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the-girl-who-didnt-smile · 2 months ago

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Baron de la Mort

Here is my take on a “Baron Samedi”-type Hazbin Hotel character (take two)

His name is often shortened to “The Baron” or simply “Baron”. In terms of character design, this is just a rough draft.

This doesn’t even begin to look like the art style of the show! Jesus Christ…

The previous, scrapped concept was deeply offensive, on many different levels. In a nutshell, I erred in taking Denise Alvarado, Randy P. Conner, and Wikipedia as reliable sources for Haitian Vodou. I’m that fucking stupid! It was also a mistake for me to include a reference to Sosyete Nago, given the recent controversy. The reason I have not just deleted it is because it illustrates exactly what not to do, and mistakes are a learning experience.

Baron Samedi is one of the most misrepresented lwa in popular media, which I previously discussed here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54861145/chapters/150245212

To correct past mistakes, I attempted to style him after Andre D. Pierre’s portrayal of Baron Samedi, with some deliberate changes. This is why he smokes cigars, and in his human form he wears sunglasses (although, his sunglasses are styled after Gustavo Fring)

Andre Pierre painted this incredible mural of the lwa, and I genuinely think Baron Samedi is the single most stylish man in this entire pantheon. I’m a little sad that his immaculate, anime-esque facial hair never made it into the public consciousness…

In all seriousness, I actually think one of the coolest things about Pierre’s rendition is how he depicts Baron Samedi carrying scales, because he’s the Supreme Judge over the human soul. That’s so fucking cool!

My brain is so rotten on One Piece, I just immediately connect him to the Holy Knights and Peak Stylish One Piece Man: Impel Down Crocoboy

This is how this man dressed in prison!

Funny story… Baron is actually supposed to be Donquixote Doflamingo.

Because I am insane, I genuinely think Doflamingo is the only One Piece man who has better drip than Crocoboy.

His drip is so horrible, ugly, and evil, just like everything else about Sir D. Onquixote D. Oflamingo

He is the most evil drag king who will ever fucking live.

This guy is not nearly as evil as Doffyboy, but this is why he always wears sunglasses… he for sure has a second pair of sunglasses underneath his sunglasses… Lanmò is supposed to be Bellamy… Lavi is supposed to be Monet...

At that, this is actually the reason for the inclusion of Lanmò and Lavi. TAKE ONE PIECE FOR EXA– So you know how Baroque Works was introduced before Crocoboy, and Bellamy was introduced before Tanjiahdo Lofulamingo Sama. If you put a ‘boss’ character into a story, you have to give him henchmen and introduce the henchmen, otherwise the bossman doesn’t seem cool… There’s a sequence to things. Lanmò and Lavi demo ‘henchmen’ types characters you would give this guy.

Anyways, you know how Doflamingo - ugliest man in all of One Piece - is WAY stronger than Crocodile (the Suna Suna no Mi is complete dogwater) but plagiarizes the shit out of his look… This other guy is stealing Doflamingo’s look. This is why elements of Dofla D. Mingo and Croco D. Boy are both present in his design.

So “Baron of the Dead” was just a placeholder name. That name sounds so bad. I decided to give him the name “Baron de la Mort”, which is also kind of a stupid name. He and “Maman de la Vie” break the Jojo-ass naming scheme to signify their unique importance, as the gods of the dead.

He is not actually Baron Samedi, but a human from another universe. In the universe he comes from, there exists something like Baron Samedi. In fact, this is actually how you reveal the identities of THE GODS themselves, through the backstory of THE GOD OF DEATH! The added element of them being from another universe just makes it more fun, because you can make them human souls from any time period and alternate history imaginable - including the future!

The backstory for “Baron de la Mort” is described here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55065466/chapters/151062802

Here, it is crucial not to collapse his moral complexity. He cannot be described as “pure evil” or “a hero”; for his extraordinary ruthlessness and moral neutrality, he was the perfect candidate to become Mortality itself.

I genuinely think this makes for a very interesting fictional character; however, the subject matter must be handled with the utmost maturity. Hazbin Hotel is not exactly a show known for its maturity… If he were ever to appear in a show like Hazbin Hotel, this aspect of his backstory should only be implied, and not addressed directly. If a flashback is shown, it should not involve his criminal history, but his relationship with his son, who came out as homosexual to him.

This is a key part of his past human life. He is designed to contrast with Moxxie and Angel Dust’s fathers, in that he did not reject his son and loved him unconditionally. Unlike his wife, his son’s soul was not used to create a god. He doesn’t remember him, but on some level he misses him.

Recently, I watched the documentary Des Hommes et Dieux (2002) [Vimeo] [Kanopy]. One of the things that really moved me was the parents in this documentary, who didn’t reject their children. This is in part because of their religious beliefs - that they were born that way to serve the lwa. It’s remarkable… Haiti - the nation that did the right thing, and paid the price for it - is one of the most impoverished places on the Earth, and yet there’s this side that’s accepting of this. The culture I grew up in is WAY more affluent, but there’s no equivalent to Vodou; homosexuals and transgender people were just hated, “better off dead”...

In terms of media representation, it is important not just to show characters who are themselves LGBT, but the parents of those characters. Importantly, this representation cannot just be superficial (e.g., the “lesbian” or “gay parent” background characters, who have no speaking lines and are easily censored) You have to actually show how did these parents grapple with this reveal? How did they handle the shock of it, and why didn’t they reject their children? This matters because it might be able to change the minds of some parents in the real world. Family rejection has a huge, negative impact on LGBT children, and several minority communities are disproportionately affected by this trend. Intersectional representation is scarce, and often feels inauthentic - especially when a creator takes characters who were clearly originally planned to be white, racebends them, and doesn’t account for cultural differences. This would be a unique opportunity to show this side of Haitian culture, in an authentic way.

What I had actually envisioned for this character is a darker spin-off of Hazbin Hotel - a story that takes place in its world and expands on Earth and the afterlife. He is best utilized there. Barring this, he still makes for a fun character as the “grim patriarch” over a motley crew of henchmen / “capricious children”. In terms of personality, he’s supposed to be a cross between Gomez Addams and Gustavo Fring.

This aspect of his character was inspired by Donald Cosentino’s Sacred Arts, in which he characterizes Baron Samedi like so:

“Bawon Samdi is a family man, presiding over a whole clan of related spirits who bear a startling collective resemblance to the Addams family…There is, for instance, Bawon Lakwa, the imbecilic brother who keeps the cemetery grounds, and Gran Brijit, the ghoulish, red-eyed wife, and the wise Bawon Simitye. But it is their capricious children, known collectively as the Gedes, who are the truly beloved of the Bawon’s family. As sacred children, the Gedes merge with the other dead, and the other lwa, to form the holy trinity of Vodou. Everyone seems to love the Gedes, for in linking the cemetery to the phallus, they celebrate our common sexual victory over death.”

SOURCE: Cosentino, Donald. Sacred Arts of Haitian Vodou. United States, UCLA Fowler Museum of Cultural History, 1995. p. 405 https://archive.org/details/sacredartsofhait0000unse/page/404/mode/2up?

If Milo Marcelin’s Mythologie Vodou, Vol. II is to be believed, Baron Samedi really does have this band of “capricious children” following him around. This is a scary ass lwa, described as The Supreme Judge over the Earth and The Lord over the Dead, who bewitches people and turns them into zombies, also has a bunch of kids with these hilariously clashing personalities, who sing funny songs where they call Baron Samedi “papa”... Not to mention that several of them may or may not be gender non-conforming / non-heterosexual… I think that’s fun!

Didn’t you love Baroque Works?

Baroque Works was so fun… it was literally just:

The Donquixote pirates were even better.

Just:

Several aspects of Baron are actually inspired by Don Corleone, but it’s a mistake to make him visually resemble the Godfather, as it makes him look too much like Francois Duvalier. This is why I think he should adopt a Victorian era-esque style - to make it obvious he is not “Papa Doc”. It is also why he should not speak in a nasally voice; I was picturing him with a super deep voice, or an effect layered over his voice. He needs to have a distinct and intimidating voice. Ideally, he is voiced by a Haitian voice actor.

(in the Japanese dub I was totally picturing him sounding like Ryūzaburō Ōtomo)

To summarize his powers (his stats are not changed):

He is the Grim Reaper of Hazbin Hotel; he is tasked with escorting human souls to Heaven or Hell (your ass probably didn’t get into Heaven…you’re probably going to Hell)

He exerts pure Death Anxiety on humans, making him appear Scarier than is visually conveyed… (I know my art is bad! LEAVE ME ALONE!!!)

Like all other Loa, he can possess humans and communicate with them through their dreams; he can be petitioned to bewitch another human and/or give them horrifying nightmares.

He alone has the power to create zombies; all zombies are created through him, in some way.

His black-colored magic is Death itself; a human does not die until he kills them; he can be petitioned to postpone a human’s death.

His signature move is where he rips apart a human soul but slows down time while he’s doing it, so the person experiences torture forever (this attack looks WAY COOL but it’s not very strong… four-dimensional confetti is a lot stronger than this…) This is extremely easy for him to do; he can make millions of these without breaking a sweat.

He has the highest Attack Power of any god; this means he can kill everything in a given universe, in an instant.

When he fuses with his wife, she basically gives him infinite Healing. They become the most powerful thing underneath uppercase God.

If somehow figure out a way to kill his unkillable wife, he goes BERSERK where he gains the power to do things that are completely impossible, at the cost of all his Battle IQ

Although he is forced to assume a human form, he shapeshifts to look like a skeleton when carrying out his duties as the undertaker. When he does this, his sunglasses become his eye sockets, the skull painted on his face becomes an actual skull, and the rings on his fingers become bones. He wears a small black cross, which is not inverted, and black gloves to hide his Scary Skeleton Hands.

