#this has been sitting in my drafts since i saw the move in theaters

[bejeweledblondie]

Hello! God, I recently found your blog and I love it!!! I'm also a big Taylor fan and I've had this idea in mind! You are free to do it [or not do it] and modify it!

Based on *All too Well*

I was thinking of one of these guys

Jonh Price / Köing/ Ghost/ Philip Graves

"You kept me like a secret and I kept it like an oath"

"But you keep my old scarf from that very first week' Cause it reminds you of innocence And it smells like me"

And maybe we got lost in translationMaybe I asked for too much"

I love the song and I can't stop thinking about them!!!

-🌙

Hello! So happy you’re enjoying the blog! No joke I had this sitting in my drafts debating on whether or not to post it! I lost my voice last Friday SCREAMING “All Too Well” in the theater. Even if you’re not a swiftie it’s just a lyrical masterpiece

All to Well 🧣

Captain John Price x F! Reader

Summary: Based on the ten minute version of All Too Well, John has to face what he had done to his beloved red scarf & all

Warnings: cheating, John being a dick, the usual

“And maybe we got lost in translation maybe I asked for too much, maybe this thing was a master piece before you tore it all up”

Heels in hand Y/N sat on the steps of the hotel where the military ball she was attending with John was being held. She was sobbing her eyes out into her hands. While trying to figure out where he wandered off to, she stumbled across him & his secretary having sex in a bathroom stall. He had told her not to worry about her, but her intuition told her otherwise. These past few months had been excruciatingly difficult. He spent his time home out late, leave her to sit by the front door waiting for him to return. Shallow excuses coming from him over the phone had made her cry herself to sleep one too many times. The sickening smell of his secretary’s perfume lingered on him when he’d come home, & yet he gaslighted her into believing otherwise.

She stood up as she saw the Uber she had called for pull up in front of the hotel. John was adjusting his dress uniform bow tie while running towards the doors to intercept her. Other officers looked at him confused as he sped past them. His secretary Camille wasn’t too far behind him calling his name. Y/N turned her head back when she heard him calling her name. With haste she closed the door to the Uber & ordered the driver to speed away. John was left standing on the sidewalk watching her go. He let out an annoyed sigh & turned around to see his team at the doors. Laswell looking so disappointed in him, & what he had done.

It had been months since Y/N moved out. Contrary to the rumors, Camille didn’t move in with the Captain. She was swiftly fired from her position, & was forced out of the contracting community. Laswell made sure of that. No, John was forced to live with the ghosts of his past lover. Just last week he found the red scarf that she adored hidden in a couch cushion. He inhaled the scent of the red wool trying to remember what her perfume smelled like.

Kyle was deeply concerned for his superiors mental health ever since he ended his relationship so they decided to go to the local pub. After a quick shower & shave he got dressed. He grabbed his jacket off of the rack. The red wool scarf hung beside it taunting him of his mistake. He grabbed it & put it on before leaving. Simon greeted him at the door & they all got a round then headed back to a table in the back corner. He was starting to feel himself go back to happy self before he ended things with Y/N. That was until she walked in with a couple of friends.

They locked eyes, & there was shift in the air. It felt tense. Simon picked it up on the body language shift in his Captain. He followed John’s gaze & sighed as soon as his spotted her. She looked equally as emotionally distressed.

“Talk to her,” Simon said. “You look absolutely fucking miserable Price, & you two have a lot to fix.” Price looked at Simon knowing he was right, this was his mistake he needed to fix. He reluctantly stood up & wiped his hands on his jeans. Her friend Este, stopped mid sentence to glare at the bearded man. She turned around knowing it was coming sooner rather then later.

“Let’s get this over with.” She sighed following him out to the street. You both sat on a bench only a few shops down from the pub. John had planned thousands of things to say to you but now he was speechless.

“What do you want John?” She asked looking at him. “Did we get lost in translation, did I ask for too much?” She spat. Embarrassment & shame turned his cheeks crimson red.

“I wanted to talk.” He simply stated. “I was a fucking selfish prick.”

“I’ll say.” You scoffed. “I swear all you men have the fucking audacity I swear.”

“I don’t disagree.” He replied in agreement. “Listen, I’m in a new hell Y/N.”

“You don’t think I am?” She cried out. “What we had was a masterpiece John before you tore it all up.”

“And I was a fucking idiot.” John said.

“You told me if we had been closer in age, maybe we would’ve been fine.” She stated. “God I still do love you dearly, John. But how can I make sure you won’t break me like a promise?” He took the red wool that lingered of her vanilla fragrance & placed it around her neck.

“Because instead of mailing your things to you, I kept a whole drawer of memories you left behind hoping you’d return to me. You’re the only real thing I’ve ever known.” He replied honestly. She was taken a back he kept even the littlest things she left, from hair pins to the red scarf. Anything to still have a piece of her. He placed a hand on her now flushed cheek. The bitter cold London air started to nip at their exposed skin. Little flecks of white glistened as it started to fall from the sky. The first snow of the winter season. He grabbed her waist & pulled her in for a deep kiss. After they both pulled away they sat in the moment to remember it all too well.

[everyothernamistaken]

chaos

so like the conclusion of my stupidity, tech week has dawned upon me, it fucking sucks and fuckint hell my father woke up just to yell about random shit why does he do this but anyways so they drafted me to do spotlights, ive nwver done a theater thint and i never will again becaude a decent chunk of the ppl there make me quesrion my sanity but basicly i spendlike 6 hours a day in a box in the celing inhailing probably toxic fumes from rhe light wich burns my hands because it was designed by a idior who must have been blind cause you cant aim it and rhe handles are conected to the several hundred degree loghts so that sucjs, also they never trained me they litterslt sent me up and told me to turn nobs till i know what im doing. Concequently, i might ruin a entire musical! Also chucklenuts mcvehicularmanslaughter was for some unholy reason back which is strange because he moved and got dumped by my ex who i apparently was never going out with, but yeah that was weird but then i demolished those theater kids in music trivia. Then this one girl i kicked in the face like a few months ago kept talking to me, i think i saw her taking pictures of me earlier which is weird but she rambles alot and im not sure how to feel about her maybe its morbid curiosity like she is a small bit nuts(most hyperactiver person ive seen recently) but like entertaining to whitness. Also despite havint no freerime i have to write a amicus curae thing for school and i do NOT want to do that. Also the onlything ive eaten in the past like since tursday (5days) is like peanutbuuter jelly sandwiches beef jerky and cheeze its so im eatin good. Also for like the first time in 10 years i had a caffene becayse my mother doesnt buy coffee with cafeene so like idk i drank tea and then wad hyperactive for like 6 hours and nearly punched a compjter because it was slow i couldnt sit still today but then like ibgot really tired durring being in the box and i rhink the fog macheenes and fumes were getting to be because i nearly passed out.also the box was full of dust when we got it bevause like we were the first to go up there in like a year so we spent 2 houra cleaninf it and my eyes were burning. Also yesterday when i was wating by the door up to the box area, some girl walked by me and in like the most depreced way possible said hi to me which was like reallg wierd because like i think i have pissed off peiple i do not know as opposed to mepissing off people i do know

I dont feel good rn i need a nap nap i need to be snug as a bug i am snug as a bug like on god i am cozy rnbut my hair is wet which is hell, ik some people like sleeping with wet hair but they are also insane so idk

[cheezewhis]

Do people not know movie theater etiquette anymore?

Genuinely I think there's a large portion of people who don't and it's not necessarily their fault. With streaming becoming so huge and some movies being available for streaming right away due to covid, I think a lot of people haven't been to the theater in years.

Then the Barbie movie happend and built the entire promotion campaign of Oppenheimer and suddenly everyone was going to the theater again, which is great!

But I'm noticing a lot of people who don't know how to behave. There are some people who dont even understand reserving seats which makes sense. I'm the history of movie theaters, that's a relatively new practice. But I'm talking more basic behavior. Since I'm a movie fiend, here are some basic guidelines based on things I've actually been seeing irl in theaters.

Movie theater dos and don'ts:

1. Do not go on your phone. It is genuinely distracting and takes people out of the movie.

2. Do not leave your phone on vibrate. Leaving your ringer off is obvious but vibrate is just as bad. Especially if there's a quiet moment. People will hear that shit.

3. Do not leave your phone in a cup holder. Even if it's on silent, it will light up at notifications which is distracting.

4. Do not talk the entire time. An occasional whisper is ok, but a full conversation that has nothing to do with the movie is a big no.

5. DO NOT TALK ALONG WITH THE MOVIE. This happend to me last night and the wound is still fresh. Do not speak lines along with the movie at full volume. Whispering is ok, but white 30 year olds think it's acceptable to fucking yell lines of movie and they never time it right and it's distracting and rude. Do that at home or go to the Alamo Draft House (they literally have talk along screenings).

6. Do no kick the chair in front of you. When I saw Bottoms, the person behind me kicked my seat every time there was a joke and I almost killed them. Sometimes you shift around and can't help it, but try not to.

7. Be aware of your general surroundings. I think people (especially Americans) find it hard to understand that they aren't the main character. You are in a room of like 30 people at least who all want to enjoy this experience. You have to understand that and be courteous. Movie theaters are a communal experience. Enjoy that aspect, but don't ruin it for everyone.

8. If you are asked to select a seat when you purchase your ticket, then sit in the seat you pick. Your ticket says the row and seat number. It's awkward to ask someone to move and it causes confusion. Sit in the seat you picked.

It can be hard to read the room in a theater. Sometimes it's a quiet showing. Something everyone just collectively agrees to cheer and clap etc. It's best to stick to these guidelines until you get the vibe of the room.

[hannahstarshade]

Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Men Tell No Tales (2017) should be the end of the Disney Pirates franchise

All right, fuckers, listen up! I’ve been a fan of the Pirates franchise since the beginning. How bad did I have it? Back in 2006/2007, the first trailer for At World’s End was shown during an episode of Dancing with the Stars. I couldn’t watch it, so I recorded the episode on VHS just to see the trailer. (Little Hannah didn’t have regular access to a computer at the time.) I watched that trailer over and over again. I watched it a few times in the morning before school, and a few times at night before bed. I was blown away by how epic At World’s End was at the time, and even now I’m impressed with how this story became so big. I had figures, t-shirts, costumes, and many birthday cakes that were all pirate themed.

As much as I love this franchise, however, I knew things had gone south with the forth movie On Stranger Tides. It looked nice, but it lacked the heart and energy of the franchise. Even still, I held out hope that the fifth and final film would bring it back around. In the end, Dead Men Tell No Tales was one of the most hollow movie-going experiences of my young life. This was nothing like my disappointment in the Beauty and the Beast reboot. I can at least admit that I had a fun time with that one. No, this was something else. So, because I’m still a little bitter, let’s dive into the madness that is Pirates of the Caribbean: The Fifth Movie That No One Asked For and Should Not Exist. A word of caution, though: here be spoilers.

Dead Men Tell No Tale is so forgettable and dull. It’s been over a year since I saw the film in theaters, and I only remember the key events: Jack searches for treasure, evil man chases after Jack, Jack gets the treasure, the end. I don’t know any of the new characters’ names off the top of my head. I remember writing “what’s-his-face” and “that girl” in my notes. In addition to being forgettable, there are a lot of unnecessary additions to the world. Barbossa has a witch friend (to replace Tia Dalma, I guess) who does nothing significant. Jack expects tribute, where he never once asked for it before. Barbossa is made so much more sentimental than we’ve ever seen him in order to justify his flowery death sequence.

The movie isn’t as smart as the writers and director think it is. One of the moments I do actually remember is how at some point Jack and Barbossa are talking about the girl. Jack mentions how Smith is an unusual last name. I laughed in the theater. “Smith,” one of the most common names in the English language at that time in history, was unusual? Seriously? I know this series is for all ages, but I’m pretty sure a five-year-old could come up with a more creative last name. If One Stranger Tides is “Disney Sequel” levels of bad, then I’d say Dead Men Tell No Tales sank down past that to “my first fanfiction” levels of bad.

The most unforgivable sin this film committed, above every other grievance, was making Captain Jack Sparrow a terrible person. He’s supposed to be a rogue with a heart of gold, not some washed-up drunkard. The core of Jack Sparrow’s character is that he is not motivated to be a pirate for the treasure. He is driven by freedom. His sense of freedom is so strong that he gave his life in order to release a shipload of African slaves. His arm was branded, his ship was sunk, and he made a deal with Davy Jones to sail the seas again. That’s how be became a pirate in the first place! By ignoring who Captain Jack Sparrow is, the writers and director are ignoring what Pirates of the Caribbean truly is.

Nobody asked for Dead Men Tell No Tales. Nobody wanted to see Johnny Depp slosh through the movie. Nobody wanted to see yet another macguffin, and yet another set of ghost pirates, and yet another group of characters with daddy issues. The whole concept really is dead. The only redeeming quality this movie has is the final few minutes with Will and Elizabeth reuniting after being apart for so long. If this had been a short film simply about them getting to see each other again, this thing would have been a masterpiece in my eyes. 

Bottom line: we don’t need any more Pirates franchise. It’s dead, and anything that came after At Word’s End was a cash-grab. Even still, there was a stinger at the end of Dead Men Tell No Tales and the producer has spoken up about future endeavors. Are we to expect a sixth film now? A reboot? Seriously? Fuck you, Disney, and the boat you sailed in on.

[annabethy]

here we mark the price of freedom

in which Percy and Annabeth meet in World War II, and they learn that freedom comes at a price,, percabeth 10k

December 22, 1941

Percy is sitting on the ground outside, watching as other soldiers surrounding him mess around. It is rather cold outside, but the people around him have smiles on their faces, and it warms his heart from the icy fear that he has felt for the past few weeks.

A pack of food is in his hands, but he makes no move to eat it. He doesn’t think that he could eat even if he tried — maybe everyone else could dismiss the things going on, the things that they would soon have to face, but he couldn’t. They were here for a reason, after the bombing of Pearl Harbor. This war was not going to be smooth sailing, and though he doesn’t know how it’s going to go, he knows he’s not going to like how this ends.

He’s going to come out broken or dead. He doesn’t know which one is the better option.

Percy glances back towards the barracks, contemplating heading inside for the night. He is so tired that he could curl up on the ground and fall asleep like that, but he can hear the noise and complaints from here, and he decides against it.

It’s hours spent like that, staring off into the sky, before the sun begins to settle slightly. The wind blows here in the Pacific theater, and he is well aware that he needs to head inside soon before he gets in trouble for stepping out of line. Nightfall is the prime time for attack, but he stays anyways. Just a little bit longer.

Percy finally rips open the military dinner, and the packet of M&Ms that falls out brings him a memory of his mother. She was probably worried sick, not knowing where he was anymore. He thumbs the wrapper, giving himself a chance to miss her, before he settles it beside him and decides to eat his dinner. He chews in silence, only a few stray people still out in the winter air, just thinking. It was all he ever did anymore, thinking. He wishes he could shut off his brain sometimes, like the other soldiers were able to do.

He blinks in surprise as someone slides onto the log next to him. He doesn’t make immediate eye contact, in fear of who this person was, if they were here to purposely torment him, to make his eyes fill with fury.

Instead, when he shoots a glance their way, he sees a head of blonde hair. He still doesn’t make direct eye contact, and that is when this person hangs their head into his vision, looking up at him with a smirk.

“Hello?” the girl says, a teasing tone to his voice. “Anyone home?”

Percy gives her a scolding look, but he’s so confused that it doesn’t have much effect other than making the girl laugh out loud. He decides he likes her laugh, so smooth and melodic, a laugh he can get used to.

“Are you okay?” she asks. She rips open a pack identical to Percy’s and pulls out her own food, choosing to nibble on the edge of a soft granola bar.

“Are you?” is all he can say, still blinking at her with curiosity. “Why are you over here?”

She looks around before glancing back at him and shrugging in mock neutrality. “Am I not allowed to be over here, or something?”

“I— do I know you?”

“You’re great at making friends. Has anyone told you that?”

“Now you’re making fun of me.”

“Only a little bit,” she agrees. Percy looks her in the eyes, and his breath catches on her striking grey eyes. She’s beautiful, and Percy begins to wonder why she was here, in such a dangerous mess. “You looked like you could use company.”

“So you’re giving me pity,” he says.

“If you want to call it that, then sure. I didn’t want to be alone either, though.”

“A match made in heaven, then,” Percy says. “Now do you want to tell me what you really wanted?”

“Well,” she starts, waving around her granola bar. Her hair is in her face, blowing in the wind. Her clothes are a little baggy and dirty, but he can’t blame her. He doesn’t look any better. “I had to eat dinner, and I saw you over here by yourself and thought, ‘why don’t I eat with him?’”

“You were supposed to eat before sundown.”

“I could say the same for you, Percy.”

Percy starts, an unfamiliar bubbling in his stomach. “You know my name,” he states.

“Everyone here knows your name,” she answers. “You’re very well known. From the way this conversation is going, I can’t imagine why.”

Percy can’t help the slight grin. “Well, now you’re just not giving me a chance. You caught me off guard is all.”

“Off guard is apparently when you look best,” she says, leaning forwards to whisper in his ear. When she speaks, he can feel her hot breath on his ear. “People think you’re attractive. All the girls in my barracks won’t shut up about it.”

“I had no idea I was such a popular soldier.”

“You have to give them a break, though,” she says, munching down on another bite of her food. “Chances are that a good portion of us are going to be dead once this war ends. We all just want to live while we still can.”

