#this is the most profound effect he has ever had on my life

[rainybraindays]

Sometimes the ocd wins guys

[tomatoluvr69]

It’s so funny to be lazily ambiguous with gender and sexuality in real life because most people are like oh that’s a butch lesbian. Because I am lazy. And because I only clear things up with vetted friends and literally do not care about pronouns and names and have had different names/pronouns in different circles etc. and they see my men’s attire and the fact that I haven’t binded (bound?) in years and my short hair has long grown out. And then they tell on themselves and their own lazy heuristics when I talk about liking a man that it either a) takes them visibly aback and they have to stumble over themselves to pretend they’re not shocked or b) straight up think I’m joking and continue to believe I’m a butch lesbian. And the craziest thing is other queer people like somehow often worse about this despite this sort of idea that they have of themselves that they don’t assume anyone’s gender/sexuality and that they don’t tie ideas of androgyny to a flat chest and that they do believe that pretty extreme gender fluidity can and does exist and that everyone’s experience with gender is unique. And then there’s all sorts of shit where if I don’t feel like explaining/justifying the fact that I feel my concept of identity and self shift at such a glacial pace that it’s not worth establishing a conventional nonbinary or transgender identity (that conforms to the accepted experience, timeline, and desired considerations) in public, beyond my trusted friends who are chill about deviant experiences within the queer norm, I’m just one of them theyfabs claiming to be queer for clout. Ugh anyways it’s crazy to be one of the few people on the planet who needs to occasionally come out as what may appear at the outset as straight. I’m literally not a lesbian and no one ever ever stops to think I might not be. But I’ve had so many profound experiences with women and within that sort of community that I do feel such a strong affinity there, and in an ideal world would love to be something like a he/him lesbian. But I’m not a lesbian. Because I like men!! Despite only ever having been with women!!! And it also is so funny to me that were I to enter into a relationship with a man I would be considered completely and entirely cishet despite my extensive experiences within the gay community and specifically the lesbian community. Who would accept me with open arms if I’d ended up permanently with one of the women I’ve been with!! But I remain steadfast in my convictions that I do not need to explain myself to anyone. And truly I do not care in the least what people assume about me, I’m a very private person for whom open identity is not important and I’m literally way too chill to care. But it’s just continuously funny to have to come out as not a lesbian. How many dozens of times have I had to be like “actually I am not a homosexual”. Literally the opposite experience of most LGBTeeeees I’ve just got that deeply intensely masculine swag for real that the effect lasts even when my hair gets down to like shoulder length. And it’s like, even though I am perceived as female, albeit a queer one, I have had literally every single one of the stereotypical experiences of the ‘knew I was transgender from early childhood’ archetype and that’s just supposed to be completely invalid because I decided not to medically transition due to the spans of time I have where my identity shifts and I know I’m not qualified to pick one of the three acceptable genders for the rest of my life? And I understand the broader community’s frustration with certain aspects of hegemony re: people whose identities are snidely referred to as “theyfabs” and bisexual women in LTRs with men HOWEVER im just so tiredddddddddddd of the condescension, and lazy heuristics I notice in queer people’s treatment of me and assumptions about me. Anyways thanks 2 the gay people in my phone for letting me be amorphous and being so so chill about it. I mean it probably helps that you can’t see my genuinely gargantuan and unbindable breasts from my posts. But christ man it’s just exhausting lol

[raviollies]

OC QUESTION MEME

For the sake of not clogging anyone's dashes

4. Do they have a happy place? Somewhere they go to in their heads when they need to relax?

Not really! Blythe really isn't the daydreaming or meditative type, she often just prefers to apply herself physically to busy herself if she feels stressed out, very rarely is she lost in fantasy

10. What is their favourite memory from their childhood?

Blythe's childhood...is not something she remembers in great detail. It bordered on boring, uneventful, few events stood out as exceptional. She was someone extremely under-stimulated, someone that always BORED, wanting more. A lot of her life pre-campaign would be a blur she does not care for.

24. Do they prefer cold weather or warm weather?

Warm! As time goes on, she does show a preference for clothes that let her move, to cast and adventure, so she does not like cold and CETAINLY NOT a fan of Krezk. Most of all she prefers temperate weather like that of Vallaki.

33. What moment of their life made them feel most loved?

:)

28. Are they ticklish ?

Isn't everyone?

37. If they had the chance, would they prefer to travel to the past or the future?

Past. 100% past...to be more knowledgeable, to not walk into the trap of a deal with Theta, or negotiate something better. It wasn't even the deal itself that she harbors hate for, it is the way it was given to her --- through DECEIT. It was thrust upon her without knowledge of what she was agreeing to, of what she was sighing up for.

Blythe in of itself doesn't harbor hate for the Fae, or for BEING a Fae. It's the fact that Theta had not TOLD her what she will become...that she will be bound to her, as Hag and Hexblood. She wishes to be free of the chain, or not have the chain on her in the first place.

17. How good are they at choosing gifts for others?

PRETTY GOOD I WOULD SAY NJFDGF, I am going off my DMs word as our party tends to lean more towards NPC relationships than inter-party ones.

Despite being someone at their core...selfish, she is very perceptive in terms of others emotion and mental status. So far she has given only a couple of gifts;

Ireena - her crystal necklace

Rahadin - Lunarbells

When Ireena expressed an interest in attempting to cast magic, she was woefully without a conduit of doing so...being a martial ---- no focus on hand. So for their lesson, Blythe had given her her necklace, an amethyst that usually hangs around her neck. With the tools in hand, she spent several hours with her honing her very first touch of magic, Prestigitation. With practice, Ireena was able to light up the room, not just with her magic but her smile too.

Ireena keeps it around her neck, underneath her scarf ever since

When Blythe and Rahadin had a moment alone, after a lengthy discussion on...dusk elves and the Three Fanes, Rahadin offered to show Blythe an abandoned dusk elven shrine to the titular goddesses. It was a small outcrop of dilapidated ruins of a building with flowers, thought to be dead. They turned out to be Fae flowers, coming to life and glowing with the slightest touch of magic. Since it appeared to have a profound effect on him, as a token of good will, she taught him a simple cantrip so he could light the flowers himself.

40. Is there anyone or anything that immediately instills fear in them ?

Theta. (and Strahd a little.)

1. How easy is it to make them angry? Do they show their anger or hide it ?

It is quite hard to make Blythe TRULY angry, though specific buttons do get her riled up pretty easily (Such as implying she's 'simple' or questioning her intelligence). She does not show her anger, having been always someone that holds her emotions incredibly close to her heart.

8. Have they ever broken any bones? If yes, how?

Nope.

16. What is something about them that people would not expect just by looking at them?

That despite the air she gives off ... She's someone quite young and inexperienced. She is the product of women having to grow up too fast, of girls feeling like they need to be adults before they're ready. She puts on a confident front of an unruffled, unafraid and always in control woman; someone that is always several steps ahead...but inside she's still...a fairly lost young woman who needs a support system. Who dreams of love, of adventure and glamorous dresses.

19. How would a stranger they just met describe them?

I asked my DM for this! In their words, she is intense, confident, haunting in a way --- that when she walks in, the entire room has eyes on her. Perhaps haughty, but she has a charisma that pulls people towards her. A mysterious femme fatale if you will. A true witch.

3. Do they have any pet peeves?

Gross and unhygienic behaviour!!! She hates when people behave without "manners" such as chewing with their mouth open etc. She despises people in general behaving unbecoming or not without manners to the point some would consider her haughty.

15. What is their dream house like?

She does not have a dream house actually --- in fact...post Barovia, presuming she leaves in one piece, she would actually adventure! She doesn't WANT a house, she wants to constantly be on the road, to see new things, to explore new places, to find new knowledge.

It's meant to tie into the nature of whimsical, carefree Fae. It's the fact that they live everyday as though it is their last despite the eternity that awaits them. She is the same, she has endless time ahead of her, yet still feels as though there is not enough time.

31. Are they a messy eater or a neat eater?

EXTREMELY NEAT EATER. She doesn't a lot either way due to the fact that smoking does kill your appetite, but when she does she always does it very neatly, slowly, almost gracefully. She also tends to be a picky eater and only go For Bougie Shit.

2. Do they believe in soulmates?

She does! She actually is deeply romantic inside despite her very pragmatic and guarded exterior. She reads romance novels, dreams of fairy tale romance, fantasizes about being swept off her feet. She's a tender maiden at heart!

5. At what stage of their life were they the happiest?

Probably right now IRONICALLY LOL.

9. Do they have any memories/experiences they'd rather forget?

Theta. Just Theta in general.

21. Do they have any physical insecurities?

HER EARS. She thinks her hexblood forked ears are unsightly and hides them with illusion magic to appear elven. She feels extremely self conscious over how they stand out and immediately other her from everyone else...even if mostly everyone thinks they're cute.

27. Have they ever witnessed someone die?

Izek Stranzi was actually the first person she has ever seen die in front of her, he was a couple feet away when he got SHANKED causing her to get drenched in blood. That being said...He was a stranger. She wasn't particularly heart broken about it, nor was she overly traumatized. If anything that's probably a much bigger red flag --- that she didn't really CARE. She didn't feel guilt, she didn't feel sadness, she didn't feel anything besides the fact that she completed a job.

Similar thing with the Burgomaster of Vallaki, Vargas. Having been a prime participant in his assassination by letting the killer in, disposing of the body and evidence...the party, particularly Ireena were confronted by how cold and calculated she was through out the whole ordeal. Hauntingly, it reminded Ireena of Rahadin's ruthlessness.

36. If they could ask anyone one question and get the absolute truth, who and what would they ask?

This is tough--- but I think...how they see her. Or who they see. She is someone that struggles with her place in society, driven by the need to be mysterious, unique and useful. She feels as though she is the sum of her skills rather than a person, so at the end of the day... She would want reassurance that isn't the case.

Or confirmation of how cruel this world is.

