new lady characters are obviously underdeveloped but I DO love them. There’s a moment at the end of the movie that makes me really hope that one of them gets a spin-off/sequel, and there is ample room for a standalone Poe prequel featuring the other one. I think they have pretty strong characterizations for the space they get.

also one of them gets an extremely good moment with Rey that killed me. Like don’t get ur hopes up for any actual content or conversation but it was one of those “oh I REALLY hope there’s fanfic” moments and I loved it.

I love Rey [redacted] and I will have to write a whole other post about her maybe.

I thought Poe’s arc was cool! It wasn’t what I was expecting but I thought it was interesting and I’m always down for some “ur friends are here for you, you don’t have to and also literally can’t do everything on ur own.

That’s another theme of the film btw and its good

Most of the action scenes were just kinda “eh okay this is a Star Wars movie I guess they gotta do that now. Like fun and flashy but overall without much substance.

BUT I really liked the second lightsaber fight with Rey and Kylo. Good way to mix it up.

Leia...........

Leia good

You are not your blood! You are the family you choose. Thank u and also finally.

I really liked how this movie handled the Sith and the lore/perspective it added honestly makes a lot of Sith stuff in general make more sense to me. It’s one of those cool bits of lore that isn’t exactly a retcon but it is retroactive context that shows everything in different light. Or like maybe that’s always been the context but I think it’s more clear and upfront about it. 

I cried at one part bc there were lots of different ship designs all on screen at the same time and it was like.... wow... star war.... star war good.

star war good

[thederailedtrain]

The Mark of Oblivion: Loose Ends [Five]

All things considered, spending the day in the basement of the shop wasn’t so bad. Really, the worst parts were the lack of comfortable seating and not being able to shower. Also, not having a phone anymore sucked. Kira hoped she was due for an upgrade, otherwise that bill was going to suck.

Besides her phone, she had everything she needed. Gus brought her breakfast alongside a hardcopy of her thesis and then dinner later that night. Cedric visited her as well once he’d taken a nap, and regularly after that. Every time, he apologized profusely, but Kira brushed it all off. None of this was his fault and just because she couldn’t sleep didn’t mean he had to stay up for her. He was an incubus, and Kira still remembered what he’d told her about his kind during their early magic lessons. Sleep was crucial for him. She wasn’t about to deprive him of it.

Honestly, the hardest times were when she just couldn’t look at her thesis for another second. Trying to get a read on the shop patrons overhead gave her something to do during the day, but when closing time came around, Kira found herself alone again. It was just really boring.

Kira had much worse days. She forced herself not to think of those last few days at the end of the summer after her undergrad graduation, when she practically lived at the hospital.

But the thought had already come to her. It struck deep within her heart, a place she hadn’t touched in years. The memory was enough to make her chest ache and, before Kira knew what was happening, the basement was once again filled with waves of explosive energy.

Once she finally reigned everything back in, the first thing she did was chuck her phone across the room with a shout. What did it matter? It was already dead anyway.

Afterwards, Kira stood in the center of the room for some time. She had no idea what to do with herself. Cedric told her he was going to bed hours ago and he slept like the dead, so Kira doubted he’d woken up from this most recent meltdown. Gus was practically nocturnal, even moreso after his change, but he probably wasn’t awake now either. How would she even get into contact with him? The same went for Toni.

There wasn’t anyone she could talk to, not really. She was alone. Completely and utterly alone. The only person who could even understand what she was going through was in the hospital, fighting for his life.

Just the thought of Salazar was enough to bring heat to Kira’s chest once more. She caught it quickly this time, swallowing it down. Kira placed a hand over her heart and waited for the beats to become less frequent, softer.

Once everything was back to normal, she let out a long breath and dropped slowly to her knees. From there, Kira carefully rolled onto her back, sprawling out on the basement floor. Yeah, it was cold and dirty, but it was the most comfortable option she had at the moment.