“And what about you?”

“What about me?”

The sun has settled more now, and she is with the moonlight shining down on her, illuminating her golden curls. Percy has to swallow before he can speak. “Are you just trying to live while you still can?”

“Of course,” she says. “That’s why I’m here.”

“Talking to me?”

“Yes, but…” She gestures broadly to the distance around them. “That’s why I’m here. I’m going to die eventually, but I’m not afraid of death, so… I want to live. Do something with my life. Maybe save a few lives while I’m at it. Really get the chance to live, you know?”

“I get that,” Percy says.

“Is that why you’re here?”

“God, no,” Percy breathes. “I was drafted.”

“Oh,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s life, I guess. When has this country ever been fair?”

“That’s not talk I’d ever hear come from an American soldier.”

“Yeah, well, this soldier life isn’t exactly the most entertaining.” He snorts. “I think you may be the first real conversation I’ve had since I’ve left.”

“That’s depressing,” she says, setting her food to the ground. She picks up his packet of M&Ms, and her jaw falls open. “Of course you’d get the good candy.”

Percy is oddly endeared by her as she twirls it between her fingers, grey eyes analyzing every detail of the wrapper. “You can have it,” he finds himself saying.

Her eyes meet his and a flash of thanks passes over them. She positions her fingers on the paper to rip them open, but she pauses. “Are you sure you don’t want them?”

“I’m sure,” he says. Eating them now would probably make him sad anyways as he remembered his mom. It’s worth it when she tears it open and pops one in her mouth, a soft smile taking over her face.

“It tastes like back home,” she explains. “My brother and I used to take turns trying to steal bits of chocolate from a bakery.”

“Where are you from?” he asks.

“San Francisco,” she says.

Percy has never been, but there’s something about this girl that makes him wish he had.

“How about you?”

“New York,” he says. “Just another boring city.”

“Boring?” She raises an eyebrow. “You, Percy Jackson, are anything but boring.”

It takes him a moment, but he realizes that he still doesn’t know her name. She’s breathtaking, especially now that he can barely see anything except the shadows of her face, and he desperately needs to know her name. He wants to feel her name on his tongue, rolling over the letters, feel how it sounded in his throat, in his own ears.

“I hardly think it’s fair that you seem to know everything about me,” he says. “Why don’t you tell me a little bit more about yourself?”

“I’m not all that interesting. You’re much nicer to discuss.”

Percy leans forwards. “Come on. Humor me.”

She smiles, and his heart skips a beat. “I’m Annabeth.”

It starts like this.

Read more on AO3

[senaar-ika]

Interruptions (Charlie Barber)

Part two of the Quarantine Saga has arrived! And it’s the complete opposite of part one! Also I’m sorry if daddy kink isn’t your jam but I personally HC Charlie as a daddy and sometimes it just slips through in the writing. This fic is actually inspired by this ask that I sent @ohiobluetip a while back before I made this blog. I just couldn’t stop thinking about it. 

Tags/CW: DADDY!CHARLIE, the kink is real I ain’t ashamed, babygirl being a tease, orgasm control/denial, edging, absolutely filthy dirty talk, remote control vibrator, ball gag, babygirl likes getting tied up what can I say, and then AND THEN Charlie is soft at the end

Charlie leaves his office door open when he’s working. Mostly because the little room gets stuffy quickly, but also because he knows you hate feeling cut off from him. Since the two of you have been stuck in the apartment these last few weeks, he’s had to pull a lot of hours on phone calls and video chats trying to keep everything with the theater company together. Sometimes he doesn’t leave his office for hours. His desk is positioned right in line with the door so he has a clear view out into the hall.

So it’s a wonder he doesn’t notice you approaching. 

You pad softly down the hallway, the hardwood floor cool against your bare feet. The draft from the air conditioning brings light goosebumps to your skin. After all, you're not wearing much. Just a thin mesh bra and a matching half-slip over some silky black panties. 

At the door you pause, just waiting for Charlie to look up at you. He’s on another goddamn Zoom call with his actors. You can hear someone else on the call talking, and Charlie is staring intently at his screen, nodding along, twirling a pen absentmindedly. He seems incredibly focused. Oh you are so gonna be in trouble for this. 

You move into the doorway and lean against the frame, letting your back arch so that your ass appears even more prominent. It feels only natural to extend your arms up above your head, resting the backs of your hands on the doorframe. You try to clear your throat softly, but what comes out is more like a quiet pitiful whine. 

Charlie glances up at you for what feels like only a second or two. Then his eyes flit back to his computer screen. It’s like you’re not even there. You pout and a little “Hmpf” escapes your lips. 

“That was great, guys.” It seems the actors are done and it’s time for notes. Charlie would have to talk for a little bit. He always has notes. 

As he begins discussing the scene they had been practicing, you slide down the door frame to the floor. There on your hands and knees you hesitate. You’re probably already in hot water just for standing there in an outfit Charlie hadn’t told you to put on, but that’s minor stuff. If you go through with the idea running around your head, you’ll be turning that hot water up to a rolling boil for sure. 

You can barely see Charlie’s face from your position on the ground, but you’re fairly certain it’s still trained on his screen. Taking a deep breath, you start to crawl. You move at a snail's pace, but make sure to accentuate everything. Your back arches down, exaggerating the curve of your ass and hips as they sway; your breasts are practically falling out of your skimpy bra. 

When you round the corner of the desk, you pause for a moment just to look at him. Unlike most who work from home Charlie is adamant about getting dressed for work every day. So here he is sitting at his desk, fully dressed even down to his shiny black shoes. 

You place both hands on his thigh and pull yourself up so that you’re balanced on your knees. When Charlie doesn’t make any move, you begin sliding your hands back and forth, your touch feather light, along his lap. You nose at his knee, pressing soft kisses down his trouser leg.

One of Charlie’s eyes twitches. It’s barely perceptible but you see it. His foot nearest you turns slowly and for a second you think he’s about to slide it between your legs. But he simply lifts it, setting his large black shoe gently on top of your thighs. You freeze, hands stilling in Charlie’s lap, confused. 

“Guys, give me just a minute to take care of something.” Uh oh. Charlie clicks the mute button and turns to look at you. You give him an innocent ‘who me?’ look. 

Then you’re on your back with Charlie’s foot in the middle of your abdomen. Cheeky bastard had used that confusing foot placement to push you backwards, and conveniently step out of the frame of his webcam. He crosses his arms.

“And just what do you think you’re doing, babygirl?” The way he says your favorite pet name sounds like it tastes bad. You stutter a bit, not sure how to respond. “Answer me, little whore. That's not a request.” 

“I - I … “ Your eyes dart from side to side, looking everywhere but at Charlie. That simply won’t do. He stoops over and grabs your face with his thumb on one cheek and fingers on the other. 

“Look at me when I’m talking to you, little whore. Christ, have you forgotten all of your manners?” Before you get the chance to say anything, Charlie comically nods your head for you. “That’s right. I’m going to take my foot off you now, little whore, and when I do you’re going to roll over and crawl to that chair over there. Do you understand?” 

“Yes, Daddy.” You try to reply, but with his fingers squeezing your face it comes out more like “Yeth, Daahee.” 

Charlie releases his hold on your head and lifts his foot from your stomach. You flip over to your hands and knees again and start to slowly crawl towards the plush office chair across from his desk. He scoffs, striding past you towards the door. 

“I don’t have all day, little whore.” Your cheeks burn (from excitement or embarrassment or both you’re not quite sure) but you pick up the pace. “When I get back you’d better be in that chair, arms behind you. Your legs line up with the chair legs. Understood?”

You sigh, knowing exactly where he’s headed. “Yes, Daddy.”

He calls back down the hall to you. “Did I hear a sound other than ‘yes, Daddy’ leave your mouth, little whore?” Shit. You thought your sigh had been quieter than that. 

“No, Daddy, I didn’t make any other sound.” You put on your best innocent voice, hoping he’ll believe it if he can’t see your face. Charlie’s like a lie detector test when it comes to you. He always knows, but he can’t always tell if he isn’t looking at you. 

You scramble up into the chair, tucking away some loose strands of hair from your face before interlocking your fingers behind the chair back. Once your arms are situated, you gently place your feet against either leg of the chair so that your knees are slightly bent and the tips of your toes brush the floor. You’re just stilling when you hear a door close and Charlie steps quickly toward you, his hands full. He looks you up and down briefly before dropping to his knees.

With the speed and precision of an expert, Charlie begins securing you to the chair. First is the pair of cuffs, which you notice are metal today instead of plush. Then each ankle is bound to a chair leg with silky black ties that match your lingerie. You smile internally at Charlie’s need for everything to coordinate like that. 

Charlie stands back up and takes your chin in his hand. “Open.” He puts a bit of pressure on your jaw and you comply with his order, opening your mouth into a little O shape. 

“You can see perfectly well what’s in my hand, little whore, so you should know that’s not nearly wide enough.” Charlie rolls his eyes. 

You can see what he’s holding and it makes butterflies leap in your cunt. A simple black ball gag. Dear god, what is he planning? You try flashing another innocent, pitiful look at him. Maybe he’ll cave today.

“You’re not getting out of this one, little whore.” Charlie waggles the restraint in front of your face, “This is insurance for me. I can’t have anyone hearing you. Now open that filthy mouth of yours wider for Daddy.” 

You comply, dropping your jaw wide enough for him to place the rubber ball between your lips. Torturous as the instrument may be, Charlie is gentle in securing the strap around your head. He gives you a little pat on the cheek once he’s satisfied with his work, leaning down so he’s right next to your ear.

“Nearly done now, Babygirl.” He murmurs, “Remember to breathe for me.” 

You nod, grateful for his reassurance, and inhale deeply through your nose. He growls a quick “Good girl,” and you feel his fingers slide your panties to the side. You whimper at his touch, far too light to create any sort of friction but pleasurable nonetheless. 

“Always wet for Daddy, aren’t you, Babygirl?” You nod vigorously, the gag stifling your moans as he slips a finger between your folds. “Such a tight wet cunt for such a little slut.” Charlie’s finger pulls out of your with a vulgar slick sound, but immediately you feel something else pushing at your entrance.

Charlie runs a sleek little toy up and down your lips for a moment, lubing it up with your own slick. It’s new. “Deep breath for me, Babygirl.” He commands.

You inhale deeply through your nose and as you exhale Charlie slides the toy into you. A strangled sort of cry escapes your throat from the sudden pressure of being filled up. Charlie steadies you, keeping one hand on the part of the toy still outside you and the other hand at the base of your neck. It takes a second, but you adjust. 

Charlie clicks a button on the top of the toy which rests on your pubic bone, and steps back. “You are not allowed to cum until I finish work. Do you understand, little whore?” He crosses his arms and stares you down.

You nod once, solemnly, not breaking his eye contact. Charlie nods in return and heads back to settle himself at his desk, dusting his hands together as he sits down in front of the monitor. There’s a click as he taps the unmute button.

“Sorry about that, guys. I saw something crawling across the floor and it took me a second to sort it out.” Charlie’s gaze flicks up to you for an instant and you think you can see the corner of his mouth twitch up. 

You watch him intently as he seems to become absorbed in discussing how the team will be coordinating a livestream reading one of their plays. He’s so focused and precise when speaking at work, no one would guess what had happened moments ago. He’s careful not to even look off camera at you or anything else. 

You’re so caught up in staring at Charlie’s concentrating face as he speaks that you yelp when the toy inside you begins to vibrate. Charlie throws the fastest glare in your direction before his gaze bolts back to the computer. If they’d heard you, none of the others on the call remark on it, and for that you’re grateful. 

After your little outburst you try to hold yourself still, afraid that wriggling in your bindings will cause unwanted noise, but that proves difficult. Your walls squeeze the sleek little vibe resting between them. You shift ever so slightly and the tip of the toy finds that special ridged spot. With a gasp you feel your whole body tense up from the sudden rush of delightfully strong vibrations. 

And then they stop. 

You go limp in the chair for a second to catch your breath. When you look up, you notice Charlie’s right hand resting next to his phone just off camera. Of course. He’s controlling it from his phone. Charlie loves toys he can tease you with remotely. His hand hovers millimeters above the screen and you watch it like a hawk, determined to be prepared for the next time he turns it on. 

You sit up a bit straighter bracing yourself when Charlie lowers a finger to his phone, but nothing happens. His fingertips dance across the screen for a moment, his eyes darting over to it once. This time your body contracts forward when the vibrations come harder and faster. Your torso jerks as your cuffed wrists stop you from fully leaning forward. 

You pant behind the gag and have to remind yourself to breathe. Hyperventilating is the last thing you need right now. You know that both you and Charlie are having far too much fun. 

The toy vibrates so fast and hard you feel yourself clench around it. Charlie’s hand settles down next to his phone with clearly zero intentions of turning the toy off. Oh fuck. He wants you to hold yourself back from this? You try to scoot yourself around on the chair to move the tip of the toy off your g-spot, but to no avail. All the motion only increases that euphoric friction. 

You manage to lift your head enough so that your eyes meet Charlie’s for a brief second. It seems in that brief second you’re desperate enough that he drops his hand back to his phone and brings the intensity of the vibrator down. Not completely stopping it, just lessening it. 

You relax a little more, still keeping it together. With the softer vibrations you’re able to think a bit more clearly. Before you’d crawled in to interrupt Charlie, he had been on the call for about two hours. He schedules his days in two and a half hour blocks but they don’t always pan out perfectly. So logically, he should be nearing a break in under half an hour which isn’t too terribly long - 

Your thoughts are broken as you feel the vibe’s intensity increasing slowly but surely. Charlie has one finger stuck to his phone, gradually sliding up the screen. At the same time he’s completely focused on the video call, saying something about another virtual rehearsal tomorrow. 

“Look guys, what I really want to say is that I know you’re all working hard.” He accentuates the last word, eyes flicking up in your direction. “We’re all stuck in a tough place right now, but we’re still doing our best. I really appreciate your willingness to come together and keep this project alive.” 

You suppress a moan at Charlie’s teasing words. The vibrator is back up to high speed and your thighs are quaking with the build of intensity in your core. You’re so wet that you can feel cum seeping out from around the toy and onto the seat of the chair. 

You can feel yourself nearing your climax, and arch your back. Your hips try to buck upwards, but you don’t have much range of motion with your legs tied to the chair. You squeeze your eyes shut, hoping, praying, that Charlie will stop the toy. 

“Alright everybody, thanks again for being so flexible.” Thank god he’s wrapping it up. “Stay safe, and let me know if anyone needs anything. We’re a team here and I want to be here for all of you.” 

There’s a round of everyone saying thank you, offering their support, and reminders to stay safe at home. You’re trying your best to listen and keep your mind on what’s being said rather than your impending orgasm. Everything in you is contracting, holding yourself back. A bead of sweat rolls down your forehead and into the corner of your mouth. 

There’s a series of goodbyes and the click of Charlie’s mouse. Then he stands and walks around to the front of his desk, leaning back on it, arms crossed. 

“Well done, Babygirl,” He tilts his head. He’s not looking at your eyes, but at your cunt which you presume is making quite the mess on his chair. “I wasn’t sure a little whore like you would be able to hold back.” 

His praise sends you over the edge. You cum hard, squealing through the gag. Your body convulses in its bindings and you see white. But the vibrator inside you does not relent. It carries on stimulating every one of your most sensitive spots through and after your orgasm. 

You manage to blink Charlie back into your field of vision. His expression is flat. He’s holding his phone in one hand, the other propped up on the desk behind him. You try to say something, anything, but all you can manage is a choked “Daahee, Pleeath!” 

Charlie tsks, and shakes his head. He lowers the pace of the vibrator back down to its base. Your hips are bucking from the overstimulation as you breathe in short gasps punctuated by sharp moans. Charlie approaches you, leans down to your level, and unbuckles the gag letting it drop to your lap. 

“What simple instruction did I give you?” He asks, much too calmly. 

“Y-you s-s-said I was n-not allowed t-to cum until you finished-d work, Daddy.” You stutter, your body still jerking slightly. 

“And what did you just do, little whore?” Charlie raises an eyebrow. 

“I - I came, Daddy,” You whimper, “But y-you finished the meeting s-so I thought it was o-okay.”

“Perhaps I wasn’t clear enough for your horny little slut brain,” He takes hold of your neck in one enormous hand to keep your head from moving around as he hisses, “I said ‘you are not allowed to cum until I finish work.’ I may have finished that meeting, but my work for today is far from over.” 

Shit shit shit. You gulp, shifting your eyes in your head to try and look at Charlie. “I’m sorry, Daddy.” The apology comes out meek and breathy as you’re still gasping from the movements of the toy inside you. 

Charlie simply releases his grip on your neck, swipes the gag from your lap and leaves the room. While he’s gone the vibrator slows to a stop. You sigh with relief and slump in the chair. A door down the hall opens and shuts. You hear a tap running and then the sound of Charlie’s heavy shoes heading back towards you. 

When he returns he’s holding a glass of water and a silky black scarf that matches the ties around your ankles. He’s silent as he helps you sip the water, just watching you. When the glass is empty you murmur a soft “Thank you, Daddy.” 

He stands up and sets it on his desk. Finally he turns to look you in the eyes. He holds up the scarf.

“Do you know what this is for, Babygirl?” His tone is tender, but firm at the same time. 