To be honest, there are a lot of Scary Skeleton Men who look Scarier than this, but I think his powers are Scary as fuck. If this was something you could encounter in the real world, I would just about shit my pants!

In two regards, I may or may have massively played myself.

Firstly, I previously assumed that God (Hazin Hotel) exists, but it dawned on me that we’ve never actually seen God. Walk with me here, but what if God doesn’t actually exist, and it’s just a conspiracy made up by the angels in Heaven? In which case… Bon Dieu isn’t actually God. He’s just this horrifying Eldritch Abomination who created The Boys, then fucked off into hyperspace (or, hyper-hyperspace) I guess! …Can you see why it’s a problem to call them “Baron Samedi” “Papa Legba” etc…?

Actually, this is not that big of a deal. It’s kind of funny if “Bon Dieu” is this just Bill Cipher-ass, super-powered Abomination.

But secondly, I think it is likely that “Double Hell” exists. EXPLAIN YOURSELF. Well, I think it is likely that there’s some other zone(s) outside of Heaven and Hell, because of the existence of Roo. They’ve shown the various Rings of Hell in Helluva Boss, but Roo does not seem to be in any of them. So where is she? In Dante’s Inferno, there are actually more than seven Circles to Hell; perhaps there are secret levels to Hell, and Roo is in one of the secret levels. Another possibility is that she dwells in a zone outside of Hell proper! Then you have to consider the fate of the souls destroyed by the Exterminators. What happens to those souls? What happens to souls that have been ripped apart? I think it’s doubtful that they merely cease to exist. Otherwise, there would probably be many people seeking out this “exit” from whatever horrors they are experiencing under a Soul Deal with a Demon Overlord. The more likely answer seems to be “Double Hell”... which probably isn’t called “Double Hell”, but it’s existence is implied in the pilot. Basically, instead of respawning in the Pride Ring, you respawn here, and this is just torture for eternity. Something like every cell in your body burns forever… Real Hell, if you will. If I had to guess, I think this might be where Roo dwells, and she somehow feeds off of torturing these souls forever… that would be SICK!

If this turns out to be even partially true, I think this ROCKS I’m down, but it does completely undermine the concept of the Real Hell attack... The Real Hell is way less cool if Double Hell exists. However, I still think it’s a little cool in that it’s more ancient than even Double Hell. Charlie is such a sweet girl that if Double Hell exists, she might make it her mission (and succeed) to free all the souls from “Double Hell”. So I guess a cool thing about Real Hell is that nobody ever gets out of it. Baron is the only thing that can free a human soul from this torture, and he never does. He never goes back on his decision.

I thought about changing his powerset, but no… the mental image of Gustavo D. Fring going BERSERK is so goddamn funny to me. This guy is so fucking smart too! But no… Santa Claus and Nina Simone are smarter than him…

In the Santa Claus v. Gomez Addams/Morticia Addams showdown, it is actually a very close fight. So you’re thinking to yourself “How does Santa Claus kill the Dyad with INFINITE ATTACK and INFINITE HEALS?” Basically, if he blows up the entire multiverse, there is no more space for anything to exist but himself. This is how he fucking wins… there is a 50% chance Mr. and Mrs. Corleone win, but a 49% chance Louis Armstrong (underdog) wins instead…

The one thing I did tweak is the impossible battle scenario between him and his wife. I think it’s kind of pointless for purple-colored magic to destroy black-colored magic; rather, it’s that the two cannot harm each other. Life cannot kill Death; Death cannot kill Life. So basically they are just locked in an infinite stalemate. But if he was fighting someone other than his wife who somehow has purple-colored magic, he does win solely because he has the Berserk mode. He’s a bit of a Stu in this regard… It takes him forever to figure out the condition that triggers it, making this one of the most boring fights imaginable.

He is sometimes seen carrying a staff, which was visually inspired by the In Extremis display at the UCLA Fowler Museum. The staff would look unsettling if it existed in real life. As it is not made out of materials that exist in the real world, it falls into the uncanny valley of “organic vs. inorganic”. The black portion of the staff is supposed to resemble a human aorta.

Also inspired the In Extremis display, “Baron de la Mort” and “Maman de la Vie” are figured as skeletons, while “Lanmò” and “Lavi” (demons who sold their souls to them) are rotten flesh. It should be immediately visually obvious that former pair are “the boss” and the latter pair are “the underlings”.

In addition to Baron Samedi, “Baron de la Mort” is also inspired by a “Devil” figure who appears in American folklore. There is a very fun theory that this “Devil” is actually Baron Samedi. I do not know if it is true (it could turn out to be bullshit), but I think it makes for a fun story in a fictional setting. This is why he has a minor black cat motif, as this “Devil” is associated with black cats. He is occasionally seen holding a black cat Godfather-style, to contrast with “Big Papa”’s dog motif.

See also: Jacobsen, K. (Nov. 1, 2002). The Society for the Study of Southern Literature, Volume 36, Issue 1: https://southernlit.org/volume-36-issue-one-fall-2002/

Selling your soul to “The Devil” is a big thing in American folklore, which is why a human can sell their soul to “Baron de la Mort”. Unlike “Big Papa”, Baron is not much of a Dealmaker. He does not seek out humans to make contracts with; they seek out him. This is very rare, as only the most desperate humans (living or dead) ever seek him out. His soul deals are extremely brutal - some of the worst to enter. Unlike “Big Papa” he also makes deals with souls in the afterlife, as he moves freely between the realms of the living and dead. (Papa is powerful enough to do this too, he’s just not interested in it)

Baron is also sometimes seen carrying scales, but he’s technically not the Judge. He does not decide who goes to Heaven or Hell, but he is the Supreme Executive Authority. Because he wields Executive Power, he can override the decision on a human’s final destination. For this reason, he is extremely powerful, outranking the Archangels in Heaven and the Seven Deadly Sins.

He rarely exercises this power, as he has so little regard for human lives. If he abused his Executive Authority, he would have been removed from his post. On rare occasion, he overrides the decision and adopts human souls into his personal domain - a third option outside of Heaven or Hell, called “The Underworld”.

Previously, I defined a set of criteria to join the Underworld. Baron de la Mort is a lot more elusive about his criteria. It seems to be something he does on a whim, and appears to happen pretty randomly.

The real reason for this is because, in his past human life, he had a large family of several children and grandchildren. Upon becoming a god, he lost his memories of his past human life, but he occasionally gets glimpses of it in a process similar to dreaming. He cannot clearly remember this, but on some level he misses his children.

The irony here, is that unlike SOME OTHER PEOPLE IN THE ROOM this guy is actually a good father figure. This serves to humanize him, and make him more fun (Don’t you love Gomez Addams??)

He is designed to contrast with “Big Papa”. “Big Papa” is inspired by Papa Legba of New Orleans Voodoo; “Baron de la Mort” is inspired by Baron Samedi of Haitian Vodou. In spite of his name, “Big Papa” is not a good father figure; “Baron de la Mort” actually is. “Big Papa” is the only one who doesn’t have a spouse/ex-spouse; “Baron de la Mort” and “Maman de la Vie” are the only two who were married, not just in their present lives as gods, but their past lives as humans. They are also the only two who have children (adopted, as they are not allowed to conceive another Loa).

On the subject of “Port-au-Prince”... this is a character I designed to be the adoptive son of Baron de la Mort (I need to rewrite his bio at some point…). He was originally designed to resemble Guede Nibo, as portrayed by Andre Pierre. However, this was a misguided decision, as Andre Pierre himself took offense to the notion that Guede Nibo is gay.

Having pondered this, I think the most respectful course of action is to eliminate the association between “Port-au-Prince” and Guede Nibo. If you look at his character design, “Port-au-Prince” really doesn’t look like Guede Nibo. Sure, they both wear purple, but he just looks like a cartoon twink version of Prince, the singer. “Port-au-Prince” is so early in development, I didn’t even draw a full body image of him. I’ve decided to scrap any association between him and Guede Nibo, to avoid making him physically resemble Guede Nibo, or equate the two on any level.

Rather than being a tribute to Andre Pierre’s artwork, he is now a tribute to Milo Marcelin’s Mythologie Vodou, in which Marcelin describes how Baron Samedi has many “children”. “Port-au-Prince” is just one of these children. In fact, he is actually the youngest one, as he is the one who was adopted most recently. For this reason, he is the least powerful one, but he is still a lot more powerful than the average angel or demon. The Hazbin Hotel version of Guede Nibo would be his older brother - the most powerful of his siblings. However, this character would not receive as much focus as “Port-au-Prince” himself, who receives the spotlight because he has some sort of connection to Angel Dust.

Presently, I figured “Port-au-Prince” as a Haitian American. He was born to a Haitian mother - a sex worker - in New York. Because he physically resembled his father - who abused and abandoned his mother - she was cruel to him from the earliest age. She and her boyfriends abused him throughout his childhood. Their relationship was so sour, that he ran away from home during high school. He was taken in by a gang, who got him hooked on crack. As he experienced homophobic bullying as a small child, he was closeted his entire life. He died violently, at a young age.

He was supposed to go to Hell, where he would have become Angel Dust 2.0, but Baron de la Mort decides to adopt him instead. For this reason, he is far more well-adjusted than Angel Dust. Because these two have very similar interests and personalities, they would get along swimmingly, but Angel Dust would probably feel intense jealousy and grief upon seeing his loving family.