11. Do they have a "type" they're usually attached to?

Not physically! Someone she can endlessly try to figure out -- a puzzle to keep her attention. She above all needs someone COMPLICATED, impossible to solve; someone she can endlessly try to figure out and not come close to a solution. A book with no ending, a song with no epithet, a painting forever in progress. In some ways, she dreams of an endless chase.

In terms of the opposite of her type, she hates stupid people.

[norman891]

Dreamtime - One Shot fic

This picture had such a profound effect on me that I actually had a deam about it. My dream actually ended before I could reach out to him, so I finished the dream on paper, as it were. This also is one answer the question posed by #captjameshookthoughts in a post earlier today.

                                                Dreamtime

I’m standing in a dark room in my bedclothes, but somehow, I know it’s not my bedroom. It’s too dark; there’s no faint ambient light from my alarm clock or the nightlight in the bathroom. In fact, it’s almost pitch black. The door isn’t even where it’s supposed to be, it’s right in front of me.  I reach out and run my palms across the smooth, well-oiled door and find an iron bolt in the locked position.  The door is warm to the touch, but the floor is cold on my bare feet. And I can smell the ocean, cigar smoke, and alcohol, and something like linseed oil but not quite the same.

I keep blinking my eyes trying to get them to adjust to the blackness and turn to look around the dark room. That’s when I see him, only because of the thin shaft of moonlight that’s shining in through a window.  One thin sliver of light in a sea of blackness that envelops me and the man straddling a chair with his arms folded across the back. I instantly fight to control my breathing and the volume of my breaths to keep them inaudible. I know this man – even from the back, in this poor light, I know him.

He's been drinking heavily; the smell of rum permeates the air. And I can see a partially consumed glass of alcohol in his hand, but he’s not drinking it. His head is down on his arms and he’s crying silently; I can’t hear a sound, but I can see his shoulders heaving. 

I take a few tentative steps towards him, the lavish, lush rugs on the floor feel much better to my bare feet than the bare plank flooring. Now I can see the vicious steel claw that he wears on his right arm, the moonlight makes it gleam.  My heart breaks for him.  He’s so sad, so lost, so alone. I know this feeling, though not as cruelly as he does, but I am familiar with these feelings.  I have my demons that crawl out when I’m alone with my thoughts, and in the wee hours when I’m trying to sleep or worse, into my dreams giving me the kind of nightmares that make you wake up screaming and crying.

I want so badly to reach out and tell him he’s going to be alright. I want to tell him that I’ve loved him since I was a wee boy of five years old.  That I’ve never found him scary, threatening, repulsive, evil, disgusting, and a dozen other euphemisms for ‘bad’.  I would dearly love to put my arms around his shoulders and hug him, a good long, affirming hug but I don’t think he knows I’m here. At least, he’s given no indication, and he might strike out in anger or shock with the hook.

I know he’s a proud man and the last thing he wants is for anyone to see him so dejected and defeated, so vulnerable. But I also know I can’t just stand here and watch him suffer in silence; my heart won’t let me.  I take a few more tentative steps closer, and a board creaks under my weight – I freeze, thinking I’ve announced my presence prematurely, but evidently creaky boards are part of his everyday life because the noise doesn’t faze him.

I steel myself to try and deflect or maybe halt the deadly right arm that is sure to attack any intruder, but I also realize I’m not the strong young man I was in my 20’s or 30’s. I’ve gotten old and somewhat crippled.  I can’t even run anymore if my life depended on it, damn that doctor. I have been told though, that I am the most determined man many people have met, and my heart has not weakened under the catastrophes of life, nor has it lost its capacity for love. I reach out ever so slowly to gently lay my left hand on his right shoulder as I softly speak his name.

“Captain Hook, sir?” 

He almost jumps out of his skin, leaping to his feet and dropping his drink. He staggers a little bit, probably from the alcohol and being startled. An angry snarl is on his lips and the claw is held high ready to strike, little red spots dot the center of his entrancing blue eyes. Everything inside me tells me to run, but I hold my ground trying to keep a calm expression, my hands up at shoulder height.

“How did you get in here?!” the captain demands. “Who are you?!” glaring at the strange, bearded man in his quarters.

“Please sir,” I start, “Don’t kill me. I’m not here to do any mischief….”  He swings the claw at me, and I jump backwards. He misses my throat by fractions of an inch. Good Lord, he is so much taller than me. He must be six foot four at least.

“Don’t presume to give me orders! And how the Hell did you get in my cabin?!” I can tell he’s fighting the urge to eviscerate me on the spot and I’ve no idea why I’m still alive.  It is at this point I begin to wonder if I’m having a really strange dream… except I never know that I’m having a dream when I do.  But I definitely felt the leather harness that holds the barbarous hook and base to his right arm when I touched him. Never dreamed anything like that before.

“I thought I was having a dream,” I say as he attacks again, only this time I manage to grab his right forearm and hang on to it. Odd, I think, my voice doesn’t sound quite right to my ears. It sounds younger than the 59 years I’ve walked the Earth. 

“And why would you dream about me?” he growls, fighting to free himself from a grip I haven’t possessed in almost 30 years. “Having a nightmare, were we?” He reaches for my throat and begins to try and choke me with his left hand, inadvertently tugging the beard hairs on my neck.

“No sir,” I grunt. “I was actually hoping nothing would wake me from dreaming.” I’m trying to lean back and away from his hand while still maintaining my grip on his right arm.

“Rubbish!” he snorts derisively. “Why did Pan send you?! What are you here to do to me?!”

“Pan?!” I snap back, surprised at the vitriol in my voice. “That little bastard?! I’d kill him on sight if I ever saw him!” I snarl between gritted teeth.

“Balderdash!” He manages to snatch his right arm free but does not make another attempt to kill me – not yet at least. “No one hates Pan except me.”

“You’re wrong, sir.” I reply, adopting a more relaxed stance, my hands back up as more of a sign that I’m not armed and have no intentions of fighting. “I’ve hated that mosterous, evil little prick ever since my mother read me the story when I was five. You have no idea how many times I played at killing him and that damned crocodile.” He releases my throat, eyebrows raised.

He snorted again, convinced I’m lying.  “No little children love me,” he paused, a fleeting look of heartbreak gracing his handsome features. “No one loves me.” Though he had quickly wiped his face on his left shirt sleeve, his face is flushed more from his weeping than from anger. He knows I can see it and it gnaws at his pride.  “Get out, now!” He thundered. His right arm drops to about his rib cage as the all too familiar feeling of impending defeat washes over him.

“I don’t know how!” I reply, frustrated. “I don’t know how I even got here in the first place. And your door is locked from the inside!”

Hook looked over his shoulder suspiciously; indeed, the door was still bolted and as he looked around his state room, no windows were open either.  Confusion enters his mind.  “Who...?” he began. “How...?” He has finally noticed my left forearm and the tattoo on the inside of it. His eyes go wide with shock and disbelief.  “Where did you get that?!” he stares at my arm. There, in full color, is a hook. No, not just any hook but his hook and base, permanently etched onto my skin.

“I had that done about 10 years ago,” I reply, feeling a little less frightened. I hold my arm out for him to have a better look. I feel his fingers close tightly around my left wrist as he jerks my forearm towards him.  He looks at the claw at the end of his right arm, then at the tattoo several times.

“It’s… mine,” he finally stammers in complete disbelief. “Who did this? One of Pan’s….”

“No!” I interrupt. “I had it done in Charleston while I was vacationing at the beach. That little asshole has nothing to do with my tattoo!”

He slowly releases my wrist, still staring at the tattoo.  “But why would you want this…” he gestures with his hook, “as a tattoo?  It’s repulsive.  It disgusts me.”

I begin, feeling a knot trying to form in my throat, my stomach suddenly feels like a bottomless pit. “Sir, I have loved you for fifty-four years. Captain Hook, I love you so much I have, at times, feared it was sinful to love another person that much. Sir, I have carried you in my heart all these years, and I wanted something to let the whole world know where my allegiance lies.”  He likes it when I call him “sir”; I can see it in his ever so blue eyes, eyes I want to drown in.

He just stares at me, unblinking, his eyes evidently used to the darkness of his unlit cabin. I tell myself he’s probably wondering about my flannel lounge pants and V-neck t-shirt. I’m sure he’s never seen any attire like mine. He’s also still wondering whether or not to just gut me on the spot. I’m sure of it. Why should he trust this old man in his room, who somehow got in through a locked door.

“You’re lying,” he says finally, his words laced with scorn fueled by all his previous experiences. “I am loathsome. I have done unspeakable things.  I am horrid to look at. I am so detestable, so vile, so hideous that I can barely stand to look at my own reflection so how can anyone look at me without revulsion?”

I feel myself smile gently, my posture relaxes further, and, lowering my hands slowly I take a small step towards my childhood…my lifelong hero. I am inundated by love and empathy.

“You’re none of those things in my eyes. I’ve never felt anything but love towards you, sir. Well, and sorrow for what that hateful beast Pan did to you.”

“I will not tolerate your pity!” He says acerbically.

“It’s not pity.” I insist. “Sorrow is different from pity. Sorrow and grief are born from love. Pity is reserved for the stray dog that’s been so mistreated it doesn’t trust humans enough to even let you get close to it so it can’t be helped or fed or anything.” I heave a sigh. “And I do love you, so very much.” I realize that I’ve inadvertently just compared him to a stray dog and pray he doesn’t pick up on it. “I – love - you!”

“You what?” he stammered, shocked.  “But how?”

“I don’t know. I guess I was an enlightened child.” I grin for a moment but it’s a fleeting moment of satisfaction because Hook starts shaking his head.

“No,” he says flatly. “No, this cannot be. You must be lying to save yourself. NO ONE loves me. Do not try deceit with me… whoever you are. I am alone and unloved, and always will be.”

“I’m not lying, and you are not unloved!” I almost yell at him, a little angry for being called a liar. “I can’t help it if Pan has lied to you and…” I pause. Had Wendy and her brothers already visited Neverland?  “And any of the stupid children Pan has brought here. It’s not my fault they’re all blind as bats and gullible to Pan’s lies. I loved you from the first time my Mom read the story to me.”

“Story?” Hook queried, puzzled. “What story?”