You shake your head. “No, sir, Daddy.” He smiles gently, moving in a bit closer to caress your cheek with the silky fabric.

“This, little one, is going to go in your mouth for the remainder of my work day instead of that ball.” You breathe a sigh of relief. “Daddy thinks you should have something a bit softer for what I’m going to put you through the rest of today.” 

[cosmo-gonika]

The Inspiration behind the Original Star Wars.

Okay fam, I cannot leave this fandom without leaving this increidble article I stumbled upon while I was writing Songs of Innocence. This article has never gone through main medias but I believe it is entirely true. I am myself very knowledgable of the esoteric current they are talking about here and I can confirm all what they say is true and makes so much sense. And why I think the TROS has failed to bring mystical depth to the ST.

Here is the source if you want to read directly: https://neoanthroposophy.com/2017/02/05/source-of-the-force-secret-behind-star-wars-inspiration/

Source of the Force: Secret Behind Star Wars Inspiration by Douglas Gabriel.  

I would like to share with you my personal experience of collaborating for three days in the early 70’s with Marcia Lucas and a small team of Anthroposophy scholars on the script of Star Wars and my recent discoveries about how that foundational work affected the writing, editing and expansions of the original Trilogy.

First of all, it seems fitting that my first encounter with the origins of Star Wars – a modern fairy tale ultimately about the return to spirit – would happen at Christmas time, a season in which humanity recalls its sense of spirit and hope.

I was a student at the Waldorf Institute at the time, and remember the day that I first met the characters of Luke Skywalker, R2D2, C3PO, and the entire Star Wars entourage. Yet, when I first encountered them, they were more like two-dimensional paper-dolls in an unfinished script, before their true meaning had been breathed into them. For example, Luke Starkiller as I met him was a far cry from the Skywalker he turned out to be.  You may be surprised to learn that the story in its early form was depicted through the machinist eyes of two robots, not yet the familiar, crowd-pleasing epic that would become one of the most famous and endearing movies in the world.

That is, of course, before I and colleagues from the Waldorf Institute would spend three days as part of a think-tank working session with George Lucas’ talented wife and professional film editor, Marcia Lucas (née Marcia Griffin), to transform a story that was originally based on two robots into a sweeping modern fairy-tale that even today still evokes a timeless sense of human destiny.

Meeting Marcia

At that time, like the characters, I was in development, too, as are all earnest students.  In addition to being a student of Anthroposophy – a discipline of knowledge developed by Rudolf Steiner concerned with all aspects of human life, spirituality and future evolution – I also managed the Waldorf bookstore, which was a treasure trove of spiritual knowledge.

That Christmas season had been busy, and I was just locking up the store and ready to head home when my teacher, Werner Glass, approached me.

Born in Austria, Werner was a beloved instructor at the Waldorf Institute and inarguably the most prominent Anthroposophist scholar in America.  I can only say today that it was a great honor to be his student. That day, there was a glint of lighthearted cheer in his eyes. Thinking that he was simply going to wish me a merry holiday, I was surprised when he asked me to follow him.

“Where?” I said, blindly following him like a faithful puppy.

Without answering, he led me into one of the more spacious classrooms, where four other students were already seated around a table, talking with the Institute’s co-director, Hans Gebert.  A woman I did not recognize seemed to be at the center of the conversation – a pleasant-looking brunette with a friendly, yet sophisticated, air.

When everyone saw Werner in the doorway, they looked up with a sense of expectation, as most students typically did when Werner walked into a room. He was like a father to us all. He motioned me to take a seat, then sat down and began to explain the situation.

“I’m very pleased to introduce you all to Marcia Lucas,” he said. “Her husband is a well-known movie director who is working on a screenplay for a science fiction film – a space opera of sorts – and they would like our Waldorf perspective. I don’t know if you have heard of George Lucas?”

This was the first time I had ever heard George Lucas’ name.  I certainly hadn’t seen his critically-acclaimed and commercially successful American Graffiti.  I also didn’t know that his wife, Marcia, was an accomplished film editor in her own right.

“Well, Marcia is familiar with Anthroposophy and the work of Rudolph Steiner, and she needs our help with the script, to make it more Waldorf-inspired so it will have good merit as both a movie and a spiritual story.”

Marcia nodded and offered more context.  She said that the “big screen” should be used to deliver important messages to audiences and tell a more spiritual story, one that has a good foundation in the truth, not just another director’s dream.

This began to inspire me, as story-telling is at the center of our teaching curriculum in Waldorf schools.  Movies are mass exposure to stories.  Stories, like fairy tales, help inspire the psyche of those who witness them, similar to shared dreams. At the Waldorf school, the teacher will tell a story to the children, who learn it by heart and recite it back in class the next day. Once memorized, the stories are further interpreted through music, dance, drawing, painting, and any number of other creative responses.

Marcia needed our input, she told us, because the script was entering its third draft and lacked an element of spirituality. I could see that she was problem-solving, earnestly searching for a way to make the screenplay work.

“I’m sure we’re up to the task,” Werner said, looking at me.

For the past few minutes, I had been sitting there wondering, “Why am I here?  No one had even told me about this meeting.” Then, I looked around and realized that I was the most experienced student there. The others were too young, less studied in Anthroposophy and certainly not up to this level of work. I was immensely relieved that Werner would be there to lead us through the session, and sat back, relaxed.

“The dialogue is a bit lacking,” Werner said. “I told Marcia we could help with that as well.”

With that, Werner rose from his seat and said, “Well, then.  My family is waiting at home and I must be off.”

None of us could believe it.  America’s leading Anthroposophist was going to leave this important project in our hands?

Werner added, “Douglas is my right hand, and I will check in on your work throughout the next few days.”

He then welcomed Marcia to the resources and hospitality of the Institute and politely left.

With Werner gone, we all looked at the Institute’s co-director, Hans, to lead the session.

Hans stood up.

“Well, I must admit that science and mathematics are my true specialty,” Hans said, in his characteristic fashion. “So, I am afraid I will not be of much assistance to this group.”

He politely bid us all adieu, then left.

At this point, I became a bit panicked.  My leaders had left me in a great unknown!

Marcia Lucas, who I did not know at the time was one of the greatest film editors in the world, was looking expectantly at me.

I suddenly got the feeling Werner had said something to her about me, akin to his comment about me being his “right hand.” I had a vague realization that both she and I were here solely because of Werner.   Having been a brilliant actor at the London School of Theater, Werner had been the primary Anthroposophist from the Waldorf school in North Hollywood in dealing with actors, directors and producers. She was here because of him and I was here because he had brought a promising student to the table for this specialized project.  Surely, he knew what he was doing, so I decided to trust it.

“Well, then, let’s get started,” I said.  “Tell us the story, Marcia.”

As she spoke, I got up and went over to the classroom blackboard.   Marcia had trouble articulating the story; it didn’t flow easily. In colored chalk, I began to sketch out the story-board.

“It’s a story of two robots, you see – the movie is seen through their eyes,” she said. “The robots are key elements of the story.  They must be kept.”

I understood that the robots were non-negotiable. We must somehow work with them.

“Ok,” I said.  “Can you please read us the starting dialogue?”

She began. It was difficult for us to listen to. As an experienced editor, Marcia knew this. The characters didn’t work. They weren’t alive. She sincerely wanted to rewrite her husband’s movie script to its full potential, but at this moment, it was stilted. Only later would I learn more about the context of their partnership – how George was a genius concerned with the theme of machines and technology, and Marcia was the humanistic side, focused on telling a meaningful story that would resonate with the audience. I did not know it then, but she was here, basically, trying to save the script.

I decided to be frank with her.

“First, the story is not archetypal,” I said.  “The author doesn’t know the true nature and value of the characters he is set on gluing together.”

Marcia began writing down notes quickly in her notebook.

“The dialogue is unreal and trite.  It serves only one purpose – to move to the next scene.  So, the message of the story happens in the action between scenes.”

She nodded, writing.

I continued. “There is no character development.  No one will identify with these characters.”

Then, on a positive note, I said, “However, your husband has tapped into the true spiritual reality of our time. His obsession to see the world through the eyes of two robots is genius, but a little confused. We can work with that.”

Since everyone there, including Marcia, was a student of Anthroposophy, I began to do what Werner knew would come naturally to me as both a teacher and a student – apply the principles that I had studied to our current problem with the script.

“George has described the challenge of our times,” I said, “The war with machines, symbolized in the two robot playmates of Luke Starkiller.”

Now, an interesting side note about the names. Like Luke Starkiller, none of the character’s names that Marcia read to us were in their final form. In fact, I later recommended that the hero, Luke Starkiller, be changed to “Luke Skywalker,” from American Indian and Tibetan traditions. Then, since Lucas is the name for “light,” I also had the concept of a light saber, a weapon that both defends as a shield and attacks as a formidable force. (In Anthroposophist terms, the light saber represents the human spinal column.)

Those details would come later.  Now, we had to focus on shaping the story itself.

“I think it needs to go back to the concept of a fairy tale,” I said, explaining that all fairy tales begin with a reference of the story being outside of time and space and end with some reference to their own continuance. “I think what you may want is an adult science-fiction fairy tale that is spiritually accurate, yet engrossing and interesting.”

Marcia agreed.

With her input, we decided to begin with Luke Starkiller.  We tried to describe his character development in terms of the polarity that every person has in their soul – the left and right-hand paths of evil. In the end, it is the middle path, “the Force,” that the Jedi warrior should choose. Yet, without exploring both the left and right paths, the Jedi is weakened by not knowing his enemy.

“So, each movie goer will be faced with making the same decision, no matter what their life is like?” said one of the students.

“Yes, that’s the path of most fairy tales,” I said.  The question is: “Which of the three paths will you choose?”

Here again, I was impressed with George Lucas’ brilliance. His obsession with machines underscored the biggest challenge of our age – the right-hand path of mechanical occultism as described by Rudolph Steiner and the left-hand path of thinking that has turned evil.  Had I seen his first film, THX-1138, I would have recognized this even more clearly.

“The two robots can represent thinking and willing,” I proposed.

As the heroes of George’s original story, both C3PO and R2D2 enable the audience to “see through the eyes of machines.”  In his relationship and interactions with them, Luke uses his robots to enhance his thinking (C3PO) and willing (R2D2) in an age of machines, but finally finds the middle path – of feeling.

“Let’s explore the two extremes: the left-hand path of thinking and the right-hand path of willing,” I said.

We spent time talking it through.  Both C3PO and the Evil Emperor are on the left-hand path of “thinking” that has turned evil. For example, C3PO can think but cannot act, and the Emperor needs Darth Vader to carry out his desired actions. In contrast, R2D2 and Darth Vader are on the right-hand path of “willing.” Having the capacity to will, they still must be told what to do.

“Darth Vader is the being we know as Ahriman,” I added.  “He represents the composite cleverness of all machines, incarnated into a human being.”

“So, what about a middle path?  Is there one?” one of the students asked.

“Excellent question,” I said. “The middle path is what both the right-hand and left-hand paths miss. Unable to understand the middle path, both sides seek to destroy it.  The Jedi masters such as Obi-Wan Kenobi and Yoda have developed themselves on the middle path, having already mastered the other two paths. They represent the desired balanced center between the two extremes.”

Indeed, this dynamic of two poles of evil is the central motif of the first Star Wars trilogy.

Master of the Machines

Once we understood the story in context of this Anthroposophical framework, the next step was to focus further on Luke’s character.

“I think that Luke needs to develop his character by interacting with the two robots, both the left and the right hand,” I said.

We then discussed each robot.

As a robot on the “thinking” side, C3PO can speak many languages and is programmed for etiquette and translating, a truly inspired use for machines that we seldom see.  He represents an evil that has been around as long as languages in every culture since the beginning of human intellectual development – the being named Lucifer, who incarnated in a physical body in China in 2000 BC.  As the “left-hand path of evil,” Lucifer is a Promethean archetype who brings fire, language, philosophy, writing and culture to humanity. Chained to a mountain, he suffered each day as a vulture ate out his liver until rescued by Heracles.  By representing Lucifer/Prometheus, C3PO would serve as a counter-pole for the incarnation four thousand years later in 2000 AD of Ahriman, the king of machines, otherwise known as Darth Vader.

Luke, who models the original Heracles or the hero in all of us, eventually breaks the chains to free Prometheus, the fire-bringer, who is on the left-hand path. So, too, the Evil Emperor in Star Wars represents the power of fire (demonstrated as lightning from his hands and the evil wisdom of the Sith) that increasingly consumes him as he misuses it.

“Luke is situated between the two robots, between the two paths, like his twin sister.  His lost spirituality is drawing him upward into spirit,” I said.

All Jedi warriors have transformed blood, what was later called “midi-chlorians” in the blood. As they balance the forces of the left and right paths, they raise their consciousness, which then increases spiritual potential in the blood, a process that Steiner calls the “etherization of the blood.”  As Steiner taught, spiritual people charge their blood with a consciousness that connects them to spirit (the Force).  However, unlike the movie, the ability to access spirit or the Force isn’t passed along through heredity.

So, after discussing all of these concepts and laying the groundwork for common understanding, here is the story of Star Wars that we mapped out:

Once upon a time, in a galaxy far, far away, Luke Skywalker (the archetypal human) finds his life embroiled, if not consumed, by machines.  Luke is the master of those machines, because he has consciousness and, therefore, is pulled by the left and right.  He is an orphan, as all modern humans find themselves, and knows that something great lives inside of him. He has hope in a hopeless world.

Luke’s father has fallen prey to the evil right-hand path of machines that has transformed him into a part-man – part machine abomination who wars against his own spirit and wishes to dominate the world, even if it means killing his son.

The left-hand path of personal black magic lives in the Evil Emperor who also wishes to kill all Jedi and, most especially, the son of Darth Vader.  

Luke is protected by the humble Jedi, Obi-Wan Kenobi.  Eventually, this Jedi leads him to his teacher of the “middle way” (the Force) and sacrifices himself so that he can help him from the spiritual world.  This middle path is like the path to the Higher Self.

On the path, just like Dorothy on the Yellow Brick Road, Luke gains some traveling companions.  Just as the Wizard of Oz was a distillation of Masonic initiation rituals, Star Wars introduces the audience to parts of the soul.  This is necessary to make the story archetypal, so that it will always be fresh.  

For example, Obi-Wan Kenobi represents the highest of the three parts of the soul, the consciousness soul, which merges spirit with matter just as his Jedi powers give him the power of mind over matter.  

Chewbacca represents the lower soul, the sentient or astral soul that must turn the animal in us into a human with spiritual characteristics.  

Han Solo represents the intellectual soul that first begins to awaken to higher thinking. Although clever, Hans lacks the ability to see the big picture like Obi-Wan.  

Between Luke’s three companions, much like the Lion, Tin Man, and Scarecrow, each contributes a special quality to Luke along the way.  Steiner calls these soul qualities “thinking, feeling and willing.”

At the center of the story, Luke represents the ego, or the thinking human being, and must master the three steps of the development of the soul.  

A return to spirit

Now that we had built the underlying framework, which was the most Herculean part of our task, it was clear to me that we needed to develop these characters into archetypes. Knowing now what motivated each character, we could easily hear the words that each would naturally say and even envision their realistic reactions to the unfolding plot.

In doing so, we kept in mind a fundamental truth:  good and evil are choices.  The Evil Emperor and Darth Vader were not born evil; they chose their own paths. Luke, the archetypal human, also must make his choices and live with the good or evil that results.

Still, after all of this work we had done, one thing was missing.

“We still have one problem,” I reminded Marcia.  “Where is Luke going in the story?”

Sorely missing in the original version of the story, this issue had to be resolved so that everything else would make sense.

“Isn’t Luke, essentially, the prodigal son?” I said.  Others agreed that Luke was separated from his parent’s home and longing to return.   This is a universal element with which everyone could identify.  Like Luke, each of us has our particular destiny. In our life, we embark on the search to find it and return to our kingdom in the spirit.

We further developed Luke’s direction and role in the story as follows:

Luke knows he is special but doesn’t know why. Throughout the story, he must evolve into his mission of facing his true identity as Darth Vader’s son, accept it, and decide what to do with it.

Ultimately, Luke denies the power of the machines that try to gain control over him. Instead of the cold-hearted machine-human hybrids, Luke chooses love.  He must come to this awakening only after receiving help from his companions.

His sister Leia (who I suggested should be called Maya) represents his spiritual self.  Although first drawn to her through physical desire, Luke transforms this attraction into spiritual love and links his destiny to hers, as the soul links to the spirit.  

More sure about herself, Leia has been treated like the Princess she is. Luke has struggled to “catch up” to where she was, but in the end, their destinies are permanently entwined. Because he is on the spiritual path of self-development versus the physical path of earthly gratification, Luke doesn’t “win the girl” – that part of the story is left to another character, Han Solo.  

As part of his journey, Luke uses the middle path of the Force to conquer both the Evil Emperor and Darth Vader. The more the left and right-hand paths try to win Luke, the more they fall prey to the side effects of using evil for personal gain.

As the modern human, Luke conquers the evil machine-like foes with help from his companions and develops two powerful “forces” that the machines cannot control: human freedom and love. In this way, Luke learns to “see through the eyes of machines.”   He even sacrifices his human hand for denying his father’s attempt to win him over to the Dark Side of the machines.

In the end, Luke loves his father and witnesses the death of Darth Vader, Ahriman, before his very eyes.  

This is the same modern challenge that each of us faces:  

Who is your parent?  