This is the direction I decided to go in, but I can see how this could still be taken the wrong way, especially given my track record… If deemed controversial, another option is to remove his drag persona (or, make her a different character from him) and leave his sexuality open to interpretation. In terms of media representation, it is also important to show cisgender heterosexuals who are not traditionally masculine / feminine, and have gay or trans friends. In this alternate scenario, he would have several friends in the LGBT community, but his own sexual orientation would be unconfirmed.

I might change his backstory to make him Haitian - not Haitian American. The reason he is Haitian American is to establish a parallel between him and Angel Dust, who is also from New York. I think it also makes for an interesting contrast with him and Lanmò, who was born in Haiti, but grew up on the West Coast. These make for interesting settings, but I might make changes to his (and possibly Lanmò and/or Lavi’s) place of birth / growing up.

Baron de la Mort’s special move is still The Black Hole of Torture, but the attack is called Judgment now. It’s the same attack, but he’s classy about it.

I associate him with black holes because I FUCKING LOVE THE BLACK HOLE MULTIVERSE THEORY!!!

…It’s actually called Schwarzschild cosmology.

I just love that this is a real theory that scientists genuinely think might be our reality. Our universe is inside a black hole and the black holes inside our universe are portals to other universes. That would be SO NUTS!!!

Imagine this: You fall into a Black Hole, get spaghettified, wind up in the fictional One Punch Man universe, millimeters away from Saitama’s fist. That would suck balls…

So I put this into my fanfiction, but I implemented it in the dumbest most pop science way ever. This is an aspect I am probably going to change, as it places an unnecessary constraint on the creativity of this story. I’m probably going to revise this so it just conforms to Michio Kaku’s conceptualization of the multiverse.

Doesn’t this piss you off, though?

On top of everything else about Big Papa, he’s the character you introduce multiverse bullshit through.

BOOOOO!!!!! 🍅 🍅 🍅 🍅 🍅 🍅 🍅 MULTIVERSE PEAKED WITH MILES MORALES!!!!!!

…I imagine Vivziepop has zero plans to canonize the Hazbin Hotel multiverse. At this point, the world at large is experiencing Multiverse fatigue. But because I am terrible, I genuinely think this would be a fun way to implement the multiverse.

CANON ALASTORIA

CANON ALASTOR 2P

THINK IT OVER VIVIENNE!!!!!!

…And now to address a serious topic. MAN is this Wikipedia article bad: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Haitian_Vodou_and_sexual_orientation

Zora Neale Hurston was correct in identifying the Gede spirits with the Black peasantry of Haiti, but she was incorrect in describing Gede as the only lwa indigenous to Haiti, and assuming that he has no African counterpart. The name Gede is derived from “Gede”, a vodún from the Dahomean pantheon.

See: Herskovits, Melville Jean, and Frances Shapiro Herskovits. Dahomean narrative: a cross-cultural analysis. Vol. 1. Northwestern University Press, 1998, p. 124

https://archive.org/details/hersokovits-dahomean/page/n189/mode/2up?q=gede

The Gedevi were the original inhabitants of the Abomey plateau who were imperialized by the Aja-Fon kingdom of Dahomey. They became something akin to an “untouchable” class, subjugated at the bottom of the social hierarchy, and enslaved circa 1625-1724:

“The Gede reflect the abject in that their experience reflects the worst of the Dahomian conquest, capture, and sale; the Middle Passage; and the stigma and torture of Saint-Domingue. The Gede Rite is suited to the traumas of economic globalization, including the plight of boat people and disposable migrants, separation from family in diasporas, and the ordeals of sex work in the sexual economy.”

SOURCE: Hebblethwaite, Benjamin. A transatlantic history of Haitian Vodou: rasin figuier, rasin Bwa Kayiman, and the Rada and Gede Rites. Univ. Press of Mississippi, 2021.

In other words, the Gede are so closely associated with the oppressed race/class of Haiti, their history can be traced back to the original oppressed ethnic group from before the Transatlantic slave trade.

It’s really fucked up that this category of spirits has been twisted by white people to fit into the international LGBT agenda. The Wikipedia article is a prime example of this. I’m saying this, as someone who is both queer and transgender. I already said this, but shit like this fuels animosity against the LGBT community. It doesn’t help but harms “the LGBT community” native to Haiti - which is not called that, but “La Communauté M”.

I have previously misrepresented “LGBT inclusion” in Haitian Vodou. Normally when this subject comes up, it’s about the inclusion of white people, not Haitians themselves (see: Randy P. Conner). It’s fucked up! I have attempted to correct this by focusing my research on “La Communauté M” - not the white LGBT community - but it is possible misrepresentations are still present.

This is why you have to be very careful in attempting to work LGBT themes that involve Haitian Vodou. DON’T DO WHAT I DID!!! It is also why this concept still might be misguided. The best approach might be to eliminate these characters entirely.

Haitian Vodou - sacred to the Haitian people - has been appropriated to Hell and back, to the point that a bastardized version of it is frequently passed off as “New Orleans Voodoo”. Popular media influences what people do in the real world. Images from American Horror Story still pop up when you search Google for “Papa Legba”. Hazbin Hotel has fans of all races, but it still has a majority white audience. If the lwa are haphazardly put into this story, it could directly contribute to people appropriating and disrespecting the culture.

The purpose of Baron de la Mort’s backstory is to deal with a mature subject matter - the historical factors that led to the current crisis in Haiti. Why is Haiti - the first nation to permanently ban slavery - on the brink of government collapse? It says a lot about the world at large, doesn’t it? This is something that could be addressed in a darker, more mature spin-off series (one that does necessarily have to be a cartoon). Even in a light-hearted series, this character could be used as part of a donation effort to Haiti and/or Haitian refugees. On the other hand, it might be a mistake to include this character at all. Unless you radically change his appearance, people are inevitably going to think he’s supposed to be Francois Duvalier… it’s just so easy to slip and make this guy offensive.

Another option is to replace ‘Baron de le Mort’ with a character inspired by Grand Zombi. Grand Zombi was associated with death (“Li grand Zombi qui fé muri”) and was one of the most important Spirits of Louisiana Voudou. The lyrics of a song sung for him went:

“L’appe vini, li grand Zombi, pou fé mouri, pou fé gri-gri!”

SOURCE: Anderson, Jeffrey E.. Voodoo: An African American Religion. United States, LSU Press, 2024.

These are all factors to consider.

(as a daily reminder, I am in fact crazy enough to think about “what if my ORIGINAL CHARACTER DO NOT STEALS were in the canon of Hazbin Hotel”... it’s just a really fun hypothetical, I SAID LEAVE ME ALONE!!!!)

#ITS BROOK D. ONE PIECE #hazbin hotel oc #baron de la mort (hazbin hotel)#the loa (hazbin hotel)#commentary #HE CANNOT BE DISCOUNT DOCTOR FACILIER but im completely fine with him being bargain bin skull knight

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shards-of-realities-blog · 6 years ago

Note

DrAGgggoN

(Oof I forgot about this ask it say half finished in the drafts for FOREVER oops. I also completely forgot what this ask is in response to but I am alsways happy to talk Dragons so...also on mobile the formatting is being weird tonight so forgive me for that)

Bro how’d I know you’d ask....this has changed so much since you last heard me mini dump about it so let’s bEGIN

I’m arranging this real neatly in like, sections an stuff because this is about to be the mOTHER of all infodumps babey!!

Overview

Okay so basically we got five (six?) main dragons, the basic plot I have is that a massive earthquake causes an even more massive rockslide on the mountains where one breed of dragon lives, and tears up the territory of the other breeds. So while they try to recuperate and survive, they send out a party made from one dragon of each breed to go find new lands for them.

Enter Crimson, a Mountain Dragon; Breeze, a Moor Dragon; Coral, an Ocean Dragon, and Jay, a Forest Dragon. They meet an outcast Flightless called Slate on their journey, and the sixth dragon will come later.

Breeds

Mountain

Mountain Dragons are based off of dinosaurs as a whole, but primarily pterodactyls. They have the same heads as them, but a little larger and rounder. Their skin is all leather, and is all one color, usually a shade of gray and sometimes black or white, with the occasional red dragon. They’re strong, but in more of a scrappy way than a muscular way. They have similar feet to a pterodactyl, as well as TONS of spikes. Ridges of spikes over their eyes (which have evolved to be narrow against the harsh wind), spikes around the base of their head sort of like a triceratops, spikes down their neck to their wings, spikes on their tail- and wingtips. Very aggressive looking.

They’re born with only a few spikes at the base of heir heads and wings that are little more than floppy flaps of skin. As they grow from hatchlings to dragonlings, their skin toughens, spikes begin to grow in, and wings get stronger. By the time they’re fledglings, almost all spikes are grown in and wings are fully developed.

Fledglings learn to fly by lining up on a ridge where two peaks are very close together, then essentially flinging themselves off of it. An older, stronger dragon acts in the role of Flight Assitant, and flies after them to help if they fall.

Names on the mountain are generally just supposed to sound badass and correlate with appearances (hence Crimson, who is a deep red).

Mountain Dragons are tough, strong, and too proud for their own good. A lot of them have some form of trauma, because of dangerous life among the peaks, but they’d never let it on. Most know to leave a suffering dragon alone to spare their dignity, unless they’re in real danger. A very aloof and cunning group altogether, that places too much emphasis on all forms of strength.

They also have the power of Earthspeak, which allows them to communicate without words. It’s best on solid rock, but dirt will work in a pinch. It doesn’t transmit words so much as feelings, like fear or pain. Dragons can’t tell who’s sending the message unless they know the dragon well enough to sense a sort of aura accompanying their message. It helps a lot when another dragon is panicking and doesn’t want to be patronized, since others can send subtle reassurance to them without exposing their “weakness.”