At least being alone meant she could process everything that had just happened without outside distractions. Her dreams really had been prophetic. Layla was back. Layla had stabbed Salazar - stabbed her father - and delivered an ominous warning. I’ll be around. Kira had been given the Mark of Oblivion. She was the Guardian of Mixba’al.

How was that only twenty-four hours ago? It felt like a lifetime. But when Kira looked back at it, she realized just how little had happened since. That’s why the pain of loss and reunion was still so fresh. Each memory threatened to light her up from the inside, but Kira was getting better at bringing herself back from going thermonuclear. Not one hundred percent of the time, but it was still an improvement. What good would she be as Guardian if she couldn’t even control this?

By the time she heard Cedric moving around upstairs again, everything at least felt real. That made it easier to think about without the Mark acting up. Not entirely safe, but easier. Only a couple more hours, Kira told herself, and then she could stop channeling the same neutral magic.

The door of the basement opened and a gasp immediately followed. “Kira!” Cedric’s cry was one of a man whose breath had been knocked from his lungs by shock.

Oh, right, Kira thought. Lying down face up on the floor probably wasn’t a good look on her right now. Kira grumbled out a curse as she opened her eyes and pulled herself onto her elbows. Her body ached from lying on concrete and the basement lighting was a lot harsher than she remembered. She had to blink a couple times before Cedric’s figure at the top of the stairs came into focus.

Belatedly, she realized she probably needed another dose of Cedric’s energy drink potion. It was nearing the twenty-four hour mark he’d set earlier. Yeah, lying on the floor wasn’t the smartest decision.

Even from the floor, Kira could hear Cedric’s sigh of relief. “Oh, gods, Kira. I thought you were…”

“Dead?” Kira finished for him. He winced like that wasn’t the most obvious of answers to his unfinished statement. “Just dead bored.” She watched him cautiously descend the steps. “Any updates from Ravid?”

“Not yet, but she said twenty-four hours and she’s never let me down before,” Cedric replied. By the time he reached the basement floor and was standing in front of Kira, she hadn’t moved. He looked around for a moment before shrugging and taking a seat next to her. “How’ve you been?” Cedric added, eyes full of concern. Then, there was a spark of humor in them. “Besides bored, of course.”

“I’ve been...better,” Kira replied after a moment. What was the point in lying to him? “Kinda getting tired again, but if each dose of the potion lasts for twenty-four hours, and the charms will be ready before that, then I probably should refrain from taking another.”

Cedric nodded, following along. “And the magical outbursts? Do they seem to be getting better?”

“I guess?” Kira shrugged, but the way she phrased it as a question betrayed any confidence she’d been hiding behind. “But I can’t keep doing this. I have no idea what I’m doing. I need to get out of this basement. I need to sleep.” She took a breath, hating the way it shuddered on the exhale. “I need Salazar.”

“Well, then, I have some good news.” Kira looked up from where she’d been playing with a loose thread on her jeans and found Cedric smiling back at her. “I heard from the hospital when I got up this morning. Salazar made it through the night. He’s officially in stable condition.”

The sound Kira let out was supposed to be a cry of joy, but it came out garbled around the tears welling in her throat. She blinked away the water in her eyes, turning the sound into a laugh. Her voice was small when she asked, “Do you know when he’ll be...back?” She nearly said ‘home’.

“Not for another day or two,” Cedric sighed. “Josie was able to help him enough that he didn’t need surgery by the time the doctors got to him. However, they still want to keep him around for observation.”

Of course they did. Kira made a face. She hated hospitals. Just the thought of going made chills race up Kira’s spine. She refused to let herself imagine what Salazar looked like right now, tubes wrapped around his face, tying him to machines...Would Salazar be angry if she didn’t visit?

“Hey, there’s even more good news,” Cedric added when Kira gave no sign of outward response. “Ravid says she thinks everything should be ready by noon.”