“Um,” I begin, thinking how to put it delicately. He’s been hurt enough as it is, no need to heap more humiliation upon his heart. “Well, one of the children Pan brings here, she decides to leave and go back to her parents…”

“The storyteller!” he exclaimed. “I remember her. The Wendy.”

“Well, after she grows up, she and her husband write a book about her trip and adventures here.” 

“I thought she was different,” Hook says wistfully. “I thought… but no. No children…” he stopped short and looked back into the eyes of the strange man in his cabin. They were not critical of him. They did not hold him in contempt. There was no hate in them.  If eyes were truly the window to one’s soul, then this man had laid his bare for Hook to see.

“Before tonight I have never met anyone who claimed to love me, or even cared for me. Maybe Smee but….” His expression fell back to one of utter dejection and grief and he staggered back to the chair to sit before his knees buckled.

This time I follow him, again laying a hand on his right shoulder as I squat to look him square in the eyes. “I love you. I have always loved you. I will always love you, so long as I draw breath into my lungs. And I’m not the only one. Peter has lied to you, because there are plenty of children who love Hook, and even more like me who never stopped or forgot you.”

He tried to look away but could not, even though he desperately wanted to. He could feel his eyes burning as they had earlier this evening before he started drinking. A single tear crept down his cheek, and he was consumed by shame and humiliation and closed his eyes. “Please go away,” he said hoarsely. Wasn’t it enough to be constantly harassed and humiliated by that flying demon child? Now he was confused and bewildered by the appearance of this strange man in his cabin and even more so by his words and tattoo.

Was he the one that was dreaming? Surely, he’d had enough to drink to be in an alcohol induced haze. Would he awaken in the morning to realize this was all a callous dream? He looked back up at the man. “What is your name?” he sighed glumly.

“It’s Edward, but Ed works too.”

“Edward?” Hook echoed. “Edward…” he said again, thoughtfully. The face that beheld him was still smiling, eyes twinkling with utter joy at being in his presence. “I know that name,” he says, “though I don’t remember… but Neverland makes one forget.”

“I have something I’d like to give you if I may, sir,” I ask, proudly raising my broken body to all of my five-foot, six inches height. “I’ve been keeping it safe for you for 54 years.”

“That’s an awfully long time, in some places.  What is it?” Hook asked suspiciously, but curiously.

“If you don’t mind, sir...” I quickly straddle Hook’s legs and plop down onto his lap, simultaneously wrapping both arms tightly around the man. I lay my head on Hook’s left shoulder, waiting to be torn asunder by the claw but I will not pull away. I will not hurt this poor, shattered soul further. If I die, I die happy.

Hook raised his eyebrows and stiffened briefly, then slowly relaxed. He found himself the recipient of the first affection, the first real hug he could remember receiving since his own childhood with Aunt Emily, ever so long ago. His first instinct was to shove the man away; centuries of rejection were hard to surmount.  The fellow began to speak softly but with so much conviction: “I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.” Over and over until Hook could hear nothing else in his mind but those sincere pledges.

Then he felt it; a warm, peaceful sensation emanating from Edward and seeping into his own body, into his very soul. His arms slowly found their way around Edward, careful to keep the point of his claw turned away from the man and returned the hug.

I try to swallow the knot in my throat away; I don’t want to bawl in front of him, but I can feel my eyes leaking tears anyway.

Hook gazed down upon the head and took note of the silver that far outnumbered the darker hairs. For a fleeting moment he thought he saw a small boy asleep on his lap, but after blinking several times in disbelief he plainly saw the older gentleman who had called him ‘sir’ out of respect. Who left no doubt in Hook’s mind that he was, indeed, loved, by at least one soul. It eased some of his pain. It made his existence in this living Hell a little more bearable.

Hook stayed in the intoxicating embrace even after Edward became hoarse and ran out of ‘I love yous’ or just succumbed to exhaustion and fell asleep with his head on Hook’s breast. Without purposely meaning to, he let his chin rest atop Edward’s head, heaving his own purging sigh. His eyelids fluttered and Hook gave in to the emotionally draining exhaustion – and in all probability the effect of the large amount of rum he had consumed earlier, and fell into a peaceful, dreamless sleep. 

He was alone again in his cabin when he awoke as grey dawn began to light up the sky, once again confused and perplexed. His guest was gone with no evidence he’d ever been there, and Hook’s cabin door was still bolted from the inside. As much as he hated to admit it, he missed his odd, bearded visitor. He slid the bolt open for when Mr. Smee would come with his tea and breakfast. He looked forward to it; for once he actually had a good appetite this morning and no hangover.

While he waited, he sat again in the chair with his arms folded across the back and pondered what had happened the previous night. He again felt very alone and lost, but he also felt the corners of his mouth flick upwards briefly as he heard a voice in his mind like a metronome: “I love you. I love you. I love you…” 

He found wispy, silvery hair, not very long, on the sleeve of his shirt. No, it indeed had not been a dream. Strange by all accounts, but as real as he was himself. Hook would spend many hours pondering exactly how his visitor had reached Neverland and if he would ever return. But he was left with one comforting thought; that no matter what else Pan took from him the imp could not change the fact that at least one soul loved him unconditionally.

I awaken with a start to the rumble of thunder and rain pounding on the roof of my house. Lightning flashes again and my heart breaks: I am no longer with him. I want to go back! I sit up on the side of my bed and weep bitterly until I have to go the bathroom to blow my nose, clear my sinuses, and wash my face. The very idea of an almost 60-year-old man crying like a child over a stupid dream…

I turn the bathroom light on to get my washcloth and dampen it with cold water. I look at myself in the mirror, eyes bloodshot and swollen from weeping and choking on my own snot… and then I see it. A single strand of long black hair, curly, on the right shoulder of my white undershirt. No one in this house has hair that long. It must be his. It has to be his! It wasn’t a mere dream after all.  I take the hair and carefully deposit it in an envelope, then tuck it away in my bedside stand. And though I already miss him dreadfully and wonder if I will ever cross into his world again, at least I have made sure that Captain Hook knows he is neither alone nor unloved.

[snaggletoothedbastard]

I'm talking about Tintin again. This time I'm writing an essay. You have been warned.

Yesterday it was my birthday and I rewatched The Black Island. To be clear: I have not read the book. For some reason that is one of the only two Tintin books my dad doesn't have, so I haven't read it. All mentions of The Black Island henceforth are referring to the episode from the animated series.

The Black Island is an interesting episode, and I have interesting feelings about it, which I only truly acknowledged yesterday. Maybe being a year older has brought me unexpected wisdom or maybe I just didn't notice my feelings until more than ten years after the first time I watched the episode. I don't know. Anyway, this is essentially just going to be my attempt at articulating these feelings. You could call this essay an exercise in pointlessness but I like writing so I'm doing it anyway.

The Black Island is actually the first episode I ever watched, and it was my introduction to Tintin as a concept. I'm going to give you a little bit of backstory here. I was about six years old, and I was at a friend's house. We were playing in her mum's room. There was a TV in there with a DVD player, and my friend suggested we watch Tintin. I had no idea what that was, but it sounded intriguing so I agreed to watch it. My friend put the DVD in the player, chose an episode and pressed play. Immediately I was faced with this image.

There he is. The man himself. The weird thing is, I recognised him. This character was familiar to me before I even knew who he was. And that is because of another friend, whom I'd known for my entire life. He and his wife were friends with my parents, and my younger sibling and I were friends with their two daughters. We'd been to the family's house countless times, and every time we went there I would look around at the pictures on their walls, the figures on their shelves and the magnets on their fridge, because I kept seeing these fascinating people. Two identical men with bowler hats and moustaches. A large blonde woman in a pink dress. And a chap with a round face, black dots for eyes and ginger hair that defied gravity by sticking straight up. I'd seen this peculiar character in this family's house for years but it wasn't until I was six and watching TV with my friend in her mum's bedroom that I finally learned his name: Tintin.

The episode we watched was, of course, The Black Island. It was my first proper introduction to the series that absolutely beguiled me from the age of six to around ten, and then was, for some reason, almost forgotten about until I rediscovered it a month ago. And this episode seems to have had a rather profound effect on me that I don't think any of the other episodes have. It isn't my favourite, it doesn't have the best quality, the animation is sometimes funny-looking and the dialogue is awkward and the accents are atrocious, but there is something special about it.

The main thing I get from watching this episode is an intense feeling of nostalgia. The Tintin series was a huge part of my childhood. My family and I watched the cartoon religiously until I probably could have recited the entirety of The Seven Crystal Balls word for word. In my young undiagnosed autistic mind, I thought the way the characters spoke would be the perfect thing to emulate when I was masking. New lens: I am now an actor, and the voice acting in the series is, for the most part, aggressively mediocre. But I tried so hard to copy it when I was a child that it's now ingrained in my head and when I need to mask, I automatically fall back on this weird overacted cartoon-character persona without even thinking about it. I associate Tintin with Sufjan Stevens, because I heard so much of his music while my interest in the cartoon was at its peak. To me, the two are intrinsically linked, and I sometimes forget that this isn't a universal experience, and that there probably aren't that many other people who instinctively think of Tintin in America when they listen to the song Chicago.

I also get nostalgia for the circumstances in which I first saw the episode. The friend who introduced me to the series was also a huge part of my childhood, as was the house in which we watched the episode. That particular friendship had a rough ending, and I feel both happy and sad when I think back on it. The Tintin series actually affected the way we interacted with each other, particularly in the games we played at school. We both liked playing pretend games where we would invent elaborate adventures and act them out in the playground together. Many of these adventures were inspired by the ones we saw on TV or read about, including Tintin.

The Black Island is a reminder of things that fundamentally changed me and made me the person I am now. But it also affects me in smaller ways.

The story of The Black Island is, like every other story in the series, unique. It has Tintin investigating a plane crash in the England, and the mystery eventually takes him up to a sullen Scottish seaside town and an ominous island. I think part of what makes this story feel so strangely close to me is its location. It's close in a physical sense because I'm from England and I've lived here my whole life. The landscapes look a lot like the countryside I used to live in and still see every day when I take the bus to school.