What do you choose: the physical world of machines or the middle path of the spirit, the Force?

A beautiful fairy tale

Over the next two days, we built on our initial framework and polished the ideas to represent every possible perspective in our archetype science-fiction, prodigal-son story. The script was turning into a beautiful fairy tale that I was certain had merit, whether or not it ever made it to the “big screen.” I was very happy to work through these concepts, because I could see my own path to the spirit unfolding in the story. (Of course, Werner had known this would be part of my involvement!)

I also appreciated Marcia’s priority of effective story-telling. In our modern times, I have seen a decline of storytelling in our culture. This is dangerous, for as archetypal stories vanish, our imagination weakens as the source of inner nourishment and soul inspiration. Movies have taken the place of storytelling and actors have taken the place of the heroes and heroines found in all archetypal stories, whether myth, religion, legend, fairy tale, fable, or any other transcendental source.  Yet, as we learned in developing Star Wars, if a story is not archetypal, it will not last the test of time. Successful to this day, a full 40 years after it was released, Star Wars has proven that to be true.

After our work was completed, I said good-bye to Marcia and wished her well with the movie. She thanked me and everyone else who had contributed their ideas to our marvelous fairy tale.  I heard nothing more until 1977, when the movie was about to launch and generating a frenzied buildup of media attention.

I was working in the bookstore when Werner came in to tell me the news:  Marcia and George Lucas were so happy with our help that they were offering all Waldorf schools in the U.S. a chance to show an advanced screening of the movie as a local fundraiser. This was a thrilling offer, because I knew that a good deal of money could be raised.  Yet, staying true to its practice of opposing TV, movies and technology in general, the Waldorf Institute politely declined the offer, to my deep disappointment.

I finally saw the Trilogy, after waiting impatiently for all three installments, and was happy that it stayed true to the fairy-tale idea we had developed in our Waldorf think tank.

As I watched the movies, I realized that Star Wars had affected the paths of those of us involved in the project. Just as we had mapped out a path for Luke, we were all on a journey to our own destinies. The archetypes we built had done their work!

For example, by working through the philosophical concepts, I saw my own path to the spirit reflected in the story, as Werner knew it would – the process had further emboldened my own understanding of the study of Anthroposophy. Also, I remembered that Werner, who was like a scholarly father, had introduced me to Marcia as his “right hand,” while Luke Skywalker had sacrificed his own right hand in the battle with his father – both situations connected to the pursuit of spiritual knowledge. As a “right hand” substitute for Werner in the project with Marcia, I grew into my leadership role as a teacher.  So, too, with the substitution of his right hand, Luke acquired more masterful poise as a Jedi warrior who had successfully denied the Dark Side and became more in touch with the Force.

George Lucas himself was on the path for his genius to be recognized with commercial and critical success. He would later open his famous Skywalker Ranch, which I think is a much better name than “Starkiller” Ranch, don’t you?

Yet, when his own right hand, Marcia Lucas, was symbolically severed in their 1983 divorce, he lost a part of the humanity that had been evident in the earlier movies, and some say lacking in the later versions of the Star Wars series.

For her part, Marcia Lucas would stand on stage to be ceremoniously honored, just like the characters in the ending of Star Wars. Looking tasteful and quietly elegant next to a glittery-gold presenter Farrah Fawcett at the 1977 Academy Awards, Marcia accepted an Oscar for best editing of a film that had started off an as unknown space opera and become a household name. At that ceremony, one of her editor colleagues would speak for her, and she would not have an opportunity to thank anyone publically, not even her husband. Had they given her a chance at the microphone, I imagine that Marcia perhaps might have thanked the Waldorf Institute, although the process of being involved in this influential project was, for me, its own reward.

In fact, later, when working with Producer Kathleen Kennedy during the writing of the Indiana Jones movies, I was quite aware of my participation in shaping small moments in the movies where true wisdom and light shine through the story.  This is what I have tried to do in all of my writings: share the love for spirit that I try to live each day and to bring that spirit into the souls of everyone I have the privilege to meet or touch in some small way – even through a simple story that is the ubiquitous retelling of the original story, the return to spirit.

Just a few days ago, with all of the resurgence of Star Wars memories and the recent release of the latest installment in the series, I googled Marcia Lucas’ name and discovered that she and George had divorced in 1983. She had returned to using her maiden name, Marcia Griffin. When I had worked with her, I had no idea that she was one of the greatest film editors in the world, her skills having been regularly in demand by the top directors, including Scorsese and Coppola. I was delighted to learn about her Academy Award and believe she is an unsung heroine in the history of Star Wars.

After all, how often does a mortal human being create something eternal – a story that lasts forever?

I leave you with this link to an article about Marcia Griffin that gives a beautiful picture of her contributions to the making of Star Wars:

Enjoy, and may the Force be with you!

2016 @ Douglas Gabriel. All rights reserved.  

[sweetteaanddragons]

Ancient History

Bruthir glared down at one of the small cakes his landlady had made in honor of the occasion and tried to ignore the sounds of jubilation in the street outside the alley he was sulking in. It was harder than it had been for the past few hours; the noise had swelled, first with music that had very nearly lulled him out, then with shouting once the music ended. A few people had run into his alley, looking around wildly, but they had left quickly enough when they had seen that there was nothing more interesting than him sitting on his barrel, glaring at his last cake. His curiosity had nearly provoked him into asking who or what they were looking for, but that would have required ending his sulk, and he still had several hours left in which to do that. That had been his deal with himself: today he could sulk, and tomorrow he would have to get back to work.

Not even today, though, could he ignore the cloaked man who came running into the alley via an even narrower one. The man’s face was shadowed, but his head turned frantically, and it froze in place when Bruthir came into its view.

“Don’t mind me,” he called glumly. “Unless you’re planning to set the whole city ablaze, I don’t much care what you’re running from.”

The figure relaxed and moved closer. “Nothing so bad as all that,” he said a bit hoarsely, and Bruthir got a glimpse of a harp under his cloak. “Merely a disappointed audience.” He hesitated. “And in the interest of complete honesty, possibly the city guard if they’ve decided I disturbed the peace.”

Bruthir was almost certain he was missing something, but he was even more certain he didn’t care. “Pull up a barrel then.” Sulking had started to feel a bit lonely, so when the man lingered in the shadows of the other alley, he lifted up his cake enticingly. “I’ll share my cake.”

The stranger laughed. “It has indeed been a very long time since I’ve had any cake. Thank you, I accept.”

Bruthir tore it in half and handed it over. “If only it was for another occasion.”

The stranger paused, and there was not so much an air of hesitance this time as tension. Bruthir gulped and resisted the urge to lean back.

“You don’t approve of the king’s marriage?”

The stranger’s hood had shifted, and Bruthir managed to catch a quick glimpse of sharp, gaunt features and the beginning of a pointed ear. In a moment it was gone, but it had been enough. Bruthir might be more accustomed to them in books than life, but he knew an elf when he saw one. This must be one of the ones that had come for Lady Arwen and the marriage, though he couldn’t imagine what the elf was doing this far from the main event. Regardless, the last thing he wanted was for this elf to carry back tales of discontent to the new royal couple.

“The king’s marriage is fine,” he said hastily. “He’s every right to marry whoever he likes, and I’m sure the Lady Arwen is an excellent choice.”

The elf was still regarding him silently. Apparently an explanation of his sullenness would be required.

He sighed. “It’s just made my thesis very awkward, that’s all. I’m probably going to have to start all over if I’m to have any hope of it being approved.”

“Your - thesis,” the elf said disbelievingly, but he had at least relaxed enough to take a bite of the cake.

“I want to be a scholar in the citadel,” he explained. “I’ve been studying for years. All that’s left is the thesis which has to be approved by my elders and - if it meets their approval - either the steward or the king. That last step is more of a formality than anything else really, everyone I’ve talked to has said that Denethor certainly never did more than give them a cursory glance, but at the very least they’ll surely read the title.”

“And the title is not complimentary towards elves?” the stranger asked. He seemed more amused than offended, thankfully.

“It’s not that,” he said. “It’s just . . . complicated.”

The elf took a seat on a nearby barrel and leaned back against the stone wall behind him. “Tell me about it,” he suggested. “Maybe I can help.”

Well, why not? Maybe he could. At the very least, he needed to get out one good rant.

“There’s been a lot written on the changing view of the elves in Numenor,” he began. “Quite naturally, as that view was generally tied to that of the Valar and thus was tied with the fall, a subject that continues to preoccupy many. I decided to focus on a more specific group of elves: those involved in the myths surrounding Sirion.”

The elf let out a strangled noise. “Myths?”

“Well, we know it was real, but exactly what happened has become rather obscured by time . . . “ His voice trailed off. “Although not for the elves, I suppose,” he said with fresh interest. “Did you know anyone who was there?”

“Yes,” the elf said shortly. Bruthir briefly wrestled with whether or not to pry before remembering that his thesis was useless now anyway and slumping down again.

“Elwing and Earendil held a special place as King Elros Tar-Minyatur’s parents, of course, but the Feanorians were also a subject of considerable fascination to the Numenoreans. By the end, all elves were scorned by all but the Faithful, and the Faithful had become a little uncomfortable with both groups since both had defied the Valar.”

“The Feanorians I can hardly argue, but surely Elwing and Earendil - ?”

“But they sailed,” Bruthir said, shaking his head. “And with both of them half-mortal too! It worked out for them in the end - or so we think, there’s some interesting subversive readings about exactly how literally we should take Earendil being a star - but they still sailed to the Undying Lands, the very thing the King’s Men wished to do. You can see why the Faithful didn’t wish to promote that tale.”

“I suppose so.”

“For those very reasons, in the transition period when the King’s Men didn’t take quite such a hard stance against elves, the Feanorians and the half-elven were treated as honorable exceptions for their defiance and, in the latter case, for their connection to mortality and their kinship with the first king. Later in that period, Earendil and Elwing were considered to have sold out to the Valar while the Feanorians lingered on as a symbol of defiance and the right to sail where people willed whether the Valar willed or no - Are you alright?”

The elf’s hooded head had fallen into his hands. “I’m fine,” he said, sounding rather muffled. “Keep going.”

“If you’re sure,” he said doubtfully. “Further back, there’s a much less complicated veneration of Earendil and Elwing and the Feanorians were less prominent except for those engaged in studies of history or who enjoyed the occasional tragedy at the theater.”

“Theater?” The elf asked, his voice a mix of interest and dread.

“We have a few surviving fragments,” Bruthir said, “though of course so much was lost that it’s hard to be sure of conclusions. We could be missing something critical. Which is what made the final section of my thesis so risky.” He ate a bite of cake despondently. “I was tracing it all backwards, you see, so the final section was on what King Elros himself thought.”

The elf’s head shot up so quickly his hood fell off. He really was quite gaunt. Dangerously so. He hadn’t thought elves suffered from scarcity. “And what did you conclude?”

“Well, that’s the interesting thing,” he said, getting caught up despite himself and leaning forward. “There’s almost nothing. Granted, it could have just been lost, but those early records were among those texts prioritized for salvation. We have plenty of scraps about the war, and those mention all of them, but in the praise poems and genealogies . . .  You’ll find some things about Gondolin, but very little about Doriath, and even less about anyone at all involved in Sirion. The one scrap we thought we did have is a letter where his daughter comments to a friend that a bard had sung of her grandparents and the Feanorians, and that the king had been ‘very much displeased, and not nearly so diplomatic as usual about it.’ Which is interesting, but hardly conclusive. Were they too flattering to parents he resented? Not flattering enough to parents he idolized? Too prone to glorifying his kidnappers? Too prone to vilifying the men who must have played a large part in his raising? Was it too accurate and raised up bad memories? Or was it all wrong and offensive for it?” He took a deep breath. “You see the problem.”

The other man slumped. “I do.”

“Then I made my discovery. Apparently, he was a bit of a musician himself, and on the back of a rather more historically significant document, I found what I’m almost sure are quickly sketched drafts of his own attempt to memorialize the events. He seemed very . . . frustrated. With both his failed attempts and with everyone involved in the actual event. But he also seemed very wistful. Fond, even.” He sighed. “So that was my conclusion. But while it’s one thing to present such a thing to a steward, and even an acceptable thing to present such a thing to the king about his far distant ancestor, it’s quite another to hand it off for review when it’s talking about the queen’s uncle. And her grandparents, for that matter.”

The elf swallowed hard. “Yes,” he said hoarsely. “Quite. She never met any of them, but I’m sure her father has told her much.” He looked away for a moment, and when he turned back, his face was more cheerful. “Perhaps if you dropped the parts about the far more controversial Feanorians and concentrated on her grandparents that would be better? You could add in something flattering about how they’re thought of now.”

“I’m not much good at flattery,” he said doubtfully, but hope was rising in him regardless. Perhaps not all his research would have to be thrown out.

“Turn it in as is,” another voice recommended. “I, for one, am very interested in reading it.”

Both of them spun to see that another elf had slipped in through of the mouth of the alley while they were distracted. Some strong emotion lurked almost hidden on his face. His splendid clothes opened Bruthir’s eyes to just how ragged his first companion’s were.

Said companion had gone very pale. “Elrond.” He dropped off his barrel and began to back away.

Elrond? Not - Surely not the Elrond that was the queen’s father -

“Don’t,” Elrond pleaded, reaching out a hand. “Please don’t run, Maglor. Not today of all days.”

Maglor. Not - 

Did you know someone at Sirion?

He had not asked that question of Maglor Feanorian. That was impossible. He was dead. Or wandering lost somewhere that wasn’t Gondor’s back alleyways.

But surely no one else would have chosen that name for their son?

Maglor, son of someone who was not Feanor, slumped and held up his hands in defeat. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble,” he said. “I am - very sorry to have disturbed you today. So very sorry. I only wanted to give a gift of song, even if your daughter wouldn’t hear it. I hadn’t realized I would draw such a crowd as to cause a disturbance, out of practice with performance as I am.”

Elrond was the first elf Bruthir had ever seen look exasperated. It was a very human expression on him. “Maglor, you remain the greatest bard the Noldor have ever produced. Of course you drew a crowd. A crowd that is now very disappointed at how you vanished when the city guard got lured in to listening, mind you.”

The greatest bard the Noldor had ever produced. 

So this was Maglor Feanorian.

He had just ranted to Maglor Feanorain about his place in the Numenorean imagination. Historical ecstasy hit self-preserving nausea and roiled unpleasantly.

“Someone mentioned the incident to Faramir. I was lucky enough to overhear,” Elrond continued. “And when I heard that a ragged elf had enchanted half the city with songs for the wedding . . . Well, it was either you or Daeron, and I liked my chances.”

Maglor’s head fell. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I should have realized my good intentions would still turn to the ill.”

“The ill?” Elrond laughed, and Bruthir abruptly realized that the hidden emotion was joy. “Today I have had to give away one family member to another, but I’ve found another at long last. Surely a small disturbance, already calmed, is worth that!” He stepped forward, and Bruthir half-expected Maglor to bolt, but he looked up with cautious hope instead.

“Elrond - “

Elrond was close enough to touch now. He held out a hand in entreaty. “Come back to the celebration with me,” he said. “Please. Arwen would surely like to hear your songs for herself, and Aragorn too. There’s no one here who will cause any trouble over it.”

Maglor hesitated. 

It seemed another push might be needed. Presumably that was why his mouth opened and said, without quite obtaining his consent, “You might as well go. I’m sure they’ll have better cake.”

That actually startled a laugh out of the Feanorian. “If you wish it then, Elrond,” he said quietly, clasping the outstretched hand.

Elrond’s answering smile was brilliant, and it turned grateful when he looked over to Bruthir. “You must come too, of course,” he said. “I really am quite interested in your research.”

Why not, Bruthir though blankly, his day had certainly been strange enough for it.

It would certainly be more interesting than sulking.

[aka-willow]

Darkness Goes

gif mine

Words: 1661

Characters: Willow Wren, Pingu, General Thaddeus Ross

Prompt/Tag: “There’s blood on your hands.” “So much for not getting involved.”

Summary: Willow and Pingu escape from the bank in D.C. and accidentally flex their powers to the public

Timeline: July 2015

Song: Paint It Black - Ciara

A/N: and i oop

—————————————————————————–

Pingu and I run back out of the vault and stopped right before the lobby while I carefully listened for our visitors. My heart was still pounding from our encounter with the Blue Lab reset machine and I was having a tough time holding on to myself. Everything around me seemed… separated… like I wasn’t really there. And the gallons of rootbeer and iced coffee I drank earlier in the day definitely wasn’t helping.

“What are you hearing?” Pingu asked.

“Cops,” I whispered, noting the walkie-talkie chatter. Red and blue lights bounced off the walls of the bank lobby. “Outside, actually. Lots of them.”

“Think this place was under surveillance?”

“Definitely.”

“What’s the plan?”

I peeked out from our hiding spot and try to get a better look outside. I couldn’t tell if we were surrounded, and even if I could fly, Pingu couldn’t. The worst part was, we were in D.C. Anything we pulled here would be 10x worse than, say, Utah. I tried to listen to the voices outside, get a handle on who exactly we were facing. No one was inside the bank yet.

“Okay, let’s—let’s just sit for a sec,” I said, trying to get a grip. “Think. They’re not inside yet.”

“If we use our powers here…” Pingu started. “…I don’t know. It wouldn’t be good.”

“We don’t have a lot of options,” I said.