Moor

Moor Dragons are styled after lions, with thick, square heads, bodies, eyes, and also manes. Females have manes, too, but smaller and less extravagant than males. They’re fur covered, and generally shades of green or brown to blend in with their surroundings. They’re the largest dragon breed, with Mountain Dragons barely coming higher than their shoulders. Basically, think Elliott from Pete’s Dragon, but with a big dark green mane.

Hatchlings are a lot like small Great Danes or other big dogs—long legs, massive paws, and big heads. Their wings are very big too, and drag on the ground. As they get bigger, they grow into their disproportionate bodies and begin to grow manes, and by fledgling age they look almost proportional and have substantial manes. Very strong legs, good for running, and impossibly huge wings for lifting all that body weight.

Since they live on the moors, there aren’t any high cliffs for Moor fledglings to fling themselves off of, so usually they just run to build up speed, then crest over a rise and jump into the air. Softer crash landings, for sure.

Names are based off the moor and surroundings, things their breed represents (hence, Breeze).

Moor Dragons are considered to be all brawn and no brains by the others, and while they may be a smidge lower on the IQ scale, they’re brilliant emotionally, and make great friends—or terrible ones, if you’re a Mountainer.

They have the power of....something that isn’t named yet, but they can hear very, very well. Not dog-well, we’re talking miles and miles and miles. They can stretch their hearing at will, and if they had less of a moral compass they’d make great spies. It helps for assessing danger, hunting, and locating lost/hurt/whatever dragons.

Ocean

Ocean Dragons are based largely off beta fish—I love their fins and tails! They have a much wider range of possible colors, mostly vibrant ones like pinks and oranges and yellows, but other colors are possible (Coral, of course, is pink-orange). Like beta fish, they’re covered in long, gorgeous fins, and the ends of their wings taper off in the same fashion. Their wings also act as extra flippers in the water! They have gills to breathe underwater but can stand being above the surface for a few hours, a day at most, before they start having serious issues. Dry land makes their scales itch, as well, and after a while their fins will tear like paper. They have big, round eyes and snouts, and small but razor sharp teeth, unlike the long, thin fangs of the Mountain or the thick, pointed teeth of the Moor.

They begin as hatchlings with a few very small fins, huge eyes, and no wings. Their wings develop as they grow and fins progressively get longer. As dragonlings they have small wings, dull teeth, and more proportional eyes.

They learn to fly by swimming very hard and fast to the surface and launching out of the water, which takes some getting used to bc of the water-to-air transition and the strength required to jump out of the water at all.

Their names are usually based off of their environment or their appearance, or both in Coral’s case.

I haven’t figured out what power they have yet...maybe it’s just the ability to swim? Who knows man...

Forest

Forest dragons are based off of birds! They have huge raptor beaks and talons and feathers, and they strongly resemble birds of prey in terms of body shapes. They also have the coloring of common birds, and not just raptors, but little things like robins and chickadees and such. Colors aren’t hereditary though, because I said so, so a robin and a hawk could totally have like, a dove. And just like birds, they start off a little floofy and a little ugly, then grow out their plumage as they get older. Very small, short enough that a Mountain dragon could rest their chin on a Forest’s head without too much trouble. Stocky, though, and those claws/beaks are sharp.

Just like birds, Forest Dragons learn to fly by throwing themselves out of trees! Falling is rough, what with branches and a looooong way down, but luckily most of them are okay. (Jay doesn’t, though. She can fly, but not well, and it causes issues).

Names, if it wasn’t obvious, come from the birds they resemble. For example, Jay is colored just like a blue jay.

Forest Dragons have the power to communicate with the forest around them sort of telepathically, and can ask the trees to move for them or coax the flowers to grow. (Note: Ask or coax, not force. Nature is temperamental)

Flightless

The Flightless Dragon I mentioned is part of a group of outcasts outside the rest of the territory, and obviously the group is made of dragons who can’t fly, due to injury or birth defect or whatever. Technically they aren’t formally exiled, but no one likes to stick around, especially because the attitude towards hem isn’t a nice one.

Some of the Flightless take new names when they leave, but others keep their old ones, like Slate.

Slate used to live with the other Mountain Dragons, until he fell from a ledge as a young fledgling and tore/broke one wing on the rocks. He tried his best to survive, but the worst place to be grounded is the mountains, where there’s very little you can do on foot. It’s just too treacherous.

And now, the mysterious sixth dragon. These dragons don’t live near the others—they were discovered by Crimson, Breeze, Coral, Jay, and Slate on their journey.

Desert

The Desert breed is made of descendants from another group of Flightless who traveled to the desert ages ago. Because they’re descended from different breeds, they vary a bit, but generally they resemble prairie dogs, with long, thin, furry tan bodies, short legs, and those cute little faces.

Being descended from Flightless, these dragons actually don’t have wings, the result of evolution over many years. Living on the desert, there isn’t much need for wings the way there would be on the forest or mountain territory.

Desert Dragons actually have double-barreled names, because back in the beginning you’d have a Forest and Moor dragon mate and fight over how to name the young dragon, so they just gave two names. That evolved to starting out with one name and gaining the second after they grow up. (Our main Desert Dragon is called Cactus Blossom).

They don’t have powers; the genetics of all the different breeds got muddled, so they just don’t have any. They do have nice desert survival skills though.

Okay, that’s all on the dragons!! I never talked about the six in detail, personalities or anything, but hopefully this was still interesting? If you wanna know about that hmu and I’ll ramble some more....if I remember to check my inbox (note to self: check inbox after posting this)

#dragons #anonymous #send me anons #infodump #yayyy

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lovesickjily · 6 years ago

Text

Cuffed

Summary: Lily wonders, as she stares at the messy-haired man currently handcuffed to her bedpost, if this bizarre situation could be considered as kidnapping.

FFN or AO3

inspired by a dream that i literally forget the events to lol

If she were to be asked how the heck she got into this situation, Lily supposed that it all started with an email. One, simple little mistake of an email.

Who even used emails nowadays? Texting was a completely acceptable alternative, and unless one wanted to send a lengthy message, or, in some cases a virus to those that they hated, emails were extremely unnecessary. Of course, Lily was completely biased, because she’d had literally no problem with sending them until today, when she’d gotten an email from James Potter.

Tall, dark, and handsome, with hair so wild that it just exudes sex vibes, and god, not to mention those lovely honey-colored eyes of his framed behind dark glasses that brought more attention towards his pretty face, it was no surprise that Lily didn’t at all have a problem with the man, not when he looked like that. She’d open up anything from him, an email being just one of such, and it seemed friendly enough, saying:

Hello, Lily!

I’m James Potter, if you don’t know me, and I’m attaching a rough draft from what I’ve got so far concerning this month’s issue. Sorry that it’s not our usual friend Frank that’s doing it, but I hope I can meet your expectations as his fellow graphic designer. Have a good day!

Best regards, James.

P.S. Please be as critical as you can. I strive for perfection, which I think I can only achieve if you point out everything that you hate about it.

He was quite endearing, really, being one to skip the professionalism and getting straight to the point. She’d never met the man before, but she had quite a good idea of his personality through the email, and she quite liked those people whose personalities shone through their writing.

She decided to leave the attachment to look at later, having far more enough on her plate and trying to balance her other tasks, and, because she quite liked to take a break, she opened out her other email from Mary, switching to her personal email quickly. Though on opposite ends of the city for work— but across the hall when it came to flats—, they still found time in their lives to send each other strange things that only they would find funny as far as best friends went.

Today, apparently, was ugly picture day.

Mary had at first attached a photo of herself from their high school days, captioning it with ‘at least I got prettier. goddamn,’ to which Lily responded with her own high school photo, and Mary responded by telling her to ‘sit the fuck down. you’ve always been pretty.’ Lily didn’t entertain to her thought, knowing that her best friend would only accuse her of being a narcissist, even if for good reason.

The email chains were quite hilarious, and sometimes, she’d find herself scrolling all the way to the beginning of it all to read again on slow days. She looked around the room, and upon seeing that Dumbledore was strolling merrily along with her computer in his line of vision, she quickly clicked back to her personal email, pulling up James’s email to show that she was ‘working.’

When he’d walked away, seeming to have taken his good old time like the view of the boring gray office was enough to admire, she pulled open the camera on the computer, and, because it was an unspoken rule for all computer webcams, the quality was quite terrible, but that was fine, she supposed, as it would only enhance the unflattering aspect that she hoped this photo of her would achieve. She contorted her face together, quite unattractively, she’d say, and pulled her chin towards her neck to achieve that desired double-chin look, snapping four pictures of her in different poses before nodding in content. It was Mary that was going to receive the photos, and what kind of best friend would she be if she didn’t receive terrible pictures of her on the daily? They’d created a photo album solely for each other’s faces, Mary having named Lily’s ‘Wank Bank,’ which she supposed fully explained their friendship.

She was quick to send the email, and the computer made a small chime to indicate that it had been sent, before returning back to work, for real this time. She’d only begun typing away at the computer when she heard a sound from her emails, and usually, she’d ignore it, but there was this sinking feeling of some sort that had growing within her since she’d sent those faces of hers, that she’d—

Oh my god.

No.

No, no, no.

She’d sent the email to the wrong person.

There, instead of Mary’s usually peppered responses, was a new email from James Potter, who she would have coined as a bloke who was not afraid to double email in times of clarification, had it not been for the fact that the email was part of a thread, meaning that she’d sent something back to him.

Her mortification at the mere fact that she sent it to him of all people grew at least a million times.