I've never been to Scotland but the Scotland scenes are still familiar. I can link these images to specific places I've been to.

Boscastle in Cornwall.

Corfe Castle in Dorset.

That nightmarish staircase in King Alfred's tower, Somerset.

There are also smaller, more specific details, like that dog that chases Snowy, which I can easily relate to several childhood experiences. I don't know why I got chased by dogs so often but it's hardly surprising that I was scared shitless of them until the age of sixteen.

Or the soundtrack in some of the Scotland scenes, which reminds me of the whimsical folktronica-style music my dad makes with his friend.

These are very specific experiences that I don't think are likely to be exactly the same as anyone else's. The things I associate with this story and the feelings it gives me are completely different to what someone else might get from it. And I think that's really nice. It's like I've got something that's just for me. And of course you could say this about anything, because everyone's lives are different, but The Black Island is, for some reason, the thing that I get this feeling from more than anything else.

The episode has a sense of quiet mystery to it. It starts with Tintin enjoying a walk with Snowy in the middle of nowhere, then bluntly stating that a plane is in trouble. I wouldn't say it's any less exciting than the rest of the stories, but it feels more matter-of-fact. The mystery is there but the answers are revealed in simple statements. I don't know if it's just because it's set in the UK and the weather over here is always dull, but many of the scenes take place under a cloudy sky, and the scenes in Scotland especially seem darker, which I actually like. Of course the episode has its share of chase scenes and slapstick comedy, but the overall tone of the story feels gentler somehow than a lot of the others. It feels more like something that could actually happen, at least to me. And that's how I felt about it when I was six. I watched it for the first time and thought, "I wish I could have an adventure like that." When I went on to watch the rest of the series I had similar thoughts about the other episodes, but The Black Island remained the only one that I could relate to. Maybe that's because it's set closer to home. Maybe it's because I recognise the locations even though I've never been to any of them. Maybe it's because it reminds me of the child I used to be, talking like a cartoon character and pretending my best friend or my sibling and I were on some wild adventure. Maybe it's because it was the beginning of an unforgettable chapter in my life, without which I would have ended up a different person. It's probably all of these things put together. These things are what makes The Adventures of Tintin: The Black Island feel like home to me.

[mapsofnonexistentplaces]

question for you... top cc divorces?

GOD where do i begin. i think there’s more like divorce than actual maintained relationships throughout the whole thing LOL might as well run through all of them

the fucking. one that’s ruled my mind and heart for the past few months nonstop has been isel and olzhas specifically because their whole dynamic revolves around how much these two care about each other even in spite of like. the loose conceit of a breakup haunting them. they both have this thing about, despite mutually deciding on separation, making exceptions for one another in terms of aiding and even being outright affectionate with one another… they’re still being very tightknit whilst also refusing to let other people pry into these ‘transgressive’ acts that contradict the broadcasted external image of their relationship. they’ve got a very private kind of love between them and their whole divorce is basically just a charade built off a misunderstanding but it’s still this constraining force that just. guilts the both of them out of genuineness. it’s fucked up. it’s my favorite thing in the world. i’m glad everyone else just finds the whole ordeal gormless and i’m glad people like freya and dalisay exist to make fun of these guys for being soooo unbearably facetious

beatrix and marjolaine are also complicated…. with them it’s less a thing of them like. tugging at my heartstrings and more just being like the most twisted fascinating puzzle of codependency LOL. like the two of them met each other whilst they were very young and they were both kind of just like. superficially enthralled with one another. very artistically pretentious pair of wayward fiction writer/famous opera singer which like. slowly lost its spark over the years and like two decades later they’re basically both just tugging on one another. utterly refusing to break things off despite then both obviously only being captivated by the past veneer of their old young love. with beatrix in particular it’s fun because he’s got like. this whole complex about seeming well-put together and accomplished and classy and whatever and he’s basically holding onto marjolaine as a status symbol like “hah look at me i’m an accomplished woman who is MARRIED” and he basically views outright divorce as like. admitting to making a mistake in choosing to marry marjolaine. and him admitting to a mistake would basically like kill him so eh. in the dull relationship he must stay. like something i adore about the whole situation is that beatrix basically DID divorce him and quickly walked back on that for aforementioned prideful reasons which is like. yeah. he’s a bit of a disaster it’s fine. similarly i’m fond of the way marjolaine latches on to beatrix for a similar reason of like. “i already started this marriage and ever since my life’s gone down the drain (especially socially) so i need to keep this flame alive if nothing else” whilst also. only really being half-hearted in her interest of beatrix as an individual. they’re both just very devoted to. not really one another. but the period of time that their inversion represents.

cas and lanuola are like a complete nightmare to explain i’ll do it separately if anyone wants it but like MANNNN they’ve got a mixture of things that kick my ass which is like. a) born arose from very heavy performance-based careers and both never really had profound connections with other people nor managed to really effectively evade the public eye. got to do the latter on the train quite plainly and also got attached to one another quite quickly due to shared experiences. they’re both each other’s “first person to really understand me”. b) they both died trying to protect each other it’s all in vain and it fucked!!!! they turn into weird abstract ghosts and you think it’d be fine BUT c) divorce happens due to a convoluted domino fall of events basically boiling down to “cas is extremely bent on revenge for her early death and exerts it on someone completely unrelated by sending them vague scary visions meant to warn the living of the person who killed her and lanuola finds this completely uncouth and breaks things off for moral purposes. however cas is also conflicted about her actions and is incapable of admitting it. lanuola also misses cas but maintains his morality steadfastly. ahhhhhhhh!” to harken to an old sketch made by my good friend stanley:

there’s like some smaller divorces that don’t quite matter that much. like faris and volkan. latter of whom is literally an absolute speck of dust of a character he literally just exists to be faris’ ex boyfriend who barely even comes up. this dude’s job is to simply get a divorce. it’s not even that dramatic they just cut things off because faris wants to leave for the scary train that’s rumoured to probably just kill people once they get on there and it’s like. amicable enough. faris hardly ever gives him much thought afterward LOL

mazin’s divorce also like vaguely matters but it’s another more metaphorical thing. dude literally just disappears without a word to his wife because he’s just THAT ravenous to leave for the train and sabotage it from within. only ever brings her up to get pity from other people and was never really that attentive to her or anything. he sure is a really lovely guy

the brief rendezvous between olzhas and faris is also funny to me just because these guys have been like. good friends for years and like the first thing olzhas does upon breaking up with isel is go AW SHIT i feel useless and bad on my own are there any other beautiful bears on this train that i can tie myself to. and so e kind of just jumps into a relationship with eir old bestie only for faris to like. no more than a week later. go “yeah i do care for you and i want to see you get better but also i am Not isel and using me as a rebound is bad both for you AND me” and olzhas is kind of just like. “Shit yeah. sorry. let’s go break chairs over each others heads.” and they do. they’re still friends and this whole incident basically means nothing to either of them nowadays but it humors me. the woes of the gay italian man….

[delicatuscii-wasbella102]

Transcript from the above video, Very interesting and educational, The part I have highlighted is SO right, and a great explanation.  Another part talks about when slavery ended and that those who were held captive were freed and how they found things very hard to adjust, which made me think of countries in the world today who have over thrown dictatorial governments and struggle in a democracy after, they have been so  institutionalized, that difference is a massive deal, yet we sit there and say, “They should be happy etc.” but they are starting from the beginning, everything they have ever known has changed beyond belief and it must be very scary. wb102 ‘John Henry Faulks Epiphany’ Transcribed by Outdoorvizions   ·“...But John Henry Faulk May have experienced the most profound effect. He was a graduate student when he interviewed the former slaves including the two women you hear in this broadcasts. Himself interviewed just before he died in 1979, Faulk was going on about about how he believed in giving Blacks the right to go to school, giving them the right to vote, giving them the right to go into anything they qualify for and then he said he experienced an epiphany.” . ~Interview of John Henry Faulk “I was sittin down on this old wagon tunnel with this ol’ black man and I was telling him what a different kind of white man I was. I remember him looking at me very sadly and kind of sweetly and condescending saying ‘you know you still got the disease honey. I know you think you’re cured but you’re not cured. You can’t give me the right to be a human being. I’m born with that right. Now you can keep me from havin that if you got all the policemen and all the jobs on your side, you can deprive me of it but you can’t give it to me cause I was born with it just like you was.’ . My God it had a profound effect on me. I was furious him but the more I reflect on it the more profoundly the effect. I realized this was where it really was.” ~ Excerpt from a 1999 ABC Nitghtline news story: Found Voices The Slaves Life Told by those who lived it Narrated by Ted Koppel  

[triptychgrip]

Yuuri and Tohru: Main characters who don't fully grasp their profound ability to be forces of change/inspiration

This isn't the first (and won't be the last) time that I draw connections between my two favorite anime, but upon my recent rewatch of the 2019 Fruits Basket reboot, I was once again struck by a major similarity between Katsuki Yuuri of Yuri!!! on Ice, and Honda Tohru of Fruits Basket.

While we don't see Tohru struggle with anxiety in the same manner that Yuuri does -- though, we do see her grow anxious/overwhelmed several times in the manga and the anime -- Tohru, like Yuuri definitely suffers from self-esteem and self perception issues. While it might be easy to pass off her repeated underminement of how special she is as mere humility, there are several instances in which we see that she truly does not realize her effect upon those around her, and can't quite grasp the positive light in which other people see her.

In this way, she reminds me a lot of Yuuri: the top Men's Singles figure skater in Japan, yet someone who often refers to himself as a "a-dime-a-dozen". In his first ever Grand Prix Final, Yuuri comes in last place, but, at least from his internal monologue, we never hear him acknowledge what an amazing accomplishment it was to even make it to such a selective competition in the first place (for those unaware, only 6 skaters are eligible to compete in the December Grand Prix Final: the culmination of a series of fall skating events known as the Grand Prix series).