The minutes crept by and my face became sticky with sweat. I turned and looked up at the upper corner of the lobby, where I saw a blinking red light. “Hey, Pingu,” I whispered. “I think they can see us. There’s a camera up there.”

“Can they hear us?”

“I don’t know.”

I opened my backpack, turning my face away from the camera and pulled out the face paint I always carried since my first fight, but this time, instead of the sunglasses, I had darker paint for the space around my eyes. Was it a raccoon look? Yes. Does it help? Absolutely. The white face paint was smeared on my cheeks and around my nose, aimed to throw off facial recognition technology. Pingu followed my lead and she tied a shirt around her face as a mask, leaving just enough space for her eyes. We made eye contact and her eyes smiled at me, even though now we were both in full panic mode.

“How many minutes has it been?” Pingu asked.

I checked my phone. “Fifteen. And they still haven’t done anything. Why?”

A loud voice suddenly cut through the chatter of the police outside, amplified by a speaker. “This is General Thaddeus Ross of the United States Military. Come out through the front door unarmed and with your palms out and hands above your head. We have artillery trained on this building and would advise against engaging.”

“Fuuuuuck,” Pingu said at full volume, and something clicked inside my head.

“That’s him,” I said. “Fanisimo told me. He was one of the people involved in the project when we were kids. Before HYDRA.” There was a new type of anger surging inside me and combined with my extreme fear, I wasn’t feeling so great. “Fuck this,” I said, standing up from our hiding spot.

“Heckergal—” Pingu said. “Don’t—”

“We need to get out of here,” I said. “Any means possible. I’m serious, Pingu. That’s—that’s the guy who ruined our lives. Fuck this, him trying to stop us from actually knowing our own pasts, it’s—”

Pingu shook her head, and her hands glowed red. “I want to go home.”

Already, the air in the bank started swirling around me, as I gathered wind from the drafts in the windows, from my own breath. “Let’s go, then.”

I felt out of my own body as we stepped through the bank doors, hands held above our heads, but the glow consuming our fingers, down to our wrists and up into our arms. I took another look at Pingu, and her irises burned red. When I looked back at the crowd outside, the police and military gathered in the street, all I could see was the General.

Outside, I gathered the wind between my fingers, pulling it into a shield around me and Pingu’s hands began to burn in a bright blaze.

“This is your last warning!” the voice called again, and we ignored it.

I stepped down from the bank steps and started walking towards the intersection, only focused on clearing a path so that Pingu and I could get away. I screamed and balled my hands into fists as windows shattered and a shockwave tore through the intersection. At this point, the police had started firing from behind their cars, and Pingu hurled streams of flame at the vehicles as I tossed them aside with a sharp gust of wind. More and more air surged around me, gathering around my body like a shield, and I opened up my wings to protect Pingu and I. When I looked down, my body was surrounded in a blue glow, a mass of wind and air swirling around me.

And the bullets. The bullets should have been hitting me, but they weren’t, instead just stopping at the air barrier. I stood with my arms out at let the police continue to fire—they couldn’t hurt me right now. For the first time in my life, I felt completely powerful, completely in control and in my own element, even as my mind seemed to take the backseat in this fight as if it was another Willow fighting for me.

Pingu and I stood back to back, each taking on a side of the intersection, pushing through the blockade. Even through our efforts, the military was closing in and Pingu and I were forced into close-quarters combat, trying to compensate for our low body mass with all the power we had behind it. Thaddeus Ross had stepped out of his SUV, yelling commands into a comm, and I got an idea.

“The SUVs,” I yelled at Pingu. “Are there any that we haven’t destroyed yet?”

“Just the one that guy was in,” she yelled back.

At the same time, we threw out one more burst of fire and wind and sprinted for the leftover car, the police and military in close pursuit. The General moved to block us from the SUV, but with one more powered punch, he was on the ground and Pingu had hopped into the driver’s seat, with me jumping into the back.

“Drive, drive, drive,” I screamed.

“I don’t know how!” Pingu exclaimed.

“Just step on the gas!”

The car lurched forward and within seconds, we were swerving through the streets of Washington D.C., mutants on the run and with a vengeance. I heard a helicopter in the distance.

“We have to leave the car,” I said. “As soon as we’re out of sight, escape on foot. That’s our only chance of getting out of this.”

“God, we’re so fucked,” Pingu said again, jerking the car left and causing the tires to squeal. “Is anyone behind us?”

“Not yet,” I said. “I think we need to go now.”

Pingu turned into a parking garage and we climbed out as I searched the area for cameras. None. Pingu pulled her mask down and we ran back to the entrance, smack into a crowd gathered on the sidewalk.

“What the…” Pingu started and just then, someone yelled at us.

“Come on, let’s go! Time to get on the bus, folks.”

I looked at the bus parked next to the curb and saw other teens getting on, some in partial costumes and stage make up. A tired-looking teacher stood at the door, ushering people on. I looked at the building behind us and saw that we were standing in front of the backstage theater door. Theater kids.

Wordlessly, Pingu and I climbed onto the bus and walked to the back, keeping our heads down until we sat. The bus filled and pulled away from the curb. “Where are we going?” Pingu whispered.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Just play along.”

We drove for a few miles, the other teenagers on the bus screaming about the production they had just finished. Among everyone else in costume, Pingu and I fit right in.

Finally, I saw a Denny’s up ahead, and everyone cheered as the bus turned into the parking lot. Well, this is a turn of events. When we get off, Pingu and I went straight for the bathroom before anyone could really get a good look at us.

Under the bathroom sink, Pingu and I hurriedly washed off the face paint and ash from our faces before stripping out of the clothes we had been wearing, stuffing them into our backpacks, and changing into clean clothes.

“There’s blood on your hands,” Pingu said quietly as we changed.

“Yeah, I know,” I said. “I’m sure I’ll see it on the news tomorrow.”

“No, I mean literally,” said Pingu. “Make sure you wash that off.”

We spot-checked in the bathroom mirror and when we were sure we looked like any other disheveled teenagers, we stepped back out. The others hardly noticed us as we sat down at a booth and the table next to us hyped up their friend to sing a song from the show.

From inside the restaurant, we saw police cars zip on by and the helicopter continued to circle. Finally, the door opened, and two policemen walked into the Denny’s, saw the kids doing a reenactment of Time Warp in the middle of the restaurant, and immediately walked back out, merely glancing over us.

I breathed a sigh of relief and shook my head. “So much for not getting involved.” I leaned back into the booth, completely exhausted and on the verge of falling asleep.  I had never used my powers like that before, and I didn’t realize how draining it would be. “Yeah, I’m ready to go home now.”

[savory-n-sweet]

May I Have This Dance?

requested by anon: 011 and 012 with racetrack higgins?? thank u ur writing is amazing!! :)

pairing: racetrack higgins x female!reader

words: 1.9K

warnings: smoking, its long as hell

princess au (you’ll get it once you read, i promise)

2017 | 1992

edited | not edited | skimmed

this has been in my drafts for so long?? like i’m talking MONTHS. but anyways enjoy. reblogs are always appreciated!!

- - -

racetrack higgins was nowhere near being a prince, or even someone that hung around royal families. his friend jack, however, was. they had paid jack to paint a mural, and he invited race as his plus one to the reveal party. race was unsure of going at first, but once he found out about you, he decided to give it a shot.

he was sitting at a round table next to jack. they were both in suits, but race’s was a rental. jack owned his, though it wasn’t tailored like everyone else’s. his pant legs pooled around his ankles, making him look shorter. however, the two of them were enjoying themselves. they were cracking jokes and engaging in pleasant conversation with the other members of their assigned table.

race felt extremely out of place. he was a poor kid while everyone else in the room was filthy rich, practically showering themselves in money. the guests were in fancy ball gowns and tailored suits accompanied by even fancier jewelry. he was insecure, more so than he’s ever been. the only accessory he had ever owned was a silver watch his father gave him.

suddenly, a hush fell over the room. he noticed the guests move out of the way, and immediately fall silent. he stood up and brushed off his pants, purely out of habit.

then, he saw you. he saw you in that dusty pink, glittery gown. he saw your smile and his heart fluttered. he watched you descend the stairs in awe. you walked with such grace and poise.

when he noticed you walking towards his table, his palms instantly went sweaty and his mouth dried.

“hey jack,” you hugged the shorter boy, smiling on his shoulder. you let go of him before noticing the drink in his hand. “what’re you drinking?”

“scotch,” he handed you the glass. you took it and downed what was left.

“thank god. planning these balls are so stressful,” you sighed, placing the glass on the table to your side. you looked over his shoulder, noticing race. you walked around jack, holding your hand out for race to shake. “hi, i’m (y/n).”

“uh, yeah i, uh, i know,” he took your gloved hand and shook it. he was extremely thankful you wore gloves tonight.

you laughed, looking down at your shoes, still shaking race’s hand.

“kid, tell her your name,” jack coughed from behind you.

“race,” he cleared his throat and let go of your hand. you smiled, glancing from your burgundy heels to his blue eyes.

he was beautiful. his curly blond hair, his deep blue eyes, and his tan skin were absolutely stunning. you assumed he was your age, maybe a little bit older. he looked like a deer in headlights at the moment, though.

“oh! jack told me about you!” you exclaimed, lightly hitting his shoulder out of sheer excitement.

“what? why?” he swallowed rather loudly. he looked like a deer caught in headlights, but you thought it was cute.

“when i invited jack, he asked to bring a plus one. when i asked who, he told me about you.”

race didn’t look any more relaxed. in fact, he looked more terrified.

“oh, don’t worry! he said nothing but good things, i promise,” you placed a hand on his shoulder, a dopey smile on your face. “i just hope you live up to those good things.”

“i’m gonna get something to drink. you kids want anything?” jack winked at race causing him to blush heavily.

“surprise me,” you said.

“whiskey?” race requested. “you have whiskey here, right?” he looked down at you.

“we have just about everything,” you grinned.

-

about an hour later, the three of you were having the time of your lives. race had had a few glasses of whiskey, causing him to relax quite a bit. you were seeing more of his smile as well as his humor. you had relaxed a bit too. the conversation never seemed to dull. the three of you were telling stories, jokes, and race even showed off how many peanuts he could catch in his mouth. race was showing off in general. card tricks, magic tricks, you name it. you loved it though. it was nice to be able to be yourself without having to worry.

“i’ll be right back,” jack excused himself, placing his napkin on the table. you looked to race, then grabbed his hand.

“wanna get out of here?” you raised your eyebrows, smiling like a maniac.

“where are we gonna go?” he furrowed his.

you got up and dragged him through the crowd. the two of you dodged too many people to count, waiters included. you ran, with him in tow, out of the ballroom and up the grand staircase. you lead him to a room far down the indoor balcony, pushing him inside first. you closed to door behind yourself, promptly locking it.

“it’s just quieter up here. and,” you pointed to your balcony doors. “fresh air.”

“it’s pretty in here. your room?” he questioned, looking over your knick knacks and photos. he held a ballerina figurine in his hand, examining it before moving onto the next thing.

“yeah. hey, do me a favor and unzip me?” you turned around. he nodded, doing so. you pushed the sleeves off your shoulders, letting it fall to the ground. “god, this thing is suffocating.”

race covered his eyes and looked away. “hey! i’m still in here! don’t you want me to leave or something?”

“race, i still have the underdress thing on. it’s fine,” you smiled when you saw him peek through his fingers. “but you can stand on the balcony or wait in the hall if you’d like.”

“i’m gonna go on the balcony,” he stated as he walked toward the doors.

“okay! i’ll grab you once i’m changed.”

once he was out there, he lit his cigar. he leaned against the railing and thought for a bit. he knew two things; he absolutely loved spending time with you, and that you were very far out of his league. he didn’t know what to do or even if he should do anything.

“hey, you can come back,” you popped your head out beyond the doorway.

he didn’t look back at you. he kept his eyes focused on his cigar he kept flicking with his thumb. “give me a minute?”

you nodded, closing the door. it took a few seconds before you stepped onto the balcony. you threw a blanket over race’s shoulders, getting close to him so it covered yours as well.

“don’t want you to get cold or anything,” you smiled up at him. he smiled lazily in return, bringing the cigar to his lips. “so, how do you know jack?”

“we work together,” he shrugged. you nodded, sensing he didn’t want to talk about it.

you leaned against the railing as well, propping your head on your hand. you closed your eyes as you listened to the song below. it was fairly muffled, only becoming clear when someone walked onto the patio below. one of your favorite slow songs was playing, causing you to smile softly.

race looked at you, smiling when you did. he put out his cigar, placing it in an inside jacket pocket. he got out from under the blanket, then held his hand out to you.

“may i have this dance?”

you raised your eyebrows, then giggled. you took his hand and stepped closer to him.

the two of you swayed to the music, slowly inching closer to one another. by the end of the song, your head was on his chest and his arms were wrapped around your torso. you felt safe and comforted right there, in his arms. you never wanted to leave them.

the song ended, but the two of you stayed like that—in each other’s arms, swaying. you sighed in content, a small smile on your face. you closed your eyes, taking in the smell of his cologne.

race rested his chin on the top of your head, holding you close. he didn’t want this to end. he knew that once he left, there was a rare chance he’d ever see you again. he held his wrist high enough he could see it and checked the time.

“hey, i actually have to get going,” he mumbled, disappointment lingering in his voice. “i’m sorry.”

“what’s there to be sorry for?” you asked, following him to your bedroom door.

“leaving,” he shrugged. he was really apologizing for his thoughts. race wanted to kiss you, right then and there, but he knew it was inappropriate. he just met you, barely an hour ago. he knew life wasn’t like the movies, especially his life. nothing came easy for him, so why would this?

“you don’t have to apologize. i’m sure we’ll see each other around,” you smiled as you leaned against your doorframe.

“i hope we do,” he smiled, too.

-

it had been close to a week since you last saw him. you couldn’t get him out of your goddamned head. everything about him was wonderful. you wanted to learn as much as you possibly could about him, but you couldn’t even find him. so, you ran to jack.

he was sure to know where to find him. you assumed they were close, so you hoped he knew. if he didn’t, you were back to square one.

you found yourself in miss medda’s theater, searching for her or jack. you made your way backstage when you saw jack on the top of a ladder, painting a backdrop.

“oh, thank god. jack!” you jogged towards him. you had never been happier to see someone who was covered in paint.

“hello miss (y/n). what’re you doing over here?” he looked down at you. there was a small smirk playing on his lips.

“do you know where i can find race? i need to speak with him.”

“sounds serious. everything alright?” he asked as he climbed down be shaking ladder.

“yeah, everything’s fine,” you nodded. “do you know where he is?”

“he’s in the bathroom,” he smiled, pointing behind you. “can i have that brush?”

you handed it to him, unsure of what to say. so, you looked at what he was working on.

it was a woodsy scene. it was unfinished, but still beautiful. the sun was setting behind the trees, giving them a faint orange glow.

“this is stunning, jack.”

“thank you. it’s taken me about two days so far. i’m hoping to be done by tomorrow.”

“jack, who’re you talking to?” a familiar voice mumbled.

you turned around to see race. he had his cigar dangling from his lips while he was trying to tuck in his dirty, paint stained shirt.

“hey,” you smiled once he looked up.

“(y/n), i-i didn’t know you were gonna be here,” he took the cigar and put it in his shirt pocket. “i would’ve dressed up.”

jack snorted from next to you, then quickly covered it up with a cough. you smiled, shaking your head.

“you’re fine, race. can i, uh, talk to you?” you nervously picked at your fingers.

“yeah sure,” he gestured for you to follow, and you did. you were farther backstage with more props and equipment. “what’s up?”

“this is going to sound weird, and maybe a little crazy, but i can’t stop thinking about you. you’ve been in my head since the night of the ball and you won’t leave.”

he smiled and shook his head before pulling you into a hug.

“wanna go on a date sometime?” he laughed, still holding you.

“yeah, that’d be great,” you laughed into his chest.

- - -

[ tag list: @brooklyns-here-for-ya-erster @kingofsantafe @who-is-the-king-of-new-york @thwiparkers @newsies-trashboat  @notes-the-newsie @musical-trash-meg @rebecko @princeandreis @we-dont-sell-papes @brooklyn-anon @viennaleia @fandomscraziness22 @broadwayandbookblog @i-got-personality @king-of-newyork @heytheywascoronas @elmers-half-a-cup @papesandcigars @the-kid-blinks @purplelittlepup

n my hype beast @supremebesson ]

[trashboatprince]

Another little one-shot for Ink Spots (posted up here cause its so short and not plot-heavy), this time it takes place after the previous one where Boris finds them, now showing Henry awake in the safehouse.

Summery: Bendy is happy to see that Henry is awake after that nasty fall, but he doesn’t like the fact that he sees another strange, ink-based mark on his creator.

Luckily, this one wasn’t from the studio, and it has an interesting story to go along with it.

Warning: mentions of drinking and drunkenness, mentions of war, Henry made some silly choices during his time in the service, headcanons and the like, you know the drill

I even included little illustrations for this, sketches actually, cause I draw for the main story. Also I wanted to show Henry’s tattoo.

On with the fic!

--

A Different Kind of Ink

Ink Spots one-shot

--

Bendy yawned loudly as he stretched out on the cot, rolling over to cling to Henry like he had done the last time he rested. Only he realized that there was no Henry with him. He gasped and sat up, looking around, seeing no sign of his human anywhere.