Noon, as Kira found out, was only four hours away. That was all the motivation Kira needed to return to her thesis. Really, when else was she gonna have the time or the distractionless environment? The binder holding all her papers together looked a little worse for wear after having been caught up in more than one of Kira’s explosive episodes earlier, but there was still enough in there to dedicate her time to. Good thing this copy of her thesis wasn’t the final draft. Doctor Nichols would’ve probably been concerned with all the scorch marks.

Towards the end of her first run of edits, Kira caught herself resting her eyes for a little too long. She bolted upright, taking a huge breath. No, no, no, she couldn’t fall asleep. Not when she was so close.

Vaguely, Kira remembered something Gus had said about endorphins once. Endorphins were an exercise thing, right? Anything would help at this point, so Kira rolled her eyes and dropped into push-up position. God, she hadn’t kept up with exercise since dropping out of tae kwon do at the end of high school. Push-ups were a lot more difficult than she remembered.

“You doing alright down there?”

The sound of Cedric’s voice interrupted what was, by her count, her thirty-eighth push-up. Kira rolled onto her back, narrowing her brows at the man standing at the top of the stairs. He was smirking. She continued to glare, but filed away the look for later. It wasn’t one she got to see much these days.

Then, Kira suddenly jumped to her feet. Bad decision, as it turned out. She had to wait a second for the spots to clear from her vision. “Wait,” she said once she was steady on her feet again. “Are you checking up on me, or…” Kira couldn’t finish the sentence. It was too much to hope for.

The smirk on Cedric’s face softened into a warm smile. Kira would’ve run up the steps and leapt into Cedric’s arms were it not for the other face that appeared at his side in that moment. Kira recognized the woman from the times she’d come by the shop, usually to give Cedric a few more charms for consignment.

“Nice to see you, Kira,” Ravid greeted as she and Cedric made their way down the stairs.

“Good morning- afternoon. Is it afternoon?” Kira replied.

Suddenly, Kira was very aware of the effect thirty plus hours in a basement had taken on her appearance. No shower, no hairbrush, no change of clothes. Three day-old makeup. When Kira raised her hands to wave, she was dismayed to find the remnants of dried blood in her nail beds. By contrast, Ravid always looked so put-together. Her pantsuit today was no exception. Kira wanted to crawl into a hole, but she was already in a basement.

Cedric took a quick glance at his watch. “Just about.” Great, Kira had officially lost her sense of time. “Don’t worry, we’re about to get you out of here.”

Taking that as her cue, Ravid stepped forwards. In her hands was a small drawstring bag made of blue velvet and embroidered with silver thread. “Your hands please,” she said and Kira did as instructed.

At first, Kira thought Ravid would be placing some kind of pendant or necklace in her open palms. However, the enchantress took Kira’s right hand in hers, slipping a ring around her pinky finger.

“How’s the fit?” Ravid asked, examining Kira’s finger. She tugged on it lightly a few times, but it didn’t budge. It didn’t feel tight either. When Kira told her this, her face broke into a proud smile. “Not bad for flying blind.”

As Ravid drew another ring from the bag and placed it on her other hand, Kira examined the one she already had on. The ring itself was composed of three bands, the outer two featuring a pattern of simple ridges. At its center was a white stone with splotches of blue and green. While it was certainly pretty, Kira couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed. She didn’t sense any magic coming from the stone or the ring itself.

That is, until the second ring was firmly in place. It was like putting on noise cancelling headphones. There had been a constant humming from everywhere at once that Kira hadn’t noticed until it was gone. Kira actually stumbled back a step, off-balance in this new, quiet world.

“Are you okay?” Cedric asked, rushing over to place a steadying hand on Kira’s shoulder. The sound of his voice brought Kira back to the present.