Yuuri is a textbook unreliable narrator, and in the first few episodes of Yuri!!! on Ice, there are many times when we get a glimpse into how he perceives himself during his career slump. When Yuri Plisetsky arrives in Hasetsu, we get the sense that Yuuri believes a vast "chasm" in skill exists between himself and his younger peer, which is why it always makes me emotional when I think of the beachside "Viktor Nikiforov is dead!" encounter between Yuri and Viktor.

After Yuri stalks off like the dramatic (and lovable) little gremlin we all know him to be, Viktor's internal monologue notes how much of an impact Yuuri has had not only on him, but on Yuri, too. He notes that Yuri wouldn't be so motivated to "fight" (i.e. compete at his best during his Senior debut season) without Yuuri's drive. And he's already noted how much "life and love" Yuuri has brought to his own life. In this moment, we see so clearly that Viktor is able to perceive Yuuri as the hugely profound (and inspirational) force of change that he really is.

While there are many moments from Fruits Basket that I think illustrate a similar kind of parallel -- one where someone other than Tohru is able to "read" her in the way she deserves -- the moment that most readily comes to mind is the one from Season 2, specifically, the episode in which Tohru and the Sohmas are at the beach during their summer getaway to stay at the Sohma vacation house, and about to set off the (huge) collection of fireworks that Momiji bought.

Yuki makes the comment that before Tohru, the Sohmas didn't really get together to spend time "like this", and we see a shot of them all clustered together, laughing and enjoying one another's company.

Think about how ironic Yuki's statement is, though: in a family united by the zodiac "curse", and one where its members are all supposed to be spending time at an "eternal banquet" -- only looking to one another in the insular fashion that Akito demands -- Yuki notes that until Tohru, they really didn't spend time together. In more ways than one, she is a profound force of change, causing the Sohmas to break free of the isolation that the zodiac curse emprisons them in.

And, of course, given her nature, she isn't even able to see how much of an influence she has until later. I love this parallel arc for both Yuuri and Tohru, where by the end of canon, they are able to grasp (maybe not fully, but at least more than before) how deep an impact they have on those around them, thus forming a clearer (and more affirming) picture of themselves as the sources of inspiration they really are. It's an idea I'm really excited to explore in my YOI x Fruits Basket crossover!

[animeboye]

Remembering Akira Toriyama

On March 1st, 2024, legendary mangaka Akira Toriyama passed away due to acute subdural hematoma. He was just sixty-eight years old. His most famous creation, Dragon Ball, has had a profound effect on the anime and manga industry as a whole. Without it, we wouldn't have had series such as Yu Yu Hakusho, Naruto, One Piece, or many others. On top of how inspirational as a series Dragon Ball has been, it's shaped the childhoods of many kids all over the world, me being one such kid.

Toriyama is one of the few famous deaths that has actually brought me to tears, the only others being Satoshi Kon and Satoru Iwata. Losing Toriyama, for me, was such a sudden and devastating revelation and if I had never gotten into Dragon Ball Z when I was a kid, I don't know if I ever would have become an artist or writer. While I have had many inspirations for becoming an artist/writer, such as Yoshihiro Togashi, creator of Yu Yu Hakusho and Hunter X Hunter, Masashi Kishimoto, creator of Naruto, and Eiichiro Oda, creator of One Piece, it was Toriyama and Dragon Ball which really helped to show me the path I wanted my life to go on. While writing Dragon's World, I've gotten comments from readers who've told me that there were moments where they were reminded of Dragon Ball and with Dragon Ball being one of, if not my biggest inspiration for becoming both a writer and an artist, those comments, to me, are not just some of my favorites that I've ever received, I find them to be some of the highest praise I've gotten.

Alongside Dragon Ball, Toriyama's other works such as Sand Land, which has both a game and an anime series coming out, and Dr. Slump show just how funny and imaginative Toriyama was. His paneling was always so clean and any action scenes were always easy to read and his characters, while not always the deepest, were always full of life and made the series they starred in so much fun to read.

Like many other kids who grew up on DBZ, I also tried on so many occasions to do a Kamehameha or go Super Saiyan. I remember when I saw the episode where Gohan was teaching Videl how to fly and she was focusing her energy into her palms, I tried to do the same, thinking it would help me to fly, too. When a new VHS (yes, we are going back that far) and later, DVD of DBZ would be released, I would beg my grandma or my mom to buy it for me. The same way true for when new Dragon Ball Z action figures would come out. I had to have them all, and I think I actually did have most of them. Then, at fifteen, I sold them because I thought, "I'm going into high school. I need to be a big boy and big boys don't have toys". Heh. Funny how well that thought process aged. Especially since now, I'm trying to find those same figures from my childhood so I can buy them again.

I would often recreate the fights and adventures Goku and his friends went on with these figures I bought, and sometimes, I would make up my own stories. One that I can always immediately recall was Goku and the gang fighting a group that used a seal similar to The Seal of Orichalcos from Yu-Gi-Oh! (also, RIP to Takahashi-senpai) and just like the Seal of Orichalcos, whoever lost that fight would lose their soul, too. Granted, the stories I came up with back then weren't good (I mean, they came from the mind of a little kid, so please be a bit gentle on me), but when you're an Elementary schooler/early middle schooler, they feel like something incredible. It's like you're getting to contribute to this world you've come to know and love and yet, you're the only one who truly knows about said contribution. In a way, it's a really special feeling.

Call me a weeb if you want for saying this, but to me, Toriyama wasn't just another creator. He wasn't just another storyteller. He was my sensei. He was my biggest inspiration and the person who got me to realize where I wanted my life to go. That I wanted to be a writer and an artist. That I had stories I wanted to share with others. Toriyama was someone I always wanted to meet and, I guess now I'll have to wait until I get to Other World myself to get that chance.

Thank you for everything, Akira Toriyama. Thank you for showing me who I was meant to be. Thank you for Dragon Ball and for allowing it to be such a staple of my childhood. I'll be hoping your family is doing well and are remaining strong in these times. May you rest in peace.

[scarletlotus182]

Okay I said I was gonna post my new Gundam Rankings and since finishing a bunch of stuff I felt like a numbered list wouldn't do the series justice so instead here's a tierlist:

S Tier -Zeta Gundam -Turn A Gundam -Gundam 00 -Gundam 00: A Wakening of the Trailbrazer

A Tier -Gundam Unicorn -Witch from Mercury -Char's Counterattack -Gundam Thunderbolt

B+ Tier -ZZ Gundam

B Tier -Mobile Suit Gundam 0079 -08th MS Team

C Tier -Narrative Gundam

D Tier -Stardust Memory

I was thinking of writing explanations for each placement here but the more I thought about it the more I realized the explanations would get longer the lower I got because it'd just be me complaining about stuff.

So if anyone wants a more detailed explanation then send an ask and I'll go off. Instead, I'd like to say one thing I enjoyed about each series be it a scene, MS Design, song, or whatever. So here goes:

Zeta Gundam- This one just has a lot of favorites for me. Favorite mobile suit, favorite protagonist, favorite unhinged white women

Turn A- This series has, imo, the best episode in the entire franchise with Midnight Sun.

Gundam 00- This might be a hot take? But easily my favorite mobile suit designs on average for the whole series.

A Wakening of the Trailblazer- Two for One babyyy, Setsuna fucking rules so much and not only is he another favorite character of mine now but he might be one of the Gundam Protagonists to resonate with me the most

Unicorn- I've said it before on another post but that scene where Banagher uses the NT-D system to hold the tether on cargo ship and help it escape Earth's atmosphere is one my favorite scenes ever. I think that scene really represents everything that UC Gundam stands for with placing their hope on the next generation.

Witch from Mercury- This series got me into Gundam!!! It's far from perfect but I feel like it's had a very profound effect on my life in the past year. It's also responsible for just making me insane about this series and gunpla in general

Char's Counterattack- The ending to this movie felt like the perfect ending to the original Tomino Trilogy. The Axis Shock was the perfect way to end Amuro and Char's story and I wouldn't have it any other way

Gundam Thunderbolt- Literally some of the most insane visuals and soundtrack I think I've seen in an anime. Also, uh, Bianca Carlyle

ZZ Gundam- We got so many iconic and cunty looks from Haman in this one. Also, Haman, literally the best character in the series.

Mobile Suit Gundam '79- The place where it all start babyyyyy, it's so fucking iconic and influential. Don't let me placing in this B Tier confuse you or give the impression I think it's bad. Original Gundam is amazing and anyone who's seriously getting into the franchise should come around to watch this one, be it the series or the compilation movies.

08th MS Team- I think this one has one of my favorite endings for a gundam tv series. Both the Ep 11 ending and the entirety of Ep 12 as an epilogue. It was fitting, uplifting, and had the right amount of mystique and weird newtype shit going on for a UC series.

Narrative Gundam- The chase scene between Jona and the Phenex is one of the sickest action scenes ever. It's so fucking intense and you can feel Jona's body and MS being crushed under the g forces trying to keep up with the Phenex.

Stardust Memory- As much as I bitch about '83, I do think the animation is *very* good. Something about 90s animation really just hits different.

[firetreeclans]

Moon 5 - Leaf-fall

-Cinderstar is having a lovely time discussing clan news with Blair -Blair happily swaps prey with Spidershade -Blair tries to bring up Plumtail’s behavior to them and it turns into a fight someone else has to break up

The crisp leaf-fall winds pleasantly ruffled Blair's fur as she lie in a sandy hollow in the camp, soaking up the warmth of the sun. Since her claw wound was healing so well, Blair was allowed to leave the medicine den to wander the camp. He was listening to Cinderstar and Spidershade discuss Clan news while pulling the feathers out of a small bird, graciously given to him by the medicine cat.

A ginger molly approached behind Spidershade slowly, her foot dragging behind her. It was Plumtail, Blair remembered the name very clearly having yowled it in support with FogClan during her ceremony. She didn't seem particularly happy, but she never did.

"Oh, back to take care of your own Clan, I see." Plumtail huffed, noticing Blair laid out beside her. "Oh, nevermind! Just outsiders as usual. Hope he likes the prey we caught."

"Well, it's polite to feed your guests. And your elders."