The door to the small room was opened, and he could hear water running down the hall, along with Henry’s voice. “I’ll wash these after mine dry. Thanks for lettin’ me borrow ‘em.” There was a bit of silence before Henry continued.

“Nah, it’s fine, you have a lot of extra clothes here. Were there more people here?”

“…”

“I see. Well, thanks, Boris. I’ll be done soon, just gotta make some attempt at the ink on my clothes, heh.”

Bendy blinked before stepping into the hall, seeing Boris happily walking back to the main room from the bathroom. The little demon approached the bathroom, peeking in to see Henry sitting on a chair at the sink, scrubbing away at his pants with a cleaning brush and a bar of soup. He was happy to see that the other was awake and moving around, he had been a bit out of it for a while since the hall, suffering from a fever from what Bendy could tell through Boris’ pantomiming.

He was coherent earlier but was still recovering from the back injuries he got. Bendy smiled as he watched Henry moving about with ease, seeming to not be bothered by any major pain and aches. From what Bendy could see, Henry was in a pair of boxer shorts and a tank top, allowing him to see the bandaged-up areas on the human. Though something caught the demon’s attention on Henry’s person.

On his upper left arm, near the start of his shoulder, was a black mark. From what Bendy could see, it was shaped like his head, like the inky mark on Henry’s right hand, only this one seemed to have his face instead of being a solid black. Oh… oh no! Did he have a second mark?! Did something happen after all that nonsense they went through the other day!?

He let out a small whimper, which seemed to catch Henry’s attention. “Oh, hey there, bud. Is somethin’ wrong?”

Bendy shifted on his feet before quietly approaching. He looked at the mark when he stopped by Henry’s side, examining it. It was clearly his face, signature grin, pie cut eye, though the left one was closed because the image was winking. There were even a few little stars around the image, and his bowtie was under his head.

“Henry, when did you get marked again?”

“Marked again?” Henry asked, raising an eyebrow, before he noticed what Bendy was looking at. “Oh! Heh, that’s not a mark!”

“B-But it looks like it’s made of ink! It’s gotta be from here!”

Henry laughed a little, shaking his head. “No, bud, that’s not from here. That’s from Belgium.”

Bendy blinked, confused. “Belgium? What do ya mean?”

The animator smiled as he picked Bendy up, setting him down on the counter as he returned to scrubbing at the ink on his pants. “Back in the early forties, there was a war going on and I got drafted. Well, a bit into my service, not too long before I got some nasty wounds that got me sent home early,” he gestured to a few scars on his leg and even lifted up his tank top a bit to show some on his side and stomach,

“I was stationed in Belgium, near the French boarder. My troop found a town to stay in for a bit alongside another troop, a French one, and we all went to a tavern that was open and still serving beer. A bunch of Americans findin’ a bar with beer? Heh, turned into one heck of a night for all of us and the French troop.”

The little demon watched, listening with interest as Henry continued. “Well, while I was there, I brought my sketchbook with me, finally getting the chance to just sit down and draw, ya know? Well, this one French solider sat down next to me, needing a break from his friends and some of mine, and he saw me drawin’ you.

“Turns out, he was a huge fan of the show, sayin’ he always went to the theater to catch the newest one. Let me tell you, the grin on that guy’s face when I told him I was your creator would rival yours, heh. His name is Maurice and we got to talkin’. Turns out he was an artist himself, he even ran a book store with his wife and brother, still does, I think. Anyway, he said he did tattoos as a side job, something he picked up from his father who use to do it himself.”

“Tattoo?” Bendy asked as Henry tapped his arm.

“This is a tattoo, it’s a drawin’ on your skin that’s made with a special kind of ink. A lot of people have them, often of special images and words. Sometimes… they’re not good things, but I won’t go into that. Anyway, well, when he said he did tattoos, my drunken brain thought, ‘hey Henry! You should get one’, and wow, did I not even give that a second thought.”

The imp snickered a little. “You picked to have a drawin’ of my beautiful mug, eh?”

“Well, I was really drunk and wanted somethin’ fun and hilarious, Maurice jokingly asked if I wanted you on my arm, and of course I said yes! He quickly made up a makeshift tool, turns out he had tattooed a few of his friends while on break from the battlefields a few times, and he got to work. I even let him pick out one of your sketches from my sketchbook to draw, and he picked this one.”

Henry smiled, looking a bit embarrassed. “Next mornin’, woke up hungover and found the tattoo. One of my friends who wasn’t hungover told me the story, and now I remember it after havin’ a cleared mind, but man was it embarrassin’ at first. Then it became a little symbol for the troop. We called ourselves the Smiling Demons, Maurice was nice enough to give a bunch of us little stars to match the ones around you. Cheesy, I know, but it was a nice gesture.”

He set the scrub down and looked at Bendy. “I’m actually still in contact with Maurice, ya know? We exchanged addressed and wrote to each other all the time, just updates on life and such. Sometimes we even would draw pictures for each other. A few years ago, me and Linda went and visited Paris, we ran into him and his wife and had a nice time.”

He chuckled a little as he sat back in the old chair. “Oh man, Linda was so furious with me when I told her about the tattoo, until she saw it. Then she just laughed, thought it was the funniest thing to ever happen to me. Oh, yeah, she was worried about my injuries and stuff, but that smilin’ face of yours cheered her up. We told this to Maurice and he looked so proud of his work, what a great guy, still a big fan of yours.”

Bendy smiled a little, kicking his feet as he leaned back on his hands. “Heh, nice to have friends, eh? Hey, whose Linda?”

“Oh, she’s my wife.”

“You’re married?! I didn’t know dat! Where’s yer ring?”

Henry dug into the pocket of his pants and pulled out a silver band. “I took it off on instinct when I came to the studio. I use to keep it off when I worked cause I always hated getting ink on it. I always felt bad about it getting messy when I came home, but Linda never seemed to mind, still, instinct made me pocket it. I’m surprised it survived all of that stuff we went through.”

Bendy nodded. “Say, when we get out, do ya think I’ll get to meet her?”

“Heh, of course you will. I’ll take us home and you’ll get to meet her, and hopefully the rest of my family. Gonna be hard to explain everythin’ that’s happened to us and how you came to me, and, well, hopefully our eyes will be returned to normal by then. Hm, she’s gonna be mad about me being home later than expected, and I doubt there’s a workin’ phone here…”

“Well, I bet she’ll understand when we tell her everythin’! Besides, ya got me as proof that crazy stuff happened!” Bendy grinned, looking excited now. “Golly, I can’t wait to get outta here, see da world, meet yer family, an’ spend time wit’cha without the chance of death bein’ around every corner!”

Henry looked at him, smiling a little. “Yeah, that’ll be nice. I’d like for you to see what’s beyond the studio, bet you’d like what we’ve got nowadays.”

“Tell me! Heck, tell me more about’cha, Henry! I wanna know all sorts of stuff about my favorite human.” Bendy happily yelled, if he had a tail, it would probably be wagging.

Blinking, Henry looked at him before laughing lightly. “Alright, let’s see… ah, when I was younger, I used to be a prankster and a troublemaker, like you…”

Boris peeked in on the two, having heard a lot of chitter chatter from the main room. He watched and listened to Henry as he talked to Bendy about his time at the studio when it first opened, seeming so happy to talk about the good stuff that had happened here. The wolf smiled, deciding to let them be, he was sure both of them needed a moment of peace together.

END

--

Just a little thing, I was thinking about the idea of my Henry having a tattoo of Bendy on his person, but I wasn’t sure what a good reason for it would be. Then I thought about this, and here we go!

That, and I almost, ALMOST wanted to give him something super ridiculous that he’d be embarrassed about cause I was re-reading my copy of Journal 3 and read about Ford’s tattoo. But I decided on Bendy being the design, a simple one, instead of something really silly.

Also, this fanfic was an excuse to establish a few things: Henry got hurt in the war but obviously lived, him and Linda are married (have been since 1930 in my au), and he already had ink in him before getting his mark. I also love the idea that Henry has friends from his army days (and most are still around, they remember Henry the artist, his nickname was Bendy as a joke)

Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed!

[sapphstudies]

100 Days of Productivity (64-68/100) + January Spread

Moving into the new year!! I’m so excited for January to begin. I’m ready to say thank you to 2018 and send it off and move forward into 2019! With any luck, this year has a lot in store for me!

January is going to be a bit of a hell month for me. I’m taking a winter term class, preparing for the SAT, and preparing my transfer applications all at once and then spring semester starts on the 28th! I have a lot to get done, but my plan is to really buckle down and work hard every day this month, knowing it’s all going towards the game-changing goal of 2019: Get into Gallatin! My hope is that, if I work really hard and get everything done this month, then spring term will be fairly breezy and I can focus on keeping my GPA as high as possible.

January’s spread is pretty much the same as December, all the same components just shifted a bit to accommodate the shape of the month and slightly larger daily boxes. I tried working in colored pencil without much success but this is only my second decorative spread ever, and I learn something new every time! I’m trying a new style of daily spread in the new year, trying to keep things more streamlined and less time consuming to layout every day/week will update when I get a sense of how it’s working for me!

100 Days of Productivity update below the cut!

Day 64: The day after Christmas I started cat-sitting for my sister so I’ve been hauling all my study materials back and forth every day, but I have still been getting a lot done! I studied for the SAT with Kahn Academy’s SAT prep course for around 2 hours and then brainstormed essay ideas for my transfer applications before heading back to my neighborhood to see Bohemian Rhapsody. I was so surprised it was still showing at the theater near me and it was so good I’m so glad I got a chance to go!

Day 65: In the morning I saw the new Grinch movie because I still hadn’t seen it yet and I really liked it! I think I liked it better than the original even! I loved Cindy Lou Hoo and her family’s story. I might have cried a little. Then I hauled everything over to my sister’s place and wrote the first draft of my NYU essay. It was really just a brain dump more than anything and I’ll probably end up splitting it into two of the essays for the application. I studied for the SAT and started reteaching myself geometry with the Kahn Academy course as part of my SAT prep. My weakest points by far are linear algebra and geometry because I really just don’t remember all the stuff I learned in high school so I think the fastest way to bring up my math score is to just do a complete refresh for those courses.

Day 66: Friday was a bit of a shortened day. I woke up a little late and then hauled myself to my sister’s dropping of laundry on the way. I was only able to be there and study for a few hours since I had an appointment in the afternoon but I did some SAT practice and then geometry review before heading home. I had planned to do a couple errands after my appointment but most places I needed to go were closed so I ended up doing more geometry review until way too late before doing some cleaning and organizing around the apartment before bed.

Day 67: SAT Practice Test Day! After taking care of the kitties I settled in for the Practice test. I spent about 4.5 hours on it since I took breaks between sections to play with the cats and make sure they felt loved. My score was up 90 points from my first practice test and 100 points from my converted high school score so that was awesome! I probably won’t keep making such huge leaps of improvement in the next tests since once my math skills are fully refreshed it’ll come down mainly to time management during the test and general speed which improves a lot more incrementally I imagine. I’m super happy with the improvement. In the evening I just ran an errand on my way home and then took it easy.

Day 68: I took the day off from studying today! Honestly, I’ve been feeling a bit funky and out of sorts all week and after improving so much on my practice test I felt like I could afford and a day off and thought it might do me some good. I spent the day mainly on my January spread and the upcoming week’s spread. In the morning I baked some muffins and worked on my bullet journal then I headed to my sisters and played with the cats and watched youtube and read for a while. Around 5 I started nodding off so I headed home where I kept working on my journal finished some last tasks for the week. 

I’ve noticed my bujo starting to feel more like a chore and just another task I have to accomplish during the day which really isn’t the vibe I’m going for. I wanted to bujo to have more creative freedom and flexibility because I was finding that preprinted planners were boring to look at didn’t fit my needs exactly right but honestly, bujo is time-consuming!! I think the time commitment for making spreads and the full responsibility for providing an effective time management system can just feel a bit too much and too stressful when it’s meant to be fun but it might just be my off state of mind and stress over the upcoming month that’s throwing me off. I’m also still just begining and working on finding the right style that works for me. I might start moving towards more minimal spreads to save me time and brain space. My daily spreads next week are going to be a lot more minimal so I’ll see how that goes! 

It’s now 12:30 so way too late oops. So much for going to bed by 12:30 I really need to work on my sleep schedule. Somehow the evening hours just slip away from me and suddenly it’s past bedtime and I still have dishes to do and to get ready for bed and such! If you have any tips or tricks for getting to bed earlier or have any thoughts on my thoughts about bujo stress lmk! I’d definitely be interested to hear!

[keepingupwithlinmanuel]

‘In the Heights’ 10 Years Later: From ‘Vague Promises’ to a Broadway Smash (Exclusive)

When Lin-Manuel Miranda wrote the initial draft of his first musical, In the Heights, it was an 80-minute, one-act show with music that sounded like a hip-hop version of Rent combined with Marc Anthony. It was 1999 and Miranda was a sophomore in college at Wesleyan University in Connecticut, itching to write his “dream show” because he wanted a “life in musicals.”

“The version was not for credit. I just really needed to write it,” Miranda told ET following a celebration of the musical at BroadwayCon at the Javits Center in New York City, where members of the original cast and crew reunited 10 years after the show opened at the Richard Rodgers Theatre on March 9, 2008.

The winner of four Tony Awards, including Best Musical and nominated for the Pulitzer Prize in Drama, In the Heights follows a bodega owner (Miranda) and other residents of a largely Hispanic American community in the Washington Heights neighborhood of Manhattan over the course of three days. The original cast included Mandy Gonzalez, Christopher Jackson, Karen Olivo, Priscilla Lopez, Janet Dacal, Andréa Burns, Carlos Gomez, Olga Merediz, Robin de Jesús, Eliseo Román and Seth Stewart.

Following a big showcase on campus, Miranda put his first draft in a drawer and let it sit there for two years after getting “vague promises” from friends of friends, saying they’d reach out once they’d started their own production company. “Who on Earth makes good on a promise like that?” he joked. Sure enough, they did. “They came to see my senior thesis and I met Tommy Kail for the first time the week after I graduated. The fact that we clicked so immediately was the greatest luck of my life.”

Three years later, In the Heights premiered in 2005 at the Eugene O’Neill Theater Center in Waterford, Connecticut, before moving Off-Broadway to 37 Arts Theatre in 2007. It then ran on Broadway for 29 previews and 1,184 performances before closing on Jan. 9, 2011.

Like Kail, who was the musical’s director, the production marked the first time Miranda partnered with composer Alex Lacamoire and choreographer Andy Blankenbuehler. All four worked together on Hamilton, which also saw many members of the original Heights cast reuniting with Miranda. “The hardest part about this business is finding collaborators who are on the same page, and I found that really early,” boasted Miranda. “That was the head start -- finding someone who understands what you’re making.” When it came down to making music edits, the show’s book writer, Quiara Alegría Hudes, who joined the creative team in 2004, says Miranda worked best under pressure. “Every time [Lin] got story notes, he would write a new song,” she quipped.

One song was written at three in the morning before a workshop performance later that day. “Piragua (Reprise)” was conceived on a 10-minute break during tech rehearsals on Broadway. But there were dozens of other songs Miranda wrote at various stages of the show’s development that never made it into the final version, including a solo for Jackson’s Benny. “That song exists because Chris was like, ‘Where’s my Act II solo?’ for, like, three years,” Miranda teased.

The first piece of music Miranda ever wrote for the show, surprisingly, never made it to the final cut. “It was a song about Benny coming out of his own Jean-Claude Van Damme movie and how cool that movie was,” Miranda said, revealing that the first set of lyrics he wrote that has any DNA in the Broadway version was the phrase “In Washington Heights.” When Miranda first wrote those five notes, he said, “Nina was coming home from Yale [which was later changed to Stanford] on Metro North. The lyrics eventually became part of the opening number and title song ‘In the Heights’ and sung by the company.”

While Miranda was unknown at the time, many of the actors recalled the same energy exuded by the creator when they met him at auditions in the basement of Manhattan’s Drama Book Shop. “It was electric in the room. I had never seen anyone like Lin,” remembered Gonzalez, who played Nina. “I knew I wanted to be a part of it forever.” Broadway veteran Lopez (Camilla) had just finished another show when she was given a CD with some songs. “Before I knew it, I was in love hearing the music,” she said. Merediz, who played Abuela Claudia, was confused when she first learned of the show. “My agent called me and said, ‘It’s a show...they’re rappers.’ I said, ‘Rapping? What do you mean rapping?’” But Olivo (Vanessa) was in awe on Day 1. “When I heard the music, I was like, ‘Who’s letting this dude do this?’ He was a superhero in my head.”

“As soon as Karen walked in with her hair down to here like she owned the place, that was it,” Miranda said, adding: “There was no shortage of talent. There was no shortage of talent of people of color. I have five companies of Hamilton to prove it.”

Many in the cast felt their roles mirrored their personal lives. “‘Brave’ was such a personal song, because the whole character I knew so well,” Gonzalez said of playing Nina, the first in her family to go to college who then gets kicked out. “Being the first in my family to leave my hometown and do better -- to sing that every night was kind of like therapy for me.” Jackson admits he was living every aspect of Benny’s life. “Along the way, [Benny] raised himself and he and his friends raised each other. That was all happening in real time.”

“Vanessa was who I was during that time,” Olivo remembered. “I [came] from a bad home and being poor. I always wanted something more and bigger than what people told me I could have. Each night was a little bit of that. [The creative team] would see me come into rehearsals and say, ‘That is what Vanessa would do except she’d be in heels and a short skirt.’”