She was reminded of one of those scenes in the movies, the ones where the idiotic main character, who had a passion for seeking out the supernatural rather than running away, found herself walking towards a room with a stick in her hand as she knew full well that she was about to be sliced apart by an unknown force. Yes, that was her, only the impending doom that she felt bubbling inside of herself was due to the fact that she already knew what she’d done, that she was fully aware of the fact that she was about to be face a gruesome murder by the hands of embarrassment.

And there it was, like a colorful banner spread across the drab walls of the room, was an email from James saying:

Thank you for the acknowledgement? I don’t know what the appropriate response is, because saying anything else would mark me as unprofessional. Nice pictures, by the way. I’m fairly certain that’s the most I could say.

Best regards, James.

She didn’t know whether to slam her head against the keyboard or against the screen, but she supposed that the screen was the better option, seeing as she might accidentally send another wrong email again. Computer shortcuts were both a blessing and a curse, after all. She sighed, composing another email to explain herself, but no, that wouldn’t do at all. She needed to properly apologize, and a simple little email would not do it.

Dear James,

I’m so sorry regarding the last email I sent you. I swear it wasn’t at all intended towards you, and as much as I’d like to write about a million paragraphs to properly convey my remorse, I’m sure we’ve loads to do in our 9-5 jobs. Please, let me make it up to you. I’ll prepare a special dinner for both of us, and we can discuss the original email concerning the graphics, among other things, of course. Does Friday at 7 work for you?

Sincerely, Lily.

He responded nearly immediately, and she wondered if he was slacking off like she was or he was just quick to reply to everything.

Dear Lily,

That will do very well.

Best regards, James.

P.S. I sincerely wish I could be more informal in my emails.

The knock at the door came just when she’d deemed the meal finished in the oven.

She agreed that she might have done it a bit too much, having changed out of her blouse into a low-cut top that made her tits look really nice, and she’d applied three layers of mascara and a nice, cherry-red lipstick, because even if it wasn’t a date, James Potter was still gorgeous. She’d like to at least look presentable after he’d seen terrible photos of her face.

She answered the door and was greeted by him, his eyes raking over her body, which was just the effect she wished for, because maybe that was enough to make up for the fact that he’d seen her at an angle she wished no one but Mary could ever see her in. She was fairly certain that she looked the same, unsubtly admiring his body, his strong arms being displayed with the black tee that he was wearing, and his hazel eyes looked so much prettier with him being a mere foot away from her.

“Hey,” he breathed, and she gave him a small smile.

“Hi. Come inside,” she gestured, and he responded with an easy smile, his eyes taking in the view of her apartment. “The food’s still in the oven. You should seat yourself, and I’ll prepare everything.”

“Is this a restaurant, Lily? Only I think it’s only fair if I help you.”

His voice was quite lovely, and she internally beat herself up for wondering how it’d sound with him atop of her, but she quickly shook the thought out of her head, smiling sweetly up at him. “No, I insist. You’re my guest, aren’t you?”

“As a guest, I consider it quite rude of me to let you do all the work.”

“As the host, I consider it quite rude of me to make you do some work.”

“If I’m eating here, I think I should at least assist you.”

“Yes. You can help me by sitting your pretty bum down and wait. Besides, I’ve already set the table, so unless you’d like both of us to carry out the Shepherd’s Pie together, please make yourself acquainted with a dinner seat.”

He stared at her incredulously, and she wondered if he was contemplating whether or not he should actually carry it out with her, but then he smirked in defeat, making a great deal of emphasis of sitting down. “You’re more clever than I thought.”

“Did you have low expectations, then?” she responded, grabbing a pair of oven mitts, but she didn’t pull open the oven just yet, turning to gauge his reaction.

“Nah. My expectations of you were already up here.” He made a gesture of raising his hand above his head to demonstrate where she would be on his invisible scale. “But now, they’re right about here.” He reached up as high as he possibly could while sitting to the point that the bottom of his shirt lifted, revealing the abs that had unfortunately been obscured behind the tee, and if she followed that trail of hairs, god.

Not now, Lily. There was a time and place for everything, but now was most definitely not the time for dirty, perverse thoughts.

She focused her eyes on the oven instead, carefully taking out the Shepherds Pie and placing it down on the table gently. He made a sound of content, saying, “Smells delish.”

“I’d rather hope it did,” she replied easily, and she picked up her utensils, baring them in her hands as they did in the movies to demonstrate just how excited she was to eat. The Shepherds Pie, of course, not the man sitting across from her, though he looked just as delicious, maybe even more.

They dove right in, Lily allowing James to cut the first piece for himself, and they talked about the graphics for the magazine that they worked for, the information not being all that important for right now, though she did tuck away everything they exchanged with one another for later. It was really easy to talk to him, and she quite liked talking to him, because it wasn’t just the sound of his voice, but the way he could make conversation out of anything.

The little Tardis-themed salt and pepper shakers that she had lying atop of the table? He was quick to make a remark about that, and it was well worth the 20 quid that she paid for them if just for him to compliment them. It spurred into a well-heated debate. Could you believe? An argument concerning salt and pepper shakers?

Time seemed to fly by fast when she was talking to him too, and she wondered where had he been all this time she had been bored out of her mind in her office, knowing that if she knew just have amazing of a time she’d have with him, she’d bloody talk to him all day. The office hours would definitely pass by much more quickly. She voiced that thought to him, and he looked so bloody pleased with himself that she’d say it again if it meant that he would give her that same quirky smile of his.

And with time, she was quite concerned with how quick it had taken for her to develop feelings for him, and it was quite discombobulating how fast her heart speed up when he did smile, which appeared after just about every one of her little comments and retorts. And god, when his eyes raked over her, even if it might have been just because of how daring she had been with her fashion choices, it made the butterflies in her stomach fly at full force, like they were speeding up her heart rate solely by flapping.

The next thing she knew, the tray was empty, a signal that he was going to leave soon, and the fact of the matter was that she didn’t want him to go yet. She wanted him to stay, and she didn’t mean for the entire night, though she wasn’t at all partial to that idea, but long enough for her to get to know him more.

They’d sipped a bit of wine as they ate, and though she was far from drunk, she had just about enough of that liquid courage, standing up just as he stood up, presumably to leave for the night. “It was really nice to formally meet you, Lil—”

“Do you want to have a look around?”

His eyebrows drew up in surprise, and she honestly didn’t even blame him, as she literally just strung that question out at him, but then he gave her a small smile, nodding. “Sure. I’d love to have a look around Casa de la Evans.”

Her own lips drew upwards. “Well, don’t let me stop you. I’ll be behind you, in case you accidentally— or purposely— break something.”

“Is that so?” he asked teasingly, “Or do you want me to be your tour guide?”

“I lied. It’s your explanation that’s correct. I actually don’t know my way around the flat at all.”

“After this tour, you’ll know every inch of it by heart,” he replied, and he made a wide sweeping motion with his arms, “This is the dining room.”

“Evidently,” she smiled.

He whirled around to the living room and pointed, simply stating ‘living room.’ He was being the absolute cutest, but she wanted him in her bedroom, having concocted quite the plan, and she followed him down the small hallway, opening the first door. Upon the sight of the toilet and shower, he turned to her, a small cock of his eyebrow, saying, “This is the bathroom, where you get rid of your waste and then clean evidence of said waste.”

“That’s the strangest way to put it.”

“It was either that, or something concerning shit.”

She quirked her lips up at him, wondering how he could make talk about the bathroom sound endearing, and they walked out, closing the door behind them as they made their way to the adjacent bedroom. “Here is thy fair maiden’s bedroom, where she slumbers and retreats for the night.”

“Have a look around,” she replied, dropping their faux tourist act, and she watched as he eyes skimmed over the room, stopping prompt at—

Oh god. She’d left her bra out in the open, lying right near her bedpost, and there was nothing wrong about a bloke seeing her bra, seeing as she’d been the one who’d invited him in the first place, not to mention the fact that she had tits, meaning that it was a dead giveaway that she’d wear said products. Of course she’d have bras, but still, it was a bit embarrassing for it to be out in the open like that, because if she wanted him to see her bra, it’d be on her very chest, ready for him to remove.

“I’m sorry about that,” she told him, plucking it from the ground and stuffing it into her drawer.

“Don’t be. Was just surprised is all.”

He was looking at the pictures she’d framed on her bedside table now, and it contained a drawer, filled with miscellaneous things, like some candles, a few documents, and a pair of—

Could she?

Yes, she could, there was no doubt about it.

Should she?

Well.

No, but one only had just the one life to live.

She did the next action out of a whim.

She opened up the drawer, pulling out the pair of handcuffs that she’d bought out of pure boredom one day and looped them around his hand, not even trying with both of them because that would have been a hassle, and he’d undoubtedly catch on quickly and resist. She secured it around him and put the other cuff around her bedpost, glad that it locked in place once she’d shut it.

His reaction was priceless. His eyes were widened, only just taking in the event when she’d finished her work, and his eyes shifted from his hand and then towards her, looking to be in sheer disbelief. “Lily, what the fuck are you doing?”

That was a good question.

What was she doing?

She was more rational than this, she thought, and she scoured her brain for an excuse, as telling him that she wanted him to stay made her sound creepy. He waited for an answer, not at all looking mad, when she remembered what had caused this apology dinner in the first place. “We need to talk.”

He cocked an eyebrow at her. “We’ve been talking for the past hour.”

“Yes, but I mean…” she trailed off, biting her lip softly as she desperately hoped that he caught what she was referring to, even though she didn’t at all want to bring it up.