"You're not my elder." Plumtail growled. "You leech. You shouldn't even be here. You don't know what we went through to live here or the Code we live--"

"Oh, hush." Spidershade sighed, flicking her tail in annoyance, and cutting her off. "Don't mind her Blair, I've been low on poppyseeds.. well, you would know that as well."

"Mm, well that's fine." Cinderstar meowed. Plumtail visibly startled, apparently not noticing him behind the other two cats.

"I'm sure Plumtail will help you collect more when her paw is healed. Right?" Cinderstar meowed coolly, peering at Plumtail between Blair's ears.

"R-Right." the young cat pinned her ears back in embarrassment and hobbled off.

Cinderstar looked just as embarrassed as soon as his warrior was out of his sight, pinning his own ears back. "I'm terribly sorry for her, I don't know what to say!" he grumbled, licking the back of Blair's head apologetically. "I'm so shocked, I don't know why she'd say something like that."

Blair watched Plumtail settle over on the other side of the camp, meowing about something she couldn't hear to her clanmates. She smiled a little bit to herself, watching the conversation from afar. It felt strange to see cats hanging out and socializing with each other willingly. Being a loner for most of his life, Blair never really had other cats to talk to whenever he wanted or needed it. It was a nice thing to see, and she never realized how much she wanted it before.

"I think I know why," Blair mewed, "It's hard to trust other cats out here. Sometimes you can't, which was why I was a loner for so long. Clans like these are rare. You have a precious thing here, and precious things are fragile... I think Plumtail is concerned about me being here, and Spidershade's trips to SnagClan."

Cinderstar nodded slowly, swishing his tail. He seemed to really be absorbing what Blair was saying, and she could watch as her words sank in. It was kind of funny, Blair didn't really think he was saying anything particularly profound, but it seemed to have an effect on Cinderstar. He was silent for a while before he finally spoke again.

"Blair, when you met with Bleakpaw in your dreams, did he ever tell you what his role in the clan was?"

[hotdrinks]

Honestly, at the start of the book I was very invested in Truant and the way Zampanò's work seemed to have a tangible effect on his life. But later on his footnotes mostly devolved into lengthy gratuitously detailed sexcapades, not to mention him having, let's just say, not the greatest views on women. All of this capped off with one of the most baffling, but oddly fitting, ends to his story that left me not knowing how to feel about him.

However, the middle of the book itself, the one that focuses on the fictional cult (as in cult around a movie) surrounding the Navidson Record and, ofcourse, the exploration tapes dwarf any lackluster writing in the footnotes. The Navidson Record has to be one of the most if not the most profound and innovative peice of horror media I have ever encountered. I envy anyone who gets to read it for the first time. It's a huge book, but I wish I had set a stricter time frame for myself when I first read it because it's a visceral experience that can lose its punch if dragged on for over a year.

WAUGH!! Okay anon I hope you're still there. I waited to read this message until I finished the book just to keep my perceptions of everything as uninfluenced as possible.

First of all, the way women are written in HoL is something I definitely struggled with the most. Trying to parse through Watsonian/Doylist interpretations. Sort of wondering for a while if maybe Danielewski just doesn't (or at least didn't at the time) write women very well (still not sure where I stand with this one but Karen's chapter did definitely help me feel a little bit better about it).

And yeah Truant's sexcapades put me off for a minute but once it became clear that they were just his way of trying to bury his grief and what was happening to him they annoyed me less. And while it frustrates me that women are often used as plot devices in this way (without being given their own agency or depth) I do think this part of his story was necessary to his character development and narratively relevant (I was worried for a second that it wasn't lol) and personally it endeared me to him once he moved past it.

I also think his poor view of women is condemned in the text. Or at least it's something he outgrows. Like how he convinced himself he was so in love with "Thumper" without ever knowing her name, and when he finally asked it was too late. He was just looking for something easy to save him, missing out on connections because he was seeing everyone as a life raft and not a full person. The parental trauma of it all. (This is where my thoughts about women in HoL start spiraling fhdjs)

Overall I stayed really liking him the whole time, even though I didn't expect to! I just found him really sympathetic. The pekingese footnote had its intended effect on me I think lol. Also I like a sorta purple style of writing sometimes, so I didn't personally find his footnotes lackluster, but I can understand how they could grate on others. There are just certain lines in those notes that I think I'll remember forever, just because I think they were written so beautifully.

Also!!! "Visceral" is the perfect word to describe the Navidson record!!!! The format making you experience the House alongside everyone is soooo effective. It really does just instill grief in you while you read it, there were parts that made me cry and cry like a little baby boy in my own home. I was like shouting and talking to the characters while I was reading. And the ending was perfectly bittersweet to me. It's so good and so special I'm really happy I read it, I definitely want to read it again eventually.

[bop-culture]

“You do not have to be good”: A Consideration of Sugar Ray’s “Fly”

When we were toddlers, my twin sister and I would climb to the top of our dad’s busted-ass recliner, frantically doggy-paddle our hands in the air, and participate in a shared delusion that we could fly. We’d plan our flights in advance, through places as exotic as the woods in our backyard and the church nursery, and report back to each other on the ground to verify the truth of our ability. It is remarkable how the human brain can adapt to survive harm: now that I am far removed from the fearful, angry house we lived in, it seems obvious that our pretending was a four-year-old’s magical form of dissociation. 

 We lost our aerial gifts around the time we began Kindergarten in 1997. That same year, Sugar Ray had their first hit with “Fly.” It was undoubtedly a staple of the boombox radio at our local pool in the summers, but lay dormant in my subconscious for decades until a recent vivid dream in which I argued its greatness in a perplexing attempt to impress a crush. It is a well-known schtick of mine to passionately defend pieces of pop culture deemed low-brow (see: Mariah Carey’s Glitter, the Real Housewives franchise, the Josie and the Pussycats soundtrack) but the question of  “Fly” followed into my waking hours: could it, in fact,  be a good song? 

“Fly” and its accompanying music video are a free-association exercise in musical trends of the late nineties and early aughts.  The song starts with a simple, repetitive bass riff (The Breeders). The band has a DJ (Incubus). Jamaican dancehall legend Super Cat makes a baffling yet compelling guest appearance (Shaggy).  The music video features an extended bit of lead singer Mark McGrath traversing the walls and ceiling of a small room (Jamiroquai).  Band members wear flashy pants and have an obscene amount of gelled hair and carefully trimmed goatees (Smash Mouth). But despite being endlessly referential (or in some cases, prescient), the overall effect is both like every local garage band and like nothing else in pop radio. 

For all his outward appearances of douchebaggery, lead singer Mark McGrath contains multitudes. According to genius.com, “Fly’s” opening lyric, “All around the world/statues crumble for me” could be an allusion to Shelley’s “Ozymandius.” This is perhaps a generous reading, but it nonetheless warms my heart to consider the possibility that a man who has said that he got into music to pick up chicks has a healthy respect for  English Romantic poetry.  (He also has a healthy respect for matriarchy. The lyrics frequently reference moms, and the moving conclusion of the “Fly” video sees the members of Sugar Ray exit a car to meet their assembled mothers.) 

Sugar Ray, a band whose oeuvre includes a 2009 album entitled Music for Cougars, has never taken themselves too seriously. They’re a bunch of dudes who got a record deal at a time when a bar cover band with two songs could get a record deal.  In a world of self-important songwriters, there’s something to be said for music that doesn’t try too hard. The vocals are out of tune, the iconic guitar riff seems to be composed specifically to sound kind of  shitty, the production veers abruptly into disjointed segments (Synthesizers! Spoken word! Compressed drum tracks!) with little cohesive vision. It’s sloppy, it’s human, it’s charmingly approachable. Life doesn’t always have to be profound- wouldn’t that be exhausting? 

McGrath has explained in interviews that the line “25 years old/ my mother god rest her soul” is a reference to the iconic Gilbert O’Sullivan single “Alone Again, Naturally,” widely regarded to be the most depressing pop song ever recorded. (Cass Elliot’s version is sublime, by the way.) “Fly” is about nothing, but it’s also about death! (“No one really knows/the starting or the end.”) There’s something beautifully democratic about a mediocre band vibing to what is essentially the dirtbag interpretation of a gospel standard. In the end, it doesn’t matter if “Fly” passes any test of musical quality. An attempt to evaluate its merit misses the point. Love cannot be earned: put your arms around me, baby. 

[whumpfish]

Me, opening up to my ex: [explains my psychotic symptoms]

Her: Omg you hear voices?? What are they saying about me?? XD

Me, now, away from her: That I should have left your ass then and there, but I couldn't hear them over all the ableism in the room

My first hallucination ever was auditory. I was in the shower, and thought my aunt had come over and was talking to my mom. Then I listened harder to the words and realized they were narrating different functions of my brain, and the inside noise I was used to since age 5 was now on the outside. It scared the shit out of me. I was 16.

When I came out that year, people would go "oh you're so brave!" And I'm just sitting there smiling like "Thanks! I'm also psychotic, and my closet only has room for one skeleton."

I spent most of my young adult life dealing with intermittent tactile hallucinations (a special level of hell given my raging entomophobia,) and fucking terrified the auditories would come back, because I had received no guidance from who was quite possibly the worst shrink in the entire country, and so I had subconsciously bought into the idea that auditories specifically are dangerous and scary and make you dangerous and scary. Once my health tanked 5 years ago and all my everything became more severe, they did.

Now, after a couple macrocycles, I'm normal about them. They're not scary, they're just... annoying, because I have to check with my mom if I suspect I'm having one. In fact, I much prefer them to staying up til 4 in the morning in a state of high tension, swatting insects that aren't there.

I've started speaking casually of them to family. I have an uncle who I never met who had bipolar I like me. He died from it, and so everybody has kind of shied away from the subject because nobody knew how to talk to him either and look how that turned out. My bipolar I presenting had a more profound effect on our interactions than me coming out, (which everyone was just kind of like "yeah that makes sense.") Eventually I figured the only way to break this is to be just as normal about my disease.

If I don't, it's going to stay unknown and uncomfortable and scary, and that doesn't help anybody.