While a film adaptation originally being produced by the Weinstein Company is no longer in the works, Miranda said “that will happen when it happens,” revealing that a screen version has been stalled since 2008. “That’s one of those [things where] I will tell you when I walk into a set and no sooner.”

In the meantime, a reincarnation on stage is not an impossible idea. “I’d like to see a revival of it at some point, but not with me in it. I’m too old, but I’d love to see that,” Miranda told ET. “I think we will feel when the time is right for that.”

Bonus: Lin and Karen react to viral Lin-related content:

[nataliesnews]

Abu Hummus, theatre, DCO  14.8.2021

13.8.2021   Something very strange has been happening with my drafts. Twice I have written drafts which have disappeared and I know that I have not deleted them as I checked before I switched off the computer that they were there. So let us see now. I also checked if I had sent them by mistake but I had not. I can well believe that one day automation will take over the world as already my phone seems to have a mind of its own and writes the words before I have even thought of it or changes my arrangements on the calendar  computer so that I seem to live in a world which is completely upside

  I was at a joyous performance of Theater in the Rough which you can read about above and also some good pictures. It means a lot of running round the park and also carrying your own chair. Not always easy to keep up or move around the grass but so far I kept my balance. My chair which is rather like an accordion is a bit heavy but fits into my rucksack and I can move from place to place.

    I had a good laugh though when I saw Falstaff lying on his back and then I happened to look around and saw this dog lying in ecstasy with its stomach being caressed by its owner.

    Unfortunately there are the usual things around me which are not so good. But still this evening I am doing a picnic and last night I had supper with Varda Levi (my friend on the right) and family. Nir and Dror whom I had not seen since the mohel removed an important part of his anatomy

 And though the rest of what I write is not so good this afternoon we are having a picnic in the evening out in the hills.

   A young boy of about 15 had been shot while he was entering his home. The soldiers, according to the father , were about 400 to 500 metres away. Also according to the father, the soldiers themselves said that the boy had done nothing to merit this. So what else is new. They had bandaged his leg and put on some iron contraption which looked very painful as you can see in the picture. He has  no money for the operations the boy will have to have, nor does he have money to pay for a lawyer. We gave him both the numbers of the Doctors for Human rights and Yesh Din. Also some additional numbers which I was given by Aziza, a nun who is known to us. The leg was really messed up. The question is if the army admits that they were responsible, surely the IDF should be dealing with this. The man says that his family are law-abiding and there is nothing against him. They have been vaccinated and no one who is not vaccinated comes into their home.

    He had not made a complaint at the police. The father said that the boy had been in hospital in Hebron but he had not been able to pay the full sum. The father said that a captain had told him to make a complaint with the police and had  said that if they helped      him, he would help them. A coverup?  However the father was very vague on this point. It is sometimes very difficult to get exact details, not only because of the language difficulty but also because  for we  Israelis it is always not easy to deal with bureaucracy. How much more so for the Palestinians when they have to deal with the IDF who sees no reason to be polite to them or explain anything.

 The demonstration at Shiekh Jarrah.  There is nothing in the law which says one cannot wave a Palestinian flag but to the police who have IQs of minus zero it is like a red rag to a bull. Abu Hummus

Here is a little introduction to the political discourse of Ben-Gvir and King, who were caught on video shouting and insulting a wounded Palestinian protester. The video starts with MK Ben-Gvir disparagingly yelling at a Palestinian who was apparently wounded by Israeli police, yet, returned to protest against the evictions planned for Sheikh Jarrah. 

Ben-Gvir is heard shouting, “Abu Hummus, how is your ass?” 

“The bullet is still there, that’s why he is limping,” responds the deputy mayor, King, to Ben-Gvir.  King continues, “Did they take the bullet out of your ass? Did they take it out already? It is a pity it did not go in here,” King continues, pointing to his head. 

Delighted with what they perceive to be a whimsical commentary on the wounding of the Palestinian, Ben-Gvir and King’s entourage of Jewish extremists laugh.  

While “Abu Hummus”, wounded yet still protesting, is a testament to the tenacity of the Palestinian people, King, Ben-Gvir, the settlers and the police are a representation of the united Israeli front aimed at ethnically cleansing Palestinians and ensuring Jewish majority in Jerusalem. 

 Abu Hummus is very prominent at these demonstrations. I find it hard to sit on the one little rock I have found….standing for me is harder than walking…. But as soon as I get too near to the action some people not so hot-headed drag me back to the pavement,

 But  he is tall and walks on two long crutches and even then limps has become a target for the police especially when he waves a Palestinian flag…..and again I emphasize that this is not illegal. This time they attacked him and beat him to the ground where I saw him bent over with the flag held beneath his stomach  and one of the young men I know trying to protect him

     I took the little Palestinians flag  had been given and pinned it on to my shirt. One of the young men said, “They will pull the shirt off you.” and I relied that after so many years it would be a pleasure”   But one day the police will kill someone here and it is not at all sure that it will be a Palestinian but rather a demonstrator as the police hate us more than they do the Palestinians. That is my friend Varda Heled with whom I often go to demonstrations.

          Natanya Natalie Ginsburg

Henrietta Szold 2

Migdal Nofim Room 708

Kiryat Hayovel

Jerusalem 9650230

Israel

Tel 0528-375593

Nofim Tel 972-(0)2-6580222

Home 972 (2)6418387 no messages

Cellphone preferable

 13.8.2021   Something very strange has been happening with my drafts. Twice I have written drafts which have disappeared and I know that I have not deleted them as I checked before I switched off the computer that they were there. So let us see now. I also checked if I had sent them by mistake but I had not. I can well believe that one day automation will take over the world as already my phone seems to have a mind of its own and writes the words before I have even thought of it or changes my arrangements on the calendar  computer so that I seem to live in a world which is completely upside

  I was at a joyous performance of Theater in the Rough which you can read about above and also some good pictures. It means a lot of running round the park and also carrying your own chair. Not always easy to keep up or move around the grass but so far I kept my balance. My chair which is rather like an accordion is a bit heavy but fits into my rucksack and I can move from place to place.

    I had a good laugh though when I saw Falstaff lying on his back and then I happened to look around and saw this dog lying in ecstasy with its stomach being caressed by its owner.

    Unfortunately there are the usual things around me which are not so good. But still this evening I am doing a picnic and last night I had supper with Varda Levi (my friend on the right) and family. Nir and Dror whom I had not seen since the mohel removed an important part of his anatomy

 And though the rest of what I write is not so good this afternoon we are having a picnic in the evening out in the hills.

   A young boy of about 15 had been shot while he was entering his home. The soldiers, according to the father , were about 400 to 500 metres away. Also according to the father, the soldiers themselves said that the boy had done nothing to merit this. So what else is new. They had bandaged his leg and put on some iron contraption which looked very painful as you can see in the picture. He has  no money for the operations the boy will have to have, nor does he have money to pay for a lawyer. We gave him both the numbers of the Doctors for Human rights and Yesh Din. Also some additional numbers which I was given by Aziza, a nun who is known to us. The leg was really messed up. The question is if the army admits that they were responsible, surely the IDF should be dealing with this. The man says that his family are law-abiding and there is nothing against him. They have been vaccinated and no one who is not vaccinated comes into their home.

    He had not made a complaint at the police. The father said that the boy had been in hospital in Hebron but he had not been able to pay the full sum. The father said that a captain had told him to make a complaint with the police and had  said that if they helped      him, he would help them. A coverup?  However the father was very vague on this point. It is sometimes very difficult to get exact details, not only because of the language difficulty but also because  for we  Israelis it is always not easy to deal with bureaucracy. How much more so for the Palestinians when they have to deal with the IDF who sees no reason to be polite to them or explain anything.

 The demonstration at Shiekh Jarrah.  There is nothing in the law which says one cannot wave a Palestinian flag but to the police who have IQs of minus zero it is like a red rag to a bull. Abu Hummus

Here is a little introduction to the political discourse of Ben-Gvir and King, who were caught on video shouting and insulting a wounded Palestinian protester. The video starts with MK Ben-Gvir disparagingly yelling at a Palestinian who was apparently wounded by Israeli police, yet, returned to protest against the evictions planned for Sheikh Jarrah. 

Ben-Gvir is heard shouting, “Abu Hummus, how is your ass?” 

“The bullet is still there, that’s why he is limping,” responds the deputy mayor, King, to Ben-Gvir.  King continues, “Did they take the bullet out of your ass? Did they take it out already? It is a pity it did not go in here,” King continues, pointing to his head. 

Delighted with what they perceive to be a whimsical commentary on the wounding of the Palestinian, Ben-Gvir and King’s entourage of Jewish extremists laugh.  

While “Abu Hummus”, wounded yet still protesting, is a testament to the tenacity of the Palestinian people, King, Ben-Gvir, the settlers and the police are a representation of the united Israeli front aimed at ethnically cleansing Palestinians and ensuring Jewish majority in Jerusalem. 

 Abu Hummus is very prominent at these demonstrations. I find it hard to sit on the one little rock I have found….standing for me is harder than walking…. But as soon as I get too near to the action some people not so hot-headed drag me back to the pavement,

 But  he is tall and walks on two long crutches and even then limps has become a target for the police especially when he waves a Palestinian flag…..and again I emphasize that this is not illegal. This time they attacked him and beat him to the ground where I saw him bent over with the flag held beneath his stomach  and one of the young men I know trying to protect him

     I took the little Palestinians flag  had been given and pinned it on to my shirt. One of the young men said, “They will pull the shirt off you.” and I relied that after so many years it would be a pleasure”   But one day the police will kill someone here and it is not at all sure that it will be a Palestinian but rather a demonstrator as the police hate us more than they do the Palestinians. That is my friend Varda Heled with whom I often go to demonstrations.

          Natanya Natalie Ginsburg

Henrietta Szold 2

Migdal Nofim Room 708

Kiryat Hayovel

Jerusalem 9650230

Israel

Tel 0528-375593

Nofim Tel 972-(0)2-6580222

Home 972 (2)6418387 no messages

Cellphone preferable

[shardvixen]

Story 3 Survivalist Backpack Rough Draft 1: This story belongs to Eliza Jane Bout, please ask before you use any of it and give credit if you do use any of it.From the Den

When the world falls apart only the well prepared or the very lucky or both ended up surviving. It was best to be both because luck only lasted for so long while being prepared can keep one alive a bit longer if luck should fail you.

“Man will be the weapon that puts man back into prehistoric times, without a planet to stand on.” Dr. Raye

Emmaline Raye 

I never seemed to belong, and yeah,  I get that all teenagers say that, but I mean it. Since the moment of my birth it seemed. The other babies would cry until I left. My father named me after his favorite unknown singer/writer from the 1920s. I have always been fat. I know no one is suppose to say the word F.A.T. but that is what I was and still am to a degree fat. And to boot I was too smart for my own good. I loved to learn, a habit my father encouraged. I was smarter then many of my teachers. After a while the differences were to many to number. I was too dyke for this group, too girly for another group, to weird for the weird group So I kind of just stood alone. And here I am standing alone again. I am all alone and the world has ended.

Not like the physically or mephorically but civilaztion has come to a very quick halt. 1 in every 10,000 people is alive. I ended up a winner in a god’s lottery. Like some goddess happen to look into the mortal world and say damn I love that girls style, talking about me. So I win the stay alive ticket. I have to say I am really overjoyed, but Not. Here I am the biggest loser ever cause I didn’t even get invited to the biggest event of all, “ the ending of every thing any one knows.”

I don’t know why everyone is dead, in fact I don’t even know if they are dead, maybe they just went on holiday and left everything just standing. What I do know it that siome them seem to go up in a PUFF. Yeah go ahead and laugh, I’ll wait for you to finish. OK just let me tell you the story and you decide what you think. Let start with this one thought.

I was sitting in my history class on Friday morning, around 10 am.. I was in a college class at the local city college. I am just a bit too smart. That’s how the gods even things up. Really smart and no social skills. I am still debating which one is the best. At least I was beautiful and talented even if no one else saw it the same as I did.

I love history -I so get it. By knowing where we come from will help us decided whre we want to go. It was my 2nd class of the day and it had gotten started a little late. The teacher is lecturing on how heretics were burned at the stake. I look up at the clock and it showed that it was 10:15 AM. When all of a sudden the room got very braight and hot. I closed my eyes, just a blink and my eyes open to find sparkling grey dust falling from the ceiling, like sand being thrown up by a kid and then raining down. I cough and smelled a sulfuric smell like something burning. My eyes were burning. As my eyes start to tear up. I wipe my eyes and saw grey streaks on my hand. I put my head down, heart beating, shocked and confused. I waited thinking I was in a fire. I wa in a dull shock and my brain said freeze.

The dust settle and I was all alone. That got me freaking out. I finally just let out an ear piercing scream- long drawn out that left me panting. Just numbe felling and me panting. I ened up peeing my pants. I just sat and sat I didn’t know for how long. Slowly my heart slowed down and feeling came back, my brain realized that no one had shown up. I look around and saw little black circles on the chairs around me. Black circles with spikes pushing away from the center looking like a many pointed star.

I stood up and looked under my ass. Nope-no black many pointed star. I went to where the teacher was standing, yep black smudge marks there too. OK Like I said I am too smart for my own good, but my brain was having a real hard time understanding what was obvious. They blew up, they puffed in a ball of fire, self contain fire. Instantious Combustion. I have seen stories on TW and onlinem, but never really believe it. But nothing else, well maybe aliens or some secret government weapon, might have done it but that didn’t explain why I was still standing.

I back towards the window, I turned and look out the window and saw cars that had hit each other or were just stopped in the middle of the road. And grey dust , sust sparkling on the lawna nd black smudges on the sidewalk. This starts my heart beating again. I am racing, my thoughts, my heart. I am teering on the edge, Am I dreaming, having a halluciaation, a crazy episode. Yeah, right now I am sitting in a rubber room some where and this is all a dream. Maybe it is a stroke. I slid down the wall untill my ass hit’s the floor. I wait to see if my world comes back in focus. I sang the whole song, “ Stairway to heaven” Taking a deep breath, I stand up.

“ And she’s bying a a stairrrrrway to heAaaven.. OK, just close your eyes and every thing will come back. 1,2,3” I opened my eyes and nope all grey and ashy still. Damn. I stood looking at my favorite shoes wondering what I should do. I am startled by a crash and turn around to look outside and see that a car has ran up the grass and hit the side of the building across from me. From what I can tell there is no one in the car and then I see and hear more cars crashing in to each other. They are all empty as well. My mind kind of takes over and I realize that the reason I am seeing all the cars is because every one has done a poof and the cars were still moving so many minutes afterward based on how fast they were going. I begin stroking my braids something I had done since I was little and my mom would be doing her impression of a looney toon.

Damn I haven’t though of her in a long time. My mom is dead. I live, I mean I lived with my father who I called Poppy and my GrandMam(who was my mother’s mother). My Poppy and my mom got married when my Poppy was 48 and my mom was 18. My mom was a very crazy lady but no one knew that(except maybe my GrandMam and she didn’t tell). Yep you can see how that pissed off a lot of people. My Poppy believed her when she had said she just needed someone just like him and who knows maybe she meant it but no one will ever know because while she was having me three weeks after they got married, she had a stroke that killed most of her brain.

My Poppy quit teaching so that he could take care of her and me. When my GrandMam’s fourth husband died she moved in with us to take care of me. I wasn’t her only grandchild but I was the only one that she could get close to since not of her other children really like her much. My Poppy built her, her own house on our property. She was as smart if not smarter then my Poppy and later I always wondered how she ended up with my mom or being alienated by her other four kids. Apearrantly my mom was her favorite. My mom eventually die because she got out of the house and ended up in a pond. She may have been chasing frogs, which were a favorite past time and slipped. Her body was found about an hour later. She had drowned most likely because she couldn’t remember how to swim. I was seven at the time. I remember thinking that I was glad that she was gone because she was always doing looney stuff and she scared me. Then I felt really bad about not liking my own mom. Poppy really loved her and was always sad after that.

Oh I remembered where I was and where I wasn’t. Poppy, I need to get home. I need to get home. I need to get home. I was repeating it very quickly, almost in a panic but I wasn’t sure how I was going to get there. On Tues and Thurs I carpooled with a bunch of kids. I hoped on of them was around. I had a hard time wrapping the idea of what had happen around my brain.. I grabbed my bag and headed out the classroom door. I didn’t really pay much attention of my surroundings then, I learned my lesson later.

For some reason I went to the theater parking lot even though my class had faced the entrance of the school. Then I remembered that Jean always parked her car in that lot even though it was the furthers from Jean’s class. I think I just wanted to go by the art class, oil painting was going on. As I passed the art gallery and classroom, I stopped. I put my hands on the glass that normally allowed you to watch the painters but there was no painters and I could see the ash laying on the paints and the pictures like tiny pieces of glitter. It was just too much, so I hurry around the back of the building to the parking lot.

I looked around the parking lot seeing that I either had to take one of the cars that was already started or hope that some one else was here in a car or I would be walking. Some of the cars were pushing into each other and I suddenly understood that was because the car’s driver had poofed just like everyone else and the cars ran into each other. The exit out of the parking lot was blocked. I decided to cut across the school towards the entrance of Shasta College. I looked and cars were still moving off the road while there were some here and there that had just stopped. Mostly because they might be a manuel and once the gas was let up, the car stopped and the engine stalled. I run across the campus because I started to releazie that there was no one around and it was very scary to me to be the only person around.