His eyes widened at her, and he reached out with his other hand, placing it on her shoulder. “Listen, Lily. You don’t have to worry about it. I’m not going to report you to HR, if that’s what you’re scared of.”

“I— thank you,” she replied, her cheeks flushing red, and she felt the color on her throat, “I don’t know why I did that, to be honest. I suppose it’s my idea of a joke.”

“The handcuffs or the email?”

“The handcuffs,” she answered, “The emails was directed to a friend, so that was completely intentionally. I— I’ll unlock you right now.”

She avoided his eye, the embarrassment of the situation fully creeping up on her now, and she dug around in her drawer in an attempt to look for it, but it was nowhere to be found. She checked under the candles, atop the documents, even going as far as reaching all the way back and pressing her fingers against the very edge of the drawer, hoping that it was there. No luck.

Oh, great. She’d done it now.

She had completely, unintentionally handcuffed someone to her bed, wondering if she’d broken any laws because of her own foolishness, because of something that was meant to be funny. “Lily?”

“I’m so sorry,” she nearly whispered, not sure whether to laugh or cry at this predicament that they were in, “I can’t seem to find the key anywhere.”

His lips curled up, evidently amused by her despite the fact that he was literally locked up in her room at his own mercy. “Lily, it’s honestly fine.”

“It’s not,” she insisted, “I— Here, I’ll make it up to you. What’s your favourite song? I’ll play it for you, and I— I’ll massage you! I’m sure working in an office all day has put some sort of strain on your back. Please, sit down.”

He made a half-arsed attempt at sitting on the bed, looking quite awkward with one hand held up in the air, and she started thinking of other circumstances where he’d look that way, circumstances that would ultimately end up with both his arms handcuffed with her atop of him— sans any clothing of course. She burst that bubble, because again, now was not the time.

“Lily, you don’t have to do anything. I—”

“No, you’re going to shut your pretty mouth up and let me give you a massage.”

He quirked an eyebrow up at her but raised his other hand up in defeat, to which he promptly made a motion of zipping his mouth shut. She climbed up on the bed behind him, and as she tentatively placed her hands on his shoulders, she was reminded of how akin this was to the intro of an adult film, with mediocre acting at best and the scene escalating quickly.

The only difference being, however, was that there would be no shagging, as far as Lily was concerned.

She kneaded his shoulder, just once, when he turned his head back to look at her, winding his free arm around her neck and pulling her beside him. She stared at him in shock, her heart beating at the speed of a race horse, but she didn’t budge, knowing that his grip on her would keep her in place. “You didn’t really think that I’d let you give me a massage, did you?”

“Well, you’ve no other choice, considering the fact that you’ve nowhere else to go. At least let me massage your wrist when you break free.”

“Break free? Am I your prisoner now?” he joked.

“Please don’t say that, because it makes me feel like I kidnapped you.”

“And you haven’t?”

“No, actually, believe it or not, my plan to seduce you did not involve a case of Stockholm Syndrome.”

“Seduce me, did you say?”

“Yes,” she affirmed, because there was no point in beating around the bushes. He had eyes, and he had to know that she dolled herself up to impress him, if she could judge by the way his eyes had lingered on her person the entire time they’d had dinner together.

“Can I be honest with you, then?”

“Are you implying that you’ve been lying to me this entire time?” she teased, and he smiled at her.

“Sort of, yeah,” he replied, and he turned his gaze away from her, though his hand, which had been looped around her back, wound its way towards her own hand, intertwining them together. “This might be a little embarrassing, but the reason why I reached out to you instead of Frank like he usually did was because I asked him for the switch. I, er, I sort of, really wanted to get to know you better? I really do like you, Lily.”

His confession was like music to her ears, a symphony that she wanted to hear for practically the rest of her life, but he wasn’t going to get her that easily. She was going to take advantage of this situation, because maybe, maybe she’d attempted to assert her dominance like the powerful woman that she hoped that she was, and she was not going to let him make her feel like putty when he was the one who was handcuffed to her bed.

Maybe, she begrudgingly admitted, she was a bit drunk from the wine, but she was still very much in control of her thoughts, or at least for the most part she was.

She shot up from the bed, pulling James’s arm off of her, and she stood in front of him, leaning down so that they were face-to-face, or face-to-chest. “And what are you going to do about it, James Potter?”

“I dunno, really,” he breathed, and she noticed that his eyes were trained on her lips rather than her chest, most likely because he wanted to be a bit more of a gentleman, “The current course of action is to accidentally email you some pictures of myself.”

Her cheeks flared up. “They were meant for my best friend.”

He cocked his head to the side like the smarmy idiot that he was. He was supposed to be defenceless in this situation, not getting the upper hand from it. “Really? That’s quite tragic. Could you make that face in the email for me right now, then? It’s quite cute.”

“It was not.”

“It was the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.” He pulled out his phone from his pocket, unlocking it and flipping to his camera roll, revealing that he’d gone as far as saving the pictures. “See? Bloody adorable, you are.”

She didn’t at all think she looked adorable in those photos, the camera catching her worst angles, and they brought shame to her nice pictures, the ones she’d taken in pretty lighting with a proper smile, not an overly-exaggerated pout. Out of all the emails that she could have sent to him, why that one? She’d sent Mary loads of nice photos of her, so why couldn’t James be the recipient of those photos instead of what she’d actually sent to him? “Why aren’t you mad?”

“Why would I be mad? Because you handcuffed me to a bed because you accidentally emailed me something?”

It sounded even worse coming out of his mouth, and she visibly flinched. “That’s precisely why.”

“I figure if it meant that I get to talk to you more, there’s virtually nothing wrong with it.”

James Potter. Charming. Gorgeous. Smooth.

She was undeserving.

“I’m going to look for the key again,” she said instead, and she turned around, pulling up her other drawers in case the key had somehow wounded its way in another part of her room, but she just didn’t quite get it. She’d never even touched the key, never even used the handcuffs, so just how did the key go missing? Perhaps she’d dropped it one time when she took out a candle, not knowing that it was attached to it. Yes, that had to be it.

“Need a little help over there?”

“Yes, actually, but seeing as the only person who could assist me is unable to move from his fixed spot near my bed, I’m afraid this is a one-woman expedition.”

“I’ll support your expedition. I’ll be a one-man cheerleader.”

She smiled in spite of herself. “Is that an excuse to throw compliments at me?”

“How else am I supposed to stress how gorgeous you are?”

“Then what am I supposed to do about you? I can’t very well cheer you on for sitting there and being pretty.”

“I disagree. There’s something called multitasking, you see.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, that’s rather unfortunate. Give me some time to look for the key, and I’ll cheer you on in other ways.”

She heard him take in a shuddering breath, and she felt her lips curving upwards. She beat him at his own little game, despite having absolutely no idea what she meant by ‘other ways.’

She expected that she’d turned her entire bedroom upside down looking for the bloody key, and James, having stayed true to his word, cheered her on the entire 21 minutes that she’d spent searching, his words including, but not being limited to, a compliment of some sort, each one getting more and creative than the last, or was it less creative? She didn’t know. She surely wasn’t going to be picky about the compliments if he was so willing to give them to her in the first place.

But 21 minutes were put to waste, and the only difference between that time span and now was that her room was significantly messier than before. Even worse, she still hadn’t found the bloody key.

Would she have handcuffed the gorgeous bespectacled man to her bed had she known that she’d be unable to find that key?

Probably, probably not.

Who knew?

The fact of the matter was that she didn’t have the key, and there was no use in dwelling the possible outcomes that she could possibly be experiencing had she not locked him up. He’d probably be at home right now, and she’d definitely be lying on her bed contemplating how much she should have handcuffed him.

She just couldn’t win.

He was standing up again, probably due to the strain that the cuffs might have made to his wrists when he was sitting down, and he was nearly beginning to throw another compliment at her, she could tell. His compliments weren’t even simple ones that anyone could throw at her if they saw her walking down the street. No, James Potter seemed to be studying her— had to be— because no one could give her one glance and say something like— Oh.

Speaking of a compliment. “You know that feeling when you study your arse off for a test and you end up failing it anyway?”

“Yes?” She really hoped that he wasn’t going to tell her that looking at her gave him that same feeling, because what a blow that would have been, especially after this night that they had.

“Well, I reckon the sight of you is enough to forget that I fucking failed because then I’ll feel like I’m winning.” Ah. There he goes.

“But then—”

“Nope,” he cut her off, “I fucking won.”

“Have you?” she asked, moving towards him, his words giving her further courage as her fingers skimmed across his chest, “Have you really?”

“Yeah,” he let out, and she noticed the way he’d swallowed when he looked at her, his eyes growing slightly darker at the sight of her. Her fingers traced the outline of his jaw, admiring the curve of it, and she was completely aware of how frantic her heart was at the small distance between them, but she wouldn’t let that deter her. She drew her lips up close to him, and he watched carefully, and she allowed a small kiss to the corner of his lip, just barely tasting it, before easing her way towards his ear as she slightly slid her lips over his skin.

She stopped at his ear, whispering, “No, I don’t think you have.”

And with that, she pulled away, grinning victoriously when her actions had the desired effect on him.

Lily Jane Evans. Smart. Pretty. Confident.

“Fuck, Lily.”

“Maybe later,” she replied coyishly, adding, “I’m not going to do anything to you when you’re helpless.”

“I’m not bloody helpless,” he insisted, and he waved his free hand in the air, “If I wanted to, I’d have pushed you off of me.”

“The Stockholm Syndrome has gotten to you, apparently,” she joked, and he rolled his eyes at her halfheartedly.

“What will it take? More compliments? I don’t think I’ve ever had to pay someone with compliments.”