Because all Kira could do was nod, Ravid spoke up. “That means the rings should be working.” She turned to Kira and took her hands one at a time, adding, “Inflow, outflow. With these rings on, you should be completely disconnected from every kind of ambient magic, not just telluric currents. I’m sorry I couldn’t figure out a more specific charm. Ritual spells, scrying...they’re all going to be more difficult with these on.”

“That’s fine,” Kira assured her. They had other witches working with them now, so it wasn’t a complete loss. These were only meant to be training wheels anyway. Just until Salazar was healed and she could learn from him once more.

At the thought of Salazar, Kira braced herself for the rush of heat and magic she knew was coming...but it never did. Kira blinked down at her hands, the rings reflecting dimly under the cold basement lights.

“Holy shit,” Kira muttered. She couldn’t help herself. Ravid was damn good at what she did.

And if she didn’t have to worry about emotions distracting her from her shielding spell...Cautiously, Kira tried to let go of the magic she’d wrapped around herself for no less than two days.

It was slow-going at first. Then, a single part of her shield fractured. Kira gasped as all the magic she’d kept woven around herself for the last two days unraveled all at once.

When Kira opened her eyes, she found both Ravid and Cedric staring at her with various levels of concern. She laughed quietly to herself, shaking her head at them. That shield had been made of neutral magic, so she wasn’t sure if either of them could feel when she let go of it. She probably looked a little crazy back there.

Cedric seemed to figure it out first. “How are you feeling?” He asked.

“Like I was holding a weight for the last few days,” Kira said after a moment’s thought. “And I could finally let go.” She sighed, tension leaving her body. The adrenaline went with it. “Also, exhausted,” Kira added, feeling exactly like she hadn’t slept in three days.

“Well, I think my work here is done,” Ravid beamed.

“Thank you,” Kira told her. “So much. I honestly couldn’t tell you- Thank you. Really.”

Ravid reached out, taking one of Kira’s hands in her own and giving it a good shake. “Of course,” she smiled. Then she turned to Cedric. “I’m headed back to my shop. Don’t be a stranger, alright?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Cedric replied.

“Oh, and about that favor...You’ll be hearing from me in a few weeks if the situation doesn’t resolve itself,” Ravid said and Kira blinked. Wait, what situation? “I’ll call you, alright?” What situation?

Then she leaned in and placed a kiss on his cheek. What surprised Kira was that Cedric reciprocated the gesture, his smile matching Ravid’s when they pulled back. A shot of something uncomfortable raced through her stomach. Why didn’t Cedric feel comfortable getting that close to her these days? Not that she necessarily wanted Cedric to kiss her, just-

Kira turned away before she was caught staring. She said a goodbye to Ravid as she headed back up the steps, leaving her and Cedric down below. Alone.

“So, um, do you need me in the shop today?” Kira asked, trying to change the subject her mind seemed so fixated on. “I mean, I might need to borrow your shower if I want to look presentable for customers, but-”

“No,” Cedric cut in. Then, in a less immediate tone, “Go home, Kira. Sleep. You deserve it.” Kira saw him raise a hand that was probably bound for her arm, but it never quite made it there. “Of course, you’re free to use my shower if you’d prefer. And my couch is open if you don’t think you’ll be able to make it to your apartment.”

“It’s not a far walk. I’ll be fine. Thanks for the offer, though,” Kira added quickly when it looked like Cedric would insist. “And I don’t really care what I look like. This is New York. The only people who give a shit about the appearance of other pedestrians are tourists.”

The sigh Cedric gave was one of agreement. “Well, if I can’t convince you to stay…” But Kira was already picking up her binder and the remains of her cellphone. The two of them began to head for the stairs.

“I mean, I can come back tonight if you really need me,” Kira suggested, only half joking.

“We should be alright here,” Cedric turned back to her several stairs ahead to flash her a smile. “Gus is actually coming in later today, after he’s done at Henderson. He was looking for more hours and he wanted a couple pointers about magic so he could help customers better.”