BUT, that's family. The whole episode with my ex taught me that if I'm not joking about my symptoms, I am the joke. It's discouraged me from opening up, to say the least. I only share this much because of the safety of internet anonymity.

Double that when I'm outside the home. I wrote in my disability app that I can ask my mom if she indeed left her alarm radio on or if the neighbors are in fact having a loud party next door, because it sounds like medium to loud voices but too "distant" to make out words, but I cannot for my safety ask a coworker if they hear that too.

there's a lot to be said about how the average person indulges in delusions far more than anyone is really comfortable grappling with. every now and again, a poll comes out that reveals some sort of number of people who believe they have magical powers, usually pretty high, and everyone takes turns making fun of it and affirming their own Sanity

this is more observational than scientific, but it really does seem like writing off delusional thinking as the realm of the "insane" creates this valley where the "normal" person's thinking (especially a person who considers themself normal, but that's a whole other kettle of fish) must be more empirical, because, categorically, they are not insane

[dollycas]

Special Guest - Winona Kent - Author of Bad Boy: A Jason Davey Mystery #Interview / #Giveaway - Great Escapes Tour @winonakent

Bad Boy: A Jason Davey Mystery by Winona Kent I am delighted to welcome Winona Kent to Escape With Dollycas today! Hi Winona, Please tell us a little bit about yourself. I find it very difficult to believe, but I’ve just turned 70. I know I don’t look it, and I certainly don’t feel it. I keep thinking I’m about twenty years younger than that. I remember, when I was a teenager, reading a tongue-in-cheek story which portrayed a future where elderly people were lounging around care homes, listening to the Rolling Stones and Frank Zappa. I thought it was bizarre and a little bit crazy at the time—but, of course, now it makes complete sense. I grew up with that music and I love rock and roll from the 1950s and 1960s. I do water aerobics to the sounds of the British Invasion. I’ve now published eleven novels and book of short stories, which I’m quite proud of because most of those books were written while I was working full-time in jobs that had nothing at all to do with writing. I was very disciplined and did it all in my spare time, on days off, during vacations, on weekends, and at night. I retired from my last job in 2019 and I’ve been a full-time author ever since. Also, I’ve just become the Chair of Crime Writers of Canada, which is a national non-profit organization for Canadian mystery and crime writers, associated professionals, and others with a serious interest in Canadian crime writing. It’s a little bit scarey, but I’m quite excited about what the next year or two will bring my way. While I’m sitting in that chair, I also hope to get a start on my next Jason Davey mystery—which is going to take place on the west coast of Canada. Which, coincidentally, is where I live (in New Westminster, a little city which is part of Greater Vancouver). What are three things most people don’t know about you? - I have a yellow belt in Judo - When I was 12, I ran a fan club for The Monkees. - For many years, I ran a semi-official website for the British actor Sean Bean. Sean was notorious for portraying characters who always got killed off in films. I compiled a list which I called Death by Cow—because in the film The Field, Sean’s character was run off the edge of a cliff by a herd of rampaging cows. That list has become legendary among Sean’s fans. And the website’s still out there –it hasn’t been updated since about 2012—but I didn’t want to take it down because it’s got so much good info on it. http://www.compleatseanbean.com What books/authors have most inspired you? When I was 12, in 1967, I saw the BBC TV adaptation of John Galsworthy’s Forsyte Saga, and I fell in love with the series—and the books. I was in England the following year and I bought the entire collection of nine novels and read them all, cover to cover. My very serious Lit profs at the university where I was doing my BA didn’t think much of my favourite author—they probably would have cringed if I’d told them I’d also read quite a few of Ian Fleming’s James Bond books by the time I was 16, as well as most of Agatha Christie’s Poirot novels. When I was working in London as a temp in the 1970s, I discovered Monica Dickens—the great-granddaughter of Charles. I found we had a similar philosophy about employment—she’d had a number of jobs which had absolutely nothing to do with writing, and I really admired the way she was able to take her real-life experiences and incorporate them into her stories—both fiction and nonfiction. In 1970, she wrote a novel called The Listeners, which was based on her experiences working with The Samaritans, the crisis helpline organization. It had quite a profound effect on me—in Bad Boy, a Samaritan volunteer actually helps my main character, Jason—not because Jason is himself suicidal, but because he’s just witnessed someone else taking their own life, which can have a devastating emotional toll on someone. I think it was important for me to go the “literary” route when I was at university, to study all the classical and contemporary authors, to understand why they wrote what they wrote, and how they interpreted their world and the so-called “human condition” through their novels and poetry. I think it was just as important for me to read books that fell a long way outside those boundaries, to study the art of storytelling without necessarily creating something that literary scholars might want to forensically dissect. My other favourite author is John le Carré. His stories of espionage—especially the drudgery of George Smiley’s British secret service—both intrigued me and inspired me. What kind of research do you do, and how long do you spend researching before beginning a book? I’m a capital-P Plotter, so I spend a lot of time researching and planning my stories in advance. The planning part definitely goes hand-in-hand with the research, so by the time I’m ready to actually start writing, I’ve usually spent at least six months, sometimes up to a year, immersing myself in the world where that story is going to take place. I have to say that the internet has made my life, as a writer, six thousand percent easier than it was back in the old pre-www days. My first novel, Skywatcher, was published in 1989, and the research for that was excrutiatingly slow. It involved physical visits to libraries (constrained by their opening and closing hours), and digging through the old paper card catalogues (I still remember the smell of those little cards in their little wooden drawers). And then hunting down books (and being incredibly frustrated to discover someone else had checked them out). And microfilm—because sometimes the only way to read old newspaper and magazine stories was to ask for the physical microfilmed roll, then hope that a machine reader station was not occupied, then suffer through the equivalent of motion sickness while you scrolled through the pages, looking for that one article that you’d discovered listed in the Periodical Index from June 1969. By the time my second novel, The Cilla Rose Affair, was published in 2001, we’d had the internet for about six years, and I was able to find the answers to my questions instantly. My research time was a fraction of what I’d spent with Skywatcher. Now, as I plot out my novels, I’m constantly online, checking details. And even after I begin to write, I’m continuing to research. For example, in Bad Boy, Jason climbs up Primrose Hill, which is a well-known spot in Hampstead where you can get a panoramic view over London. I know it well. I was born not far away from there. I’ve visited it every time I’ve been in England. But since Jason’s in England, and I live in Canada, I need to get it right. So I’ll describe what he sees, and what happens to him, and how he has to basically run back down to Chalk Farm tube station in order to extricate himself from a bad situation. Google Maps Streetview is my best friend. So, to answer the question, my research involves absolutely everything that I’m writing about. Like Monica Dickens, my stories tend to reflect a good many things I’ve experienced in my own life. My sister and I travelled to England in 2022 to scatter our mother’s ashes, but while we were there, we visited some cousins in Derbyshire. And then, back in London, I went up The Shard (I knew I was going to write Bad Boy, so it was literally high on my list of places that I needed to research). I also spent time exploring the South Bank. And taking a four-hour walking tour of London’s Lost Music Venues in Soho. All of those journeys were part of my research, but it wasn’t until I was back in Vancouver, writing the chapters where Jason visits Denmark Street (the heart of London’s modern musical history), that I discovered there’d been a devastating fire in 1980 in Denmark Place, a little alley just behind Denmark Street. It had hardly generated any press at all, in spite of killing 37 people. That fire then became an important part of the plot of Bad Boy, but all of the research was done online and by consulting a newly-published book (Denmark Street: London’s Street of Sound, by Peter Watts). So, I guess I can honestly say that the preliminary research usually takes about six months to a year before I start actually writing, but then, it doesn’t stop. It’s ongoing as I write, because I’m always discovering details which need to be verified, or places that need to be described, history that has to be accurate, addresses that need to be fictionalized… Do you ever suffer from Writer’s Block? I’ve only ever had it once. It was when I was writing my second novel, The Cilla Rose Affair. I had the basic story—a tongue-in-cheek spy caper involving the London Underground and a nefarious plot to destroy the city using focused sound waves. I’d done all of the research, and I was, at the time, completely obsessed with not only the Underground but also its abandoned and disused stations. It was very early on in my writing career, and, while I recognized that my own obsessions were getting in the way of the actual telling of the story, I didn’t know how I was going to be able to fix it. So, for months and months, I ended up writing the same three chapters over and over again, unable to move the plot forward because my creative brain was refusing to cooperate. When I finally discovered the answer, it was completely by accident. I was watching the movie Field of Dreams, which is a story about a man with an obsession. In fact, Ray Kinsella’s quest to turn his cornfield into a baseball diamond is at the heart of the entire film. The light went on in my mind. Of course. I needed to write about my obsession. But in order to do it successfully, I needed to transfer the obsession to one of my characters, and let him use all that knowledge—along with many seemingly useless bits of trivial anecdotes—to help move the plot forward. To this day I have a soft spot in my heart for obsessives. I love writing about them. And I owe it all to The Cilla Rose Affair…and Field of Dreams. What advice do you have for someone who would like to become a published writer? First of all, ask yourself why you want to write. Is it because you feel it in your bones? Is it because, of all the things you could be doing with your time, writing makes you the happiest? Is it because, when you don’t write, you’re miserable and irritable until you do write? Or is it because you want to sell a gazillion books and retire on your royalties? The last answer, retiring on your royalties, honestly and truly isn’t likely to happen. It’s not that it doesn’t happen—it’s just that it’s pretty rare. We only usually hear about the big name authors. We don’t hear much about the vast majority who sell a few hundred or a few thousand copies of their books, rather than millions. By all means, aim for the stars. But if you’re only doing it for the money, have a backup plan in place before you start. And if you’re writing because you feel it in your bones, don’t give up. Pitch to agents and pitch to publishers, but be realistic. It’s a tough gig to land. Sometimes really good writers don’t get taken on by traditional publishers because what they’re writing isn’t what’s currently selling. There are other choices. Publish your book yourself. Being an indie author used to have terrible connotations, but a lot of that has disappeared now. Many traditionally published authors turned to self-publishing when their publishers went out of business, or pivoted to a different focus, or their sales numbers weren’t high enough to satisfy the accountants and their contracts weren’t renewed. Back when I was first starting out, getting a contract with a major publishing house was pretty much the only way you could sell books. But times have changed. Do your homework, join writers’ groups, read as much as you can about the industry and make your choices wisely. When you are not writing what do you like to do? I have a few things that I like to do on those rare occasions when I’m not up to my eyeballs in research, writing, or writing-related work. I’ve been known to resort to knitting as a way of relaxing and focusing my brain. I have quite a collection of berets as a result. I’m wearing one of them in the picture on my social media accounts and on the home page of my website (http://www.winonakent.com). I’m also really into family tree research. I have a mysterious great-grandfather who seems to have appeared out of nowhere. I’ve got lots of verifiable information about him after he married my great-grandmother. But I can’t find his birth record, and it’s become a bit of a quest for me to try and figure out where he actually came from. If you could travel anywhere in the world where would you go and why? I’m going to be a bit odd and say, I’d love to go back to London, where I was born…but not the London of today. I’d love to go back to the London I knew in 1973. I was 18 years old when I spent that summer there. It was the first time I’d travelled on my own, and although I was staying with my grandmother, I was also experiencing life as an independent adult for the very first time. I started to explore the city, and then I ran out of money, so I got a job working as a temp for Brook Street Bureau. Since I’d grown up on the Canadian prairies, London in 1973 was fabulously exciting. Too soon, I had to go home—university beckoned and I needed to finish my degree. But I would love to go back to that time and experience it all again, and perhaps not return to Saskatchewan at the end of the summer. I wonder what adventures I would have… What is next on the horizon for you? My next Jason Davey novel, the sixth in the series. I haven’t started outlining it yet—I don’t even have a title—but I know what it’s going to be about, and I know it’s going to take place here on the west coast of Canada, where I live. Thank you, Winona, for visiting today! _____ Keep reading for more information about Winona Kent and her new book! About Bad Boy Bad Boy: A Jason Davey Mystery Musical Mystery 5th in Series Setting - UK: London and Derbyshire Publisher ‏ : ‎ Winona Kent / Blue Devil Books (September 26, 2024) Print length ‏ : ‎ 278 pages ASIN ‏ : ‎ B0D9PFYXB4 Fresh from a 34-day, 18-city tour of England, professional musician and amateur sleuth Jason Davey accepts an invitation from a fan, Marcus Merritt, to meet at Level 72 of The Shard to sign one of his band's programs. Marcus hands him the booklet, then leaps to his death from the open viewing platform. Thus begins a week-long quest, during which Jason is tasked with retrieving a stolen collection of scores by England’s most famous composer, Sir Edward Elgar. Marcus shared Elgar's love of eccentric puzzles and games, and the challenging clues he's assembled for Jason seem to mirror the 14 themes in Elgar's renowned Enigma Variations. Jason's journey takes him to Derbyshire and then back to London, and a four-hour walking tour of Soho's lost music venues where, in Denmark Street, he faces a life-threatening battle with two adversaries: a treacherous Russian gangster who is also hunting for the stolen collection, and Marcus's sister—who holds the key to a decades-old mystery involving a notorious London crime lord's missing daughter. Bad Boy is the fifth book in Winona Kent's mystery series featuring jazz musician-turned-amateur sleuth Jason Davey. More About Winona Kent Winona Kent is an award-winning author who was born in London, England and grew up in Regina, Saskatchewan, where she completed her BA in English at the University of Regina. After moving to Vancouver, she graduated from UBC with an MFA in Creative Writing and a diploma in Writing for Screen and TV from Vancouver Film School. Winona's writing breakthrough came many years ago when she won First Prize in the Flare Magazine Fiction Contest with her short story about an all-night radio newsman, “Tower of Power”. Her debut novel Skywatcher was a finalist in the Seal Books First Novel Award and was published by Bantam Books in 1989. This was followed by a sequel, The Cilla Rose Affair, and her first mystery, Cold Play, set aboard a cruise ship in Alaska. After three time-travel romances (Persistence of Memory, In Loving Memory and Marianne's Memory), Winona returned to mysteries with Disturbing the Peace, a novella, in 2017 and the novel Notes on a Missing G-String in 2019, both featuring the character she first introduced in Cold Play, professional jazz musician / amateur sleuth Jason Davey. The third and fourth books in Winona's Jason Davey Mystery series, Lost Time and Ticket to Ride, were published in 2020 and 2022. Her fifth Jason Davey Mystery, Bad Boy, was published in 2024. Winona also writes short fiction. Her story “Salty Dog Blues” appeared in Sisters in Crime-Canada West's anthology Crime Wave in October 2020 and was nominated as a finalist in Crime Writers of Canada's Awards of Excellence for Best Crime Novella in April 2021. “Blue Devil Blues” was one of the four entries in the anthology Last Shot, published in June 2021, and “Terminal Lucidity” appeared in the Sisters in Crime-Canada West anthology, Women of a Certain Age (October 2022). “On the Internet, Nobody Knows You’re a Dog”, will appear in the upcoming Sisters in Crime-Canada West anthology, Dangerous Games (October 2024). A collection of Winona’s short stories, Ten Stories That Worried My Mother, was published in 2023. Winona has been a temporary secretary, a travel agent , a screenwriter and the Managing Editor of a literary magazine. She's currently the national Vice-Chair and the BC/YT rep for the Crime Writers of Canada and is also an active member of Sisters in Crime – Canada West Author Links Website: www.winonakent.com Facebook: @Winonakentauthor Twitter/X: @winonakent Instagram: @winonakent Purchase Links - Amazon US   Amazon UK  Find more books by Winona Kent HERE. TOUR PARTICIPANTS - Please visit all the stops September 26 – fundinmental – SPOTLIGHT September 26 – Literary Gold – SPOTLIGHT September 27 – Deal Sharing Aunt – AUTHOR INTERVIEW September 27 – Baroness Book Trove – SPOTLIGHT September 28 – Maureen's Musings – SPOTLIGHT September 28 – Sapphyria's Book Reviews – SPOTLIGHT September 29 – Boys' Mom Reads! – CHARACTER GUEST POST September 30 – Socrates Book Reviews – SPOTLIGHT October 1 – Ascroft, eh? – CHARACTER INTERVIEW October 2 – Christy's Cozy Corners – AUTHOR GUEST POST October 3 – Cozy Up With Kathy – AUTHOR GUEST POST October 3 – Novels Alive – REVIEW October 4 – Celticlady's Reviews – SPOTLIGHT October 4 – MJB Reviewers – SPOTLIGHT October 5 – FUONLYKNEW – SPOTLIGHT October 5 – Escape With Dollycas Into A Good Book – AUTHOR INTERVIEW a Rafflecopter giveaway Have you signed up to be a Tour Host? Click Here to Find Details and Sign Up Today! Want to Book a Tour? Click Here Your Escape Into A Good Book Travel Agent This post contains affiliate links. If you make a purchase using my links, I will receive a small commission from the sale at no cost to you. Thank you for supporting Escape With Dollycas. Read the full article