“Credit card transactions work just as fine,” she replied easily, “Only I’d feel awful if you actually paid me money.”

He smiled. “You know, if it wasn’t unprofessional, I would have gone on for hours about how bloody gorgeous you are after you sent me photos of your face. It took about fifty tries, I’d wager, before I finally came up with an email that didn’t imply that I thought you were pretty.”

She blinked, staring at him. “You’re kidding.”

“Nah.”

“Why would you—”

“I think we both know the answer to that.”

She scoured his eyes, his pretty, golden eyes that seemed to glitter as he stared back, for any signs that he might have been deceiving her in any sort of way, but all she saw was solemnity and, if she was correct, some adoration, like she hung the stars. And if she did hang the stars if his eyes bore the truth, then they were dangling in his eyes, shining brightly.

His hand flew up to cup her face gently, and he parted her lips open before leaning in as much as he possibly could, stopping a few centimeters short from her face. “Could I kiss you?”

A man who acted from consent. Lovely. “And ruin my lipstick?”

“Funny, I thought you wore it for me.”

“Funny, because then you’d be correct,” she replied, and the next thing she knew, her lips were on his, savouring the sensation as the feeling in her heart skyrocketed, and who knew James Potter could be so good at kissing with only one hand? His hand flew from her chin and down towards her waist, playing with the bottom of her shirt but not advancing any further.

She hoped that when she pulled away, there would be red staining his lips, because that meant that they’d done a great job of smearing it off. On the flip side, she didn’t want to know, because that meant that they’d stopped kissing, and oh god could she please stay like this forever?

It was almost as if her lips were made to fit against his, like their molds completely complemented one another in the sense that if one were to be made, the other had to be as well. He tugged slightly at her bottom lip before pressing one last light kiss on her, pulling away sweetly as he reached his forehead against hers.

“That was— wow,” she said, and she couldn’t at all help the smile that grew on her lips as he mirrored her actions, a light chuckle falling from his lips.

“Wow?”

“More than wow, actually.”

“I’d hope so,” he responded, “There’s hardly any lipstick left on your lips.”

She gently poked his mouth, a nice cherry colour now from their ministrations. “And there’s loads on yours.”

“Does it make me look pretty?”

“Very,” she nodded, and his smile grew more.

He brought her arms around his neck, saying in a quieter undertone, “I have something to tell you. Don’t be mad?”

“I’m the one who handcuffed you to the bed. I don’t think I’ll get mad.”

“All right,” he said, “Come here.”

“I’m right here.”

“Closer,” he elaborated, and he used his hand to bring her towards him so that she was flush against his chest, “Promise you won’t be mad?”

“I promise.”

“Pinky swear on it.”

She quirked an eyebrow at him but intertwined their pinkies together, smiling. “Will you tell me now? I’m getting quite antsy over what you’ve got to say.”

He paused, quite possibly for dramatic effect more than anything else, and—

“I’ve had the key in my pocket this entire time.”

She pulled away from him quickly, his eyes widened. “You what?”

“Oi,” he said, bringing her back towards him, “You promised you wouldn’t be mad.”

“I’m not,” she insisted, “Only that I didn’t expect— oh my god. You— When?”

“It doesn’t take that long for a bloke to notice that he’s about to get handcuffed to a bed, so I swiped the key from the drawer when you weren’t looking.”

“Oh my god,” she repeated, her voice filled with exasperation and amusement, “All this time I thought I lost the key.”

“Nah, it’s been right here all along,” he replied, patting the pocket in his trousers.

“Why’d you do it?” she asked him.

“Isn’t it obvious? I reckon it would have been the funnier approach by playing along with you. Was quite cute of you, I’d say.”

“That’s why you weren’t mad.”

“Wouldn’t have been mad if I didn’t steal it. Do you want to do the honours of releasing me?”

“Will you report me to the authorities for kidnapping?”

“Nah. I’ll report you for stealing instead.”

“Stealing?”

“My heart,” he quipped, and her lips curved upwards, watching as he took the key out of his pocket as he’d said and placing it into the lock on the handcuff, turning it and watching in satisfaction as it opened with a click. He threw it to the side, cupping her face gingerly with both his hands this time. “But, I’ll let it slide just this once.”

“Just this time?”

“And every time after.”

With that, he pressed his lips against hers, and she responded eagerly.

An email and a handcuff were quite possibly the strangest combination in getting two people together, but if she were to contemplate it later, she’d agree that it was all very well worth it.

#jily #jily fanfiction #jily fanfic #jily au #james potter #lily evans #james and lily #lsj writes #oneshot

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rosy-writes · 7 years ago

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Writer’s Block and Writing Process

Okay, so in my campnano cabin, @papofglencoe had a question about her struggles with writing and the block she was experiencing, and seeing as I am writing about writer’s block and ways we can over come it, I decided I’d try to work on her question and see what I could come up with. I went with a few different suggestions, even though, for some reason, this confronted my own issues of anxiety and writer’s block and it took me over a day to post this. Here it is finally

Lately, I start up a new project to get the juices flowing, then invariably I peter out on it. It just... loses steam. I start to question the worth of the story, and I lose impetus to write it. This has been happening pretty consistently since January, and every time I start a new story and fizzle out on it, my confidence to complete a project erodes a little further. Maybe if I toggled more between them it wouldn't feel like a failure, just a break to recharge.

Okay, so I think the first thing to do is to think about what is making you stop?

Is it your inner editor that is getting too loud?

Screw the editor. The best way to get the editor to shut up is to force yourself to write under a time constraint, without editing at all. Don’t look for the right word. Don’t research that troublesome plot point. Don’t make it a finished draft. It’s not supposed to be a finished draft. All first drafts are ugly. At this point it’s better to mark something with a place holder, like XXXX than to stop your momentum to fidget with the perfect turn of phrase or the correct scientific concept or whatever it is that your internal editor says is what you SHOULD be saying.

There’s no shoulds in a first draft except getting that story down on paper. Don’t CARE if it makes no sense. Honestly. Turn off that judgmental part of you that decides if the words are worth it. It’s all worth it, because what you are doing now is not writ ing the best words, it’s just writing the words that lead to the story.

You can fix a story that’s a mess, you can rearrange a troubled plot, you can take out the wordy language or add in better motivation for a character that is already written. You can cross out nonsense paragraphs and delete chapters, even, but you can not fix a story that never gets onto the page. Rough drafts are there to be imperfect and unfinished. Whether you are writing from the seat of your pants or plan it to the last tee, your first draft is only the starting place, so if your internal editor is silencing your writing, it’s time to silence your inner editor.

Write and do not stop writing even when your bad voices are telling you you’re terrible and the story is wrong. Say be quiet internal editor I’m writing now. You will be on deck when I get this first draft out. Trust me. That internal editor will come back and be ready to go when it’s time to ask for her advice. It will be ready to cross out the dross and find the pearls in your writing.

Is it your fear of failure? And you’re not sure if you’re going to be able to do it? Is it about perfectionism and you feel that if you can’t do it perfect then you can’t do it at all?

Lower the stakes. Stop looking at it as a project that is going to prove your worth. Stop looking at it as a finished project. What you have in front of you is a work in process. It does not have to be perfect. It does not have to do everything you want it to do. It does not have to make your place in the world or be genius. It just has to be put down on paper, word by word until you get to the end.

It is the act of writing that helps you find your story. It is the act of writing that creates the characters. It is the act of writing that opens up the doors and allows you to enter into the worlds. It is the act of writing that engages your creativity. In this case, it is not the the words on the page that are important at this point. It is the ACT of writing them. And each word typed. Each sentence laid out on the paper is another step towards getting back to your writing and your story. You find your way through the struggle by putting one word after the other. And the only way to get to the end is to keep putting the next word down. That is the bravery, the refusal to let go and give up and stop.

Have you lost your focus because life had gotten too loud and other things are going on?

Go with it. Maybe your idea of multiple projects would work. I know that’s worked for me. When the anxiety builds on one project, I switch to the easier one. When I lose my impetus on one piece, I switch to a different one. When I am uncertain of the direction of my novel, I take a break and write some non fiction. Maybe if your problem is because you have too many things on your mind, the answer is to write something that deals with the issues in your life. Sometimes we can’t write because something else is calling our attention. And that’s ok. Do you need to take a break and work on the things that are taxing your attention? That’s fine, and maybe necessary so you can clear your mind. Taking breaks from writing is part of the process. Decide to what extent you want to work on your writing. Maybe take on smaller projects. Maybe a project that is more meaningful and let’s you tackle your issues on a subconscious or metaphorical, or heck, direct level. Maybe a project that is FARTHER away from the things causing you stress, because that gives you a break from your stress. The simple act of allowing myself to write fan fiction, which was not my intended writing career, allowed me to start writing again and has broken through a time of great anxiety. It was an escape. And it allowed me freedom to just write without pressure.

I have definitely gone through periods of time where I have been in a fallow stage. Sometimes this means that I need to take a break. Sometimes it means that I am in an idea phase. Sometimes it just means that I’m busy in my life and I need to take care of non writing things. I don’t think periods of non writing are necessarily a problem, but if you want to keep writing, you have to get back to it. And that’s the tricky part, because it takes WORK to get back to a place where you are productive and working with a habit that keeps you writing.

I think the key here is to remember that writing is a process, and whether it’s the process of developing your project, or the process of putting one word down after the other, or discovering how to work with your own writer’s process, writing is an act, a development, and the most important thing is to just keep at it and honor your process.