That managed to bring a smile to Kira’s face. There was something exciting about the thought of working side-by-side in the shop with her best friend. “Tell him hi for me,” Kira said. It wasn’t exactly a question, but Cedric nodded back at her anyway.

Once they made it into the lobby of the shop, they both hesitated. Kira was the first to laugh - there was really nothing else to do - and Cedric followed with a chuckle shortly afterwards.

“I don’t really know what to say,” Kira muttered once she’d finished laughing, tone low enough to keep their conversation private from the handful of customers milling around the shop.

Cedric nodded back, looking out over the shop lobby. When he turned back to Kira, it was with an expression she couldn’t say she’d seen on him before. “There are too many things to say,” he said eventually. “Thank you - for everything you’ve done these last few days. The battle, the aftermath; for staying strong the whole time. I- we couldn’t have done it without you. And...I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Kira replied immediately. She wasn’t sure how to accept all the compliments Cedric had just thrown at her, so she focused on the second part of his statement. “None of it was your fault. Besides, I had a lot of time to get through, well, everything when I was down there.”

For a moment, Kira worried Cedric would try to apologize again. The glare she sent him seemed to do the trick. “Well, I should probably let you get back to your place, then,” he decided on.

“Guess so,” Kira replied.

She wondered, briefly, if he would kiss her cheek to send her off the way he had with Ravid. Cedric leaned in part of the way and Kira’s chest warmed, only for him to pat her on the shoulder instead. Right, so they were still doing this, then. If he wasn’t comfortable with it, then Kira sure as hell wasn’t going to instigate.

As he withdrew, something else bubbled to Kira’s lips. “Blessed be.” The words tumbled from her tongue before she could process them, but it just felt right.

If the surprised smile on Cedric’s face was anything to go by, he seemed to think so too. “Blessed be,” he echoed.

It was only halfway back to her apartment that Kira realized there was something she wanted to discuss with Cedric. They both agreed to talk it over once the battle had finished...

Screw it, Kira decided, letting out a huff of frustration. She wasn’t walking all the way back to the shop to hash things out with Cedric now. And she was too tired for the argument that was bound to follow. Whatever - she was going to see him the next day anyway. They could just talk about it then.

By the time Kira made it to her apartment, she’d forgotten all about it. Future arguments, the battle, the thesis-carrying binder she held under her arms. All she could think about was how damn tired she was. Hell, she didn’t even remember half of her walk home.

After undressing and redressing on autopilot, Kira hurriedly crawled under the covers. She was honestly shocked when sleep didn’t claim her the moment her head hit the pillow. Part of her was worried she’d somehow forgotten how to sleep.

But sleep flooded in before she was even aware of it. Was she really dreaming, though? Kira couldn’t be sure. If she was, then she was dreaming of nothing.

Literally, nothing. But, strangely, Kira was aware of herself within it. Inky blackness stretched out in every direction, and somehow she knew that there was nothing else within the darkness. It was peaceful in the nothingness because she was part of it herself. Here, she was nothing. And right now, nothing was a very comforting thing to be.

[vgraz]

Six Degrees of Separation

from the play "Six Degrees of Separation" written by John Guare

(Paul, a black man in his early twenties, has conned his way into the posh New York apartment of an art dealer and his wife, Louisa and Flan. They are examples of the politically correct and the socially concerned; he is an example of a con man par excellence, who has convinced them he is the son of Sidney Poitier, knows their children, and graduated from Harvard. They inquire about his thesis and how he became intrigued with its subject.)

Paul: Well...a substitute teacher out on Long Island was dropped from his job for fighting with a student. A few weeks later, the teacher returned to the classroom, shot the student unsuccessfully, held the class hostage and then shot himself. Successfully. This fact caught my eye: last sentence. Times. A neighbor described him as a nice boy. Always reading Catcher in the Rye.

The nitwit -- Chapman -- who shot John Lennon said he did it because he wanted to draw the attention of the world to The Catcher in the Rye and the reading of the book would be his defense.