[sanaiscorner123]

Convention Blog

Growing up as a South Florida native, I would often hear my friends rave in excitement about attending a comic con or anime convention. To be quite honest, this has never been a type of event I ever wanted to attend simply because I do not believe I am as deeply immersed in Japanese culture as the others attending. I don’t enjoy dressing up, and I watch most of my anime series in the dubbed version. Even scrolling on TikTok and witnessing a cosplayer act out their favorite scene occasionally makes me feel a tad bit uncomfortable.

What I am willing to appreciate is the happiness and joy these events bring others. As mentioned in the document, Otakon, hosted in Baltimore, Maryland, housed about 29,000 people in 2010. What makes me smile over this statistic is the simple fact that Japanese culture receives copious amounts of genuine love and appreciation from individuals all over the world. These conventions are a safe space for people to express their interest in manga, anime, J-pop, figurines, and many more without intense judgment from those who simply do not understand otaku.

Anime conventions are not only insightful, but fun! Many people get to reunite with old friends, while others leave with life-long peers. My personal favorite part about these conventions is the famous voice actors who make guest appearances and will occasionally voice an iconic line from their character. It is evident that these conventions bring more life to Otaku rather than tear it down. Furthermore, I feel the most popular association with Otakon and other anime conventions is the intense cosplay that occurs. Some individuals spend years putting together the perfect costume that truly embodies their favorite character. These conventions allow participants to be essentially transformed into another universe for a day where they get to be their favorite character. Not only is a passion for their anime showcased, but so is the hard work, dedication, and creativity many are willing to go through to bring their beloved characters to life. Financial sacrifices do not go unrecognized, as many conferencegoers stated they had saved up and planned for years in advance just to attend Otakon.

While anime, manga, music, and more can often be showcased to non-Japanese individuals, many conventions allow fans to dig deeper. Developing passion and understanding the cultural background related to Japan is essential within the Otaku culture fanbase. Panels and workshops may be held inside of these conventions, giving fans the floor to discuss and engage with one another in relation to Japanese culture. A society does not function well under ignorance, so it is crucial to dive deeper into the authentic cultural significance many popular Japanese fictional characters have.

Most otaku events prioritize the inclusivity of supporters, with individuals of all sorts of backgrounds being accepted. I remember one of my friends who attended Comicon stating that he had met so many people from such incredibly diverse backgrounds. What makes this so funny is that no matter where each individual was from, they still maintained a strong similarity with each other—their love for Otaku culture.

Overall, while I do not plan on attending a convention, I cannot deny the wonderful joy it brings others. Not only does it allow for Japanese culture to be effectively conveyed and appreciated, but these conventions showcase the tremendous talent within fans. Fans who may have previously felt isolated or ashamed to love Otaku now have a strong community where everyone is accepted with open arms. Otakon almost reminds me of a Beyoncé concert I attended, where I was so shocked at the number of people who shared such a profound love for a musician just like me. As time progresses and technology advances, I am excited to witness growth within the world of Otaku.