As I ran acrossed the little bridge that went over the little creek to come out on Old Oregon Trail I hear car engins rumbling and saw cars off to the side and some on the roads. I wasn’t sure what to do. I could walk home. For a moment I considered my options and then I walked to the nearest car just idling in the road. It was moving ever so slowly backward like just before its driver poofed or disappeared or whatever, the person had been backing up their car out of the cleared area that was next to the church. I tried the door and found that it open. I saw the gray dust and chared leather like material of the seats. At first I just let the open door keep hitting me forcing me to move with the car until I took a deep breathe and jump into the seat. The car was one of those big SUV types that Poppy told me would be the death of the planet, if we didn’t make sure that they were ‘green ‘before buying them.

It sat up higher then I was use to in a car but at least it was comfortable. The radio was playing from an Ipod. I turned it off to see if I could find out anything but a song from 103 red was playing. I don’t’ know why but that seem odd to me, guessed I figured that the person driving had been a young person, while 103 Red was the classic rock station. Bad me for assuming that only old people listen to classic rock. Poppy liked lots of kinds of music but Big Band was one of his favorite styles as well as celtic music featuring bag pipes and fiddles.

I only lived about ten miles from the college going north west. Poppy had bought a big tract of land in 1981, so that he could have various gardens going. He had builded his own little paradise on the top of a hill. I could walk to the end of our property and see all of the northern part of the Sacramento Valley. We had five green houses a huge front and back yard which were really fields that he grew different types of grass in. Trees and hedges mixed with blackberry bushes and aloe vera made natural fences with the real fence hidden from view.

My Poppy was an old hippie who loved plants and piano. Our house sat about two miles off of Walker Mine Rd off of Lake Blvd. There were other houses but the nearest one was about a mile down the hill. My Poppy ’s name was Harold Kevin Raye. He was youngest of a Ranger in the US Army. His father had been very parinoid and made sure that all his children would be prepared for the ending of the world. Poppy had been born 1944. He was 25 years younger then his oldest sibling. His mother had die in childbirth. Poppy had been raised by all of his sisters and he entered college because he had a love for plants. He was a beatnick and then a hippi. In the 1970s he wrote two series of books on surviving on one’s own. The fist set that contain ten books was called Hippie’s Paradise. The second set was called The Survivilst Backpack. I haven’t read the second set at all but I have read all the Hippi books.

Poppy after writing the first series began travaling. He came through Northern California during a talk circuit about the importance of saving the world’s plants. He was an author for fun though he held a doctore in botny, he would say to me how funny it was that he got paid more for his writing then for his plants. His hobby was paino playing and he made money doing that as well. Poppy was a very talent but lonely man.

He had many friends all over the world but no one special until one night he was on his way back from Eureka where he had some friends who own a bar in Blue Lake. He would go over that way about three times a year to play piano. He would spend the weekend and walk the beach and buy some seeds from the local nurseries and pot growers. He was at his favorite coffehouse in Eurkea watching the waves come in when he saw this nymph, a mermaid, a goddess that was dancing on the beach. Poppy had said that he had just sat there watching this vision of beauty, thinking, wishing that he could meet someone like her. Someone who could be free and dance no matter where they were at.

On his way back east to Redding, he left Clam beach and saw a his goddess hitchhiking and he went about a mile and turned around and offered her a ride. This woman who was only 17 was my mother. Lexi, Alexendria Harris. My mother was a vision of beauty when she was pregnant with me. He offered her a ride and she accepted. They talked the whole way back to Redding and somehow my Poppy was able to convice her to move in with him. They lived platonic life until two weeks before I was born. My mother asked my Poppy to marry her so that I would have a father and a family. I believe even though he never said anything, that my father believed that she was going to leave me with him after they had gotten married but he could never prove it.

My father got some friends to help and they went out of state to get married. He treated my mom like a queen for the next two weeks and lost her on the night I was born. On August 1st, 1993 he ended up taking care of two babies. One a new born and the other a grown woman who couldn’t remember ever being pregnant or her own childhood. My father was always a hermit kind of a guy even though he had many friends and was loved by all of them.

His two series had been reprinted over five times. He had written many books on farming and plants but those two series were the most popular. Recently, I helped him make a web site called Hippi’s Pardaise after the first series and that kept people interested. Every year, he got invited to do book tours on those books.

The urgency I felt thinking I needed to be home as fast as possible was so distinct that I could almost taste it. I put the SUV into drive and turned down the radio with the hope that I would hear what had happen. But music just played then commericals. Which gave me a false hope that maybe everything would be ok. One of the commericals was for Flue Nomore. It was an informaercial about how the whole world was nearly done and then no one would ever have to die or be sick ever again from the flu.

I remembered that I had an appointment to day to get my Flu Nomore shot. I figured I wont be keeping that appointment which was fine since I was freaked out when it came to shots. I had been really sick the last time I was supposed to get it. Poppy and GranMa had gotten theirs and Poppy had introduce her to Dr. Mayberry, who was a fan of his that had requested a while back online for a signed set hey had all gone to lunch and Poppy gave him the signed copy of the the series of the Survivilst Backpack from the 1970’s. Poppy had told them all that Penquin books had approached him about reprinting his two series again, and they had some ideas for some revising that would fancy the illustrations up a bit. They were his publishers for his gardening and herbology books. Also the History Channel had approached him about making a TV series about the Survivilst Backpack.

I had kind of listen but I was really watching Dr. Mayeberry. He was so gorgeous. He looked like a doctor on TV. He was not as tall as me, or Poppy but he was shapped nicely. I just smiled anytime he looked at me, which wasn’t much and when he did he had that look that I was familiar with. It was the look of an young adult gives a teenager. I I get that look a lot because I attended college and most of the guys didn’t want to date a young fat girl. I was so sure that if I was thin and pretty they would have made a play. Dr. Mayeberry was polite but I think all he saw was a fat, shy girl trying to be a grown up. I was sure that if Dr. Mayeberry had met my mother, he would have been smiling the whole time and he would have noticed her at lunch. My friend Jean could have gotten him to look at her but then Jean could get a dead man to look at her. As the old saying, she was va,va, voom.

As I went over the freeway on Pine Grove, I tried not to think of Jean. I looked down at the freeway and almost lost any grip I was keeping on my sanity. There were cars all over the place, some of them were turned over from hitting into each other. Many were off the road. But no where was there a single person to be seen. I looked back on the road to help clam myself. I stopped for the street light until I realized that it probably was point less but I waited anyway. The world looked the same even though I couldn’t see any people but Pine Grove wasn’t a very busy road on a normal day, so I wasn’t surprised that I only saw one other car that had hit the curb and stopped. I kept finding myself looking even though I was beginning to realize that I may be the only person alive.

I felt my mind go numb when I started thinking that maybe I was really dead and this was really some kind of mental leftover from my life. That caused the darkness to start bubbleing up and I had to fight the urge to start blubbering and crying sensless again. I just gripped the steering wheel and kept going. I was almost home.

As I hit the beginning of our private road, I am relieved and scared because I see my GrandMan’s little coop as well as our closest neighbor Mr. Howard’s truck and his horse trailer. The vechicles were blocking the road, like they had stopped to chat, which would have been right on the mark cause GrandMam had a thing for Old Howard. I pulled the SUV and shut off the motor. I just sat there because even though I had felt a leap of hope and excitement of seeing GrandMam’s car, I could see that she wasn’t in it. My brain kept telling me that maybe it was because she was laying down. I forced myself to get out of the car. I walked very slowly, hoping that her head would pop up any second and I wouldn’t be all alone but I made it eventually to the car door and looked down.

My body sagged, no ash on the seat. That meant two things either she was alive or she had gotten out of the car. I looked around and decided that I would just drive the coop back up the hill. I looked down to see if the keys were still in the car and they were missing. I walked around Mr. Howard’s truck. Our mailboxes were behind the left side of the truck. My pace slowed down because again I didn’t want to see the keys or the ash that may have been there but as I turn aground I saw that her keys weren’t’ there. I let out a sigh of relieved and decided that I would just hike it up to the house, until as I was turning away, something shinny caught my eye near Mr. Howard’s door. Part of me, didn’t want to see what it was because I knew what it was. I turned back and walked to it like I was walking to my death and I saw that charm I have gotten my GrandMam for her birthday. I felt the tears start to drip down my face, but I was able to hold it together because I knew, that I had already known that she wasn’t alive. Just as I knew…..no I didn’t want to think about it at the time, just as I knew that my Poppy wasn’t going be waiting for me at home. No matter. I got the keys and got in to the coop and drove up the hill. I turn on her radio but got nothing on it, just dead air. I drove up the hill to Hippi’s Paradise with tears streaming down my face.

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[rinasitorus]

An Interview with Eugene Izotov

Perfection doesn’t exist, because your idea of perfection is constantly evolving. It is impossible, but you can try to get closer every time.” Eugene Izotov is the first Soviet-born musician in history to hold a principal wind position in any major American symphony orchestra. Appointed by Michael Tilson Thomas in 2014, Izotov is currently the principal oboist of the San Francisco Symphony. Primephonic’s Rina Sitorus chatted with him about oboe playing, instrument envy and ‘ perfection’ in classical music. 

Why the oboe? It is still the same question I ask everyday (laughs). My father and uncle are musicians: my dad a violinist, my uncle a pianist. Growing up, they didn’t want me to become a musician because according to them it would be too hard for me. Yet when I was 4  or 5 years old,  I started showing what they called the symptoms of becoming a musician, I was good with rhythm, I would sing in tune, and so on. When they saw that I was really interested, even from such a young age, they said, okay maybe he will become a musician, but not as a string or piano player, maybe he can choose something easy like a wind instrument.

So they took me to Gnessin School of Music in Moscow. I remember vividly, hearing the sound of an oboe for the first time felt like a lightning strike. It was so beautiful and magical. And when I looked at it, I just felt the need to posses it. I said right then and there that I wanted to play the oboe. Well they said, oboe, how hard can it be (chuckles)? So with my father's blessing I could become a wind player.

Was that also the time that you decided to play music for the rest of your life? 

Ever since I can remember, I never considered doing anything else but music. I didn’t even understand why people would choose other professions if they could be musicians. Later as I grew up and found out about the world and other things outside music, it became a decision that I need to re-affirm. I’ve been a professional musician for 25 years. In the end, it comes back to the realization that music is something which gives me a continuous purpose in life in a way nothing else does.

What was your greatest challenge when you just started? In which way has it changed throughout the years?

I guess the biggest challenge was to really prove to myself that I have the talent to make it and how to realize it. As a kid, you would play in front of your parents and they would say it was wonderful, no matter what. But when you get to do the actual training next to other talented students, you’ll learn that the world is full of these talented people.

Throughout the years, the biggest challenge I’m facing has changed very drastically. Obviously I’ve enjoyed a successful career so far, so seemingly I have what it takes. Now my point of reference is the word ‘perfection’. As you grow older, you learn more about the music. You learn about the sound, the nature of orchestra playing, the demand of the composers, etc. So, perfection doesn’t exist, because your idea of perfection is constantly evolving. It is impossible, but you can try to get closer every time.

What is your reflection on the idea that the tradition in classical music is all about perfection?

I’ve noticed that there are some conductors and individual musicians who believe that they have found the key to the truth. They believe it gives them some kind of artistic superiority, if you will, and all they do is showcase it. I think it is a wrong way to refer to the word ‘tradition’. Tradition to me is when you know where you are coming from, you learn it, you allow it to become a part of you, then you build on it and you continue. When tradition becomes a process of creating and recreating the same thing over and over again, it becomes an artistic inflexibility. You will basically do the same thing every single time. That contradicts my identity as a musician.

Some of my most joyful experience as a musician is in searching for something I haven't found before. And I am so happy that I'm playing in the San Francisco Symphony, because  I think the city of San Francisco itself is based on searching and being open minded. It's scary sometimes because you don't know what you’ll find, but at least you're not afraid to look.

You know, finding the truth is irrelevant because it's not the purpose of music. People come to feel something, not to be told of something. People come to experience something – it is not a lecture or anything like it.

If it is not about finding the key to the truth as you put it, what is the most important thing in music to you?

There are two most important things in music: one is how you feel during a performance, and the other is what stays with you after a performance. It can’t ever be the same, people come to be part of a performance, be as performers or as audience, this relationship is recreated every single time and it can’t be the same all the time.

What stays with you after a performance?

It depends on the performance. For example, with 9/11, the orchestra was playing Shostakovich’s Symphony No 11. It was amazing how the music of Shostakovich about an series of actual events from a hundred years ago, could precisely express what we needed to hear in 2001. It gave us the opportunity to come together, to feel the anger and to support each other. The feeling was so powerful and it stays with me.

You wrote about the American Dream on your Facebook status in July. How important was it for you to make it in the US at that time? Was there an ‘or else’ scenario?

Yes, I had to make it. When I came to the US in 1990, Russian wind playing was not at the same level as strings or piano. Growing up, I was really impressed when I heard American wind playing. I wanted to learn to play like that. That was my main reason artistically to continue my education in the US.

And as for the or else scenario, I’m actually from the Soviet Union. At that time, there was a mandatory military draft: there was a war in Chechnya. If I hadn’t come here, I would have to go to war. A scary alternative. I would much rather make music than make war obviously.

As an oboe player, do you have instrument envy? 

Are you kidding me? All the time! (laughs). I have clarinet envy, piano envy, voice envy. I sometimes just steal their pieces. I’m aware of my instrument’s abilities as well as its limitations.

My biggest instrument envy is the human voice. That is just the world’s greatest instrument. You see, one of the best advantages of playing in the best orchestras is that you get to sit next to the best musicians. I’ve learned so much from the greatest singers.

Could you be more concrete of what an oboe player can learn from singers?

When we are playing, we always have the same problem, not all of us, but we can't hear ourselves from the audience seats. Rehearsals are first done in a pretty private setting. The singers get to sit near me, sometimes next to me. Because with a lot of operatic writing (especially for oboe clarinet flute), sopranos start the line, the oboe continues, and then it goes back to the soprano. It is a dialogue which needs to be closely rehearsed. Then in the theater, we’ll be separated. It is then I will hear how the voice sounds when it travels, while I’m playing. Sometimes we musicians are so obsessive about what we are doing on stage that we forget that there is a distance between the stage and the seats of the audience.

So, I get to see how the voice is carried and interacts with music.  How it changes its resonance, its smoothness, its personality, and its power.  I’ve learned how to imitate that from singers. It has been serving me really well in oboe playing. Some of the best compliments I get is that my playing is vocal, that I can emulate the sound of a singer. It is the most valuable compliment for me.

Which repertoire do you feel most identified with? 

Prior to moving to the US I had never heard anything from Mahler. Now you can’t go to any  major city without hearing Mahler’s music being performed somewhere. I moved to the US on July 7. Then I found out that July 7 was Mahler’s birthday. I heard Mahler’s Symphony No. 1 during one of the most horrible moments of my life. In order to continue my study and stay in the US, I had to pass the English exam which I had failed once. I had one chance left. The music gave me so much hope that I felt as long as I could be near it, I could get to anything. Then I passed the exam  and I could stay. The music of Mahler has always played a big part in my life. I'm not saying that I don't like anything else, but since then the fire has always been burning inside of me.

What are your upcoming projects? 

The symphony is one big continuous project for me. And generally speaking, if I'm not playing, then I’m teaching. In the summer time, next to teaching at San Francisco Conservatory, I’m also with the Pacific Music Festival in Sapporo Japan. I’ve been going there for 16 years. It was the last creation of Leonard Bernstein, such a pity he could only stand up there for one summer before he passed away. Since then it has become a really important international music center. I also teach in the Music Academy of the West in Santa Barbara, California. I will also play concertos and featured solos. The music director of the Pacific Music Festival and a good friend of mine, conductor Valery Gergiev, has asked me to do 6 or 7 performances throughout Japan with the PMF Orchestra.

What about solo recordings?

I’ve had a pretty busy past few years. I really need one summer where I can devote my time to solo recording. I would really love to do it. One thing I notice from my OboeSolo channel on Youtube is that every time I publish something, I will get up to 3000 hits in two, three days. I can’t imagine selling 5000 CDs in such a short time. So when I make a new commercial recording, it remains to be seen in which format, because the technology changes so rapidly these days.

The San Francisco Symphony Orchestra recently released the Schumann Symphonies 1-4, conducted by Michael Tilson Thomas.

Schumann’s music is very dear to me – there is such a genuine and even fragile tenderness in his writing, it has always touched me since the first time I heard “Dichterliebe” when I was a child. Also, Schumann’s language is very open and melodic, which speaks closely to my Russian heart. I was very happy to be a part of our Schumann Symphonic Cycle – it gave us a completely different set of challenges from repertoire like Mahler, Strauss, and Copland. I think these recordings demonstrate a special kind of vitality and versatility of the San Francisco Symphony. We certainly enjoy the great triumphant moments – they are always exciting to play, but to me it has been even more remarkable to be a part of performances where the orchestra had the courage to expand its dynamic range, particularly playing in softer dynamics, and to create intimate and almost haunting moments of quiet.

Eugene Izotov in conversation with Primephonic's Rina Sitorus

Foto by: Corry Weaver