And young Hinckley, the whiz kid who shot Reagan and his press secretary, said if you want my defense all you have to do is read Catcher in the Rye. It seemed to be time to read it again.

Flan: I haven't read it in years. (Louisa shushes him.)

Paul: I borrowed a copy from a young friend of mine because I wanted to see what she had underlined and I read this book to find out why this touching, beautiful, sensitive story published in July 1951 had turned into this manifesto of hate.

I started reading. It's exactly as I remembered. Everybody's a phony. Page two: "My brother's in Hollywood being a prostitute." Page three: "What a phony his father was." Page nine: "People never notice anything."

Then on page 22 my hair stood up. Remember Holden Caulfield -- the definitive sensitive youth -- wearing his red hunter's cap. "A deer hunter hat? Like hell it is. I sort of closed one eye like I was taking aim at it. This is a people-shooting hat. I shoot people in this hat."

Hmmm, I said. This book is preparing people for bigger moments in their lives than I ever dreamed of. Then on page 89: "I'd rather push a guy out the window or chop his head off with an ax than sock him in the jaw...I hate fist fights...what scares me most is the other guy's face..."

I finished the book. It's a touching story, comic because the boy wants to do so much and can't do anything. Hates all phoniness and only lies to others. Wants everyone to like him, is only hateful, and he is completely self-involved. In other words, a pretty accurate picture of a male adolescent. And what alarms me about the book -- not the book so much as the aura about it -- is this: the book is primarily about paralysis. The boy can't function. And at the end, before he can run away and start a new life, it starts to rain and he folds.

Now there's nothing wrong in writing about emotional and intellectual paralysis. It may indeed, thanks to Chekhov and Samuel Beckett, be the great modern theme.

The extraordinary last lines of Waiting For Godot -- "Let's go." "Yes, let's go." Stage directions: they do not move.

But the aura around this book of Salinger's -- which perhaps should be read by everyone but young men -- is this: it mirrors like a fun house mirror and amplifies like a distorted speaker one of the great tragedies of our times -- the death of the imagination.

Because what else is paralysis?

The imagination has been so debased that imagination -- being imaginative -- rather than being the lynchpin of our existence now stands as a synonym for something outside ourselves like science fiction or some new use for tangerine slices on raw pork chops -- what an imaginative summer recipe -- and Star Wars! So imaginative! And Star Trek -- so imaginative! And Lord of the Rings -- all those dwarves -- so imaginative --

The imagination has moved out out the realm of being our link, our most personal link, with our inner lives and the world outside that world -- this world we share. What is schizophrenia but a horrifying state where what's in here doesn't match up with what's out there?

Why has imagination become a synonym for style?

I believe that the imagination is the passport we create to take us into the real world.

I believe the imagination is another phrase for what is most uniquely us.

Jung says the greatest sin is to be unconscious.

Our boy Holden says "What scares me most is the other guy's face -- it wouldn't be so bad if you could both be blindfolded -- most of the time the faces we face are not the other guys' but our own faces. And it's the worst kind of yellowness to be so scared of yourself you put blindfolds on rather than deal with yourself..."

To face ourselves.

That's the hard thing.

The imagination.

That's God's gift to make the act of self-examination bearable.

[spookyjuicefiction]

Serendipitous - Chapter Three

MASTER LIST

His hand clamped hard down on my wrist on the table, and I felt metal under the glove clunking against the wood.

“Don’t panic. Keep your voice down. I’m not going to hurt you,” he whispered tersely, casting paranoid glances around the mangy pub. No one was paying us any attention, but inside my brain was screaming.

“I’m not… I don’t do that anymore,” he murmured to me urgently, still holding my wrist in place. “I’m not going to hurt you, or anyone. I’m just trying to figure out what happened to me. I’m just trying to figure out who I am.”

“Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes,” I recited back to him automatically. The whiskey was roiling in my otherwise empty stomach now, and heat crawled up the back of my neck, making me feel dizzy. “HYDRA’s most elite assassin and the government’s number one Most Wanted.” He did not look so much like a deadly assassin at this moment, though. The skin on his face was papery and drawn, and his clothes looked tattered. With a heavy sigh he withdrew his hand, releasing my wrist, and the eyes that met mine were full of misery and despair.

“Yeah, that’s right. Look, just give me a 30 minute head start before you call the cops and you can consider your debt repaid. Go home and for the love of God stay out of this neighborhood from now on.”

He started to get up. “Wait,” I said reaching out and catching his sleeve, “just… sit down a minute. I… I won’t call the cops.” He raised an eyebrow, and I swallowed. A reckless idea had sprung unbidden to my mind, a product of panic and whiskey, no doubt. I took a deep breath and began again. “You said you needed help. Kliment is dead, which means we’re both screwed right now. But maybe we can help each other out. Your insight into HYDRA’s inner workings are invaluable, a prime source, exactly what I would need to expose the truth. I’m an expert in brain trauma.” Sort of, I thought. Not a doctor, but I know what I’m doing. I hope. “I can help you figure out the truth. I know techniques for unlocking memories.” He looked concerned, as though he thought perhaps I had suffered brain trauma for proposing an arrangement with the Winter Soldier. Maybe I had. Did I bang my head in that alley?

He scrubbed his hand over his eyes, suddenly looking exhausted. “I’m leaving Philly tonight. I’ve been here too long already. Kliment was my last ditch effort before I go. It’s a nice idea, but I’m afraid this is the last time you’ll see me.”

A new jolt of panic flashed through me, my thesis Holy Grail and my future flashing before my eyes. “You can’t,” I said, a little hysterical. This night had really frayed my nerves. “I need your help. And it sounds like you need mine.” I tried to be confident with that last phrase, straightening my back, trying to match his height.

Giving a humorless snort, he retorted, “Not gonna happen, doll. Have a nice life.”

He was up and heading for the door before I had a chance to take in his words and I scrambled out of the booth after him. He pushed out the door and into the street, walking briskly. I nearly had to run to keep up.

“Wait!” I panted. I was certainly no super soldier. “Wait, let’s at least talk about this for a second. You saved my life, I know you’re not a bad guy, I can help you! You don’t have to be alone!”

Stopping in his tracks, the Winter Soldier rounded on me and I shrank back, afraid.

“Yes, I do. I’m a criminal on the run. Alone is the only way I survive. Alone, and as far away as I can get. Being around me only puts us both in danger, and it seems to me you’ve had enough of that for one night.” I flinched at the memory of the men in the alley, but I was determined now.

“Danger I can handle, but failure is not an option.” I took a step towards him. “I’ll go with you.”

His eyebrows went up and he let out another snort, but no smile touched his lips.

“Oh will you? Have a lot of experience in international criminal espionage, do you?

I stayed calm, although my blood was boiling. “No, but you have more than enough for the both of us. Every criminal needs a partner. I can make you look less suspicious; people get nervous when they see a man alone, but everyone trusts a couple. And more importantly, I can help you find out who you are. I can get your memories back. That’s a promise.”

He frowned at me silently. After a moment, he simply asked, “why?”

I took a measured breath, and said slowly, “I want to be the one to expose the real truths about HYDRA. For once and for all. When I publish this thesis, not only is it going to get me my Master’s, but put me at the forefront of cutting edge psychological thinking. And more importantly, bring justice to those bastards who hurt you and so many others. This is my future, and the future of criminal psychology in the age of powered people. But I can’t do it without your help.” I shifted on my feet, and then added more quietly, “Please, James.”

He studied me for a long minute before pinching the bridge of his nose and sighing exhasperatedly. “I hope you’re a quick packer. The boat leaves in 2 hours.” He dropped his hand and gave me an icy look. “And my name is Bucky.”