#writer's block #the creative process #writing advice

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ratherhavetheblues · 7 years ago

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TERRENCE MALICK’S SONG TO SONG “It’s always a free-fall now…”

Although Song to Song (2015/ 2017) adopts the design priority of a pell-mell rout by an army of short-lived wild things being long-term softies, there does emerge, for our sense of counter-attacking against the nearly non-stop jumpiness, a pair of visitations from sagas less spasmodic. The first is the silent, black and white, white-hot film melodrama of massacre, ripping into the midst of a palatial, ultra-modern household owned by an Austin music producer, Cook, besotted by the capacity to marshal hookers to his bed and thus drive his wife, Rhonda, to suicide. Along that so-called life to the fullest, he tells himself, “I can’t take this life straight.” He goes on to ask his former-waitress, former-Kindergarten teacher wife, part of an unstable harem, “What’s your fantasy? What are you afraid of?” She tells herself and whatever else could read her thoughts, “When I was a girl I loved everything. You killed my life…” [in the course of a marriage which delivered a nice house to her destitute mother]. That wild premonition including axe-murder and flowing blood reminds us of a jaded screenwriter, Rick, in Malick’s Knight of Cups (2015), who disregards a video in the foyer of a chic office tower, a decorative production in black and white whereby several women blend into each other from their long, jet-black hair, apparel, make-up and eyes. Rick’s sidelined, spent force may not be going anywhere, but the surreal artwork along his retreat becomes part of a rescue mission which speaks to the defunct Rhonda’s once loving everything, to no avail. (The two marital casualties meet when she is his server in a diner. “I have a condition,” he quips. “I can’t be left alone…” [“Help Me, Rhonda”]. The distance between Song to Song’s death-spiral and Knight of Cups’ going swimmingly in an infinity pool (like the one Rhonda OD’d in) gives us to understand that a very different consideration has become necessary.

The second way the spinning calamity finds some authoritative righting derives from Cook’s increasingly raw thrashing around for a return to the spirit of music he once cared for and received great wealth from in return. Hoping to rally his gentle and devastated wife, he comes up with a reddish, syrupy preparation the prospects of which give him something like a sense of rejuvenation. He ladles the concoction into her mouth and joins her in being infected with a stupendous elixir. This is far from and yet unmistakeably quoting the “taste of cherry” by which an old man expects to revive a suicidal cynic in Abbas Kiarostami’s film, Taste of Cherry (1997). Neither bid comes to fruition. But Kiarostami’s startling denouement, brushing off the complainer as dispensable dead-weight, informs the nihilist in our film today with a world of wit and wisdom from which someone might proceed with body language an entity like Cook chooses, instinctively, to do without. (He takes Rhonda to a Longhorns game where they see a touchback in favor of the home team. Overdrive and its penalty—just like nature; just like this whole two-hours-plus of digging their own grave.)

One other, presumably more obvious, motif can provide substantive illumination for this art work wrought in the key of massive, confusing surrender. Though I haven’t looked at a lot of commentary about Song to Song, I have been struck, in what I have read, by the complete indifference toward what a musical career entails—and particularly what a rock and roll career entails. All of the responders I saw could have been dealing with a conclave of numbed but randy and careerist shoe manufacturers. Concerts, clubs and musicians abound; but only their career, romantic and lame comedic considerations get a look in. (In fairness, that is what every surface is saturated in.) Sex, Drugs and Rock and Roll come our way in order to distort the still validly vivid music industry, the better to have the film become a long, loud cry of pain which, for those who are really attending, brings forward in its wake the home of an elusive sublime, remotely like the products of a cyclotron.

The scope for misunderstanding here is so pronounced that presenting another complement seems the only way to offset the myopia and contempt being showered upon Song to Song. Looking for the barrel of fun here is a self-damaging business; and looking for that compensatory self-sacrifice prods us toward (too much) resignation as a prescription for disappointment. The lead-pipe ugliness of the lives and events on tap can only shine as instalments of (unsuccessful) overturning of the entire fabric of dominance which has obtained across the board and across the eons. This film is about rock and roll; and do we need to be reminded that, unlike accommodating, obscurantist jazz and jaunty folk devotions, the whole point is taking you somewhere your half-assed world history won’t? And that, my friends, is what art is all about. Instead of rocketing out killer performances, Song to Song’s artist-in-charge is well aware (perched as he is in the midst of the Austin musical overdrive) that rock is a massively failed invention. (Here the optics of “festivals” are so calamitously dead you’d rather be taking a chance on Intensive Care than be having the time of your life like that.) Once again, we need the modesty to realize that major artists don’t piss around with millions of dollars and they don’t lose control of the depths they won’t do without. The drowning of those on camera does not purport to be an expose or an accurate measure of the full range of the music land. It very pointedly brings to focus the worst which the métier can and does display often. (Everybody knows that the field is weighted down with ass-holes; but ass-holes who occasionally excel in important ways, for a few months, anyway.) In presenting such a tailspin, Malick is intent on setting in relief the dangerous and necessary drafts awaiting the steps beyond their parents’ rancid ideals. There would be no such incisiveness in celebrating the business fat cats who always opt for paragon, mainstream co-opted status in Rock’s Hall of Fame. Believe it or not, the heart and soul of rock and roll is much more important than that news of the day filler. And so, the specimens making quite a mess in our film today may be obsessively, exasperatingly repetitive about insistence beyond their strength; but they are not a ridiculous joke (having at least got on to the playing field which very few will touch).

Despite those tantrums amidst a cult-like circle unable to resist nonsense in word and deed, no one seems to find that there is one figure instrumental in setting the macabre pace for a constituency of otherwise inconsequential slugs. The mad priest to those bush-league hangers-on is of course, Cook, the only one we see who has clawed and delivered his way to a fortune and now, within a mysterious doldrum, has become a tolerated former eminence—like the director looking pretty good to Betty in Mulholland Drive—still a big deal to suckers like Faye (a protagonist, but not the protagonist, having become, after a stint, more to her capacity, of being his receptionist, a placebo taken in by not merely the invalid but the doctor himself. Another self-perceived diamond-in-the rough who intersects the dubious cloud of invention from which Cook once had the fire in the belly to strike gold is BV, a singer/songwriter who, though not derived from the corporate pool, soon shows himself to be roadie material.

Fittingly, it is the latter two, in their now being on the spot to confront the creative imperative, by which this pitching picture begins. Faye tentatively opens a door a crack and a black void confronts her. Then, at a club, she having at least got her foot in the door, she silently talks to herself about the ingredients having gone into the hugely problematic ambition to be a viable musical force, suddenly absorbing her. She recites what she’s probably casually confessed a hundred times in the orbit that is irresistibly seductive big-time Austin, to assure all and sundry she’s a woman of the time who could touch a wide and lucrative constituency. “I thought sex was supposed to be violent [a notion she probably picked up in the sixth grade]. I thought it would bring me to find something real…” Clinging to Cook in bed while such clichés clang to the floor, she confirms her situation of being at the fringes of the music business, notwithstanding being a regular at the boss’ tony house amidst band members no longer needing or even trusting him but curious witnesses to a pile-up. The cut to a mosh pit at a festival few have bothered to attend provides an ironic (and silent) commentary regarding Faye’s tottering theory of far-reaching gusto. The pace of visual variety is rapid; but let’s pause to contemplate how one reaches the state of an absence of feeling something real. Whereas it might come down to trading in cheap clichés, we can make a working premise that the spirit of true rock and roll uncanniness has put in a brief, tantalizing appearance (as it has for nearly all of us), but that its blessing has been frighteningly rescinded. Also adrift on that basis is BV, who says to himself, “All the people [the head bangers and Faye becoming an item] with violence in their hearts. Every kiss felt half of what it should be…” The concluding first scrum, to which we have to apply firm attention to see its being more than a bit of driftwood in the wilderness, hands over to us Faye presenting to herself the prayer in voice-over, “to know the right people… to get through the fence…” She follows with, “I wanted experience. Any experience is better than no experience.” She walks by an hors d’oeuvre table consisting of a young girl lying on her back hoping to reach the right people. Cook makes a twosome and both of them essay slow, small approaches to each other, having a glimmer that flash may not be necessary. Their hands in close-up, touching each other, come up empty, a formula missing an essential factor. When the camera returns to all there is of Faye, she intimates, “I thought he could help me… I paid my dues…” Saying that in a Malick film (as such carrying the centuries-long trek of phenomenological research and the anchor of the avant-garde) is asking for trouble. There are dues to be paid here, so costly that no one in sight (save one) can afford them.

Why would a corporate leader lead the kind of life Cook does? Is it valid to suppose that his going to the well of possibility, to meet his company’s recent roadblocks, directs him to unexpected weightiness in the music defeating him. No such weight interferes with the job-searches of Faye and BV. They join him on a junket to Mexico in his private jet, replete with a pressure system which establishes a play of weightlessness (nice try, but gimmicks and drugs do not replace maturity). In the land of crazy booze and crazy piety, the tourists, crazy drunk on tequila, crawl along the dark alley which begins to look like home. (The bite of the tiger being grabbed has ineluctably instituted in the hangers-on something more painful than bitching about waiting for a fat job to fall into their lap.) The following day, watching as the wannabes twirl on a mesa, Cook rushes to a conclusion that is not totally out to lunch. “They have a beauty in their life” [he puts to himself, and us] that makes me ugly…” Their dancing is tepid and his assessment is vapid. But the chill of mortality is unmistakeable. As the new coupling supplants the old, BV asks Faye about how seriously she is involved with Cook. “You can tell me a lie. That’s the fun about me.” As this tide of half-hearted earthiness and flaccid assessments builds up a sadly eventful inertia, there remains for us to delineate the variables of a calamity which, though seemingly pretty far-out, is the story of each of our lives. The moment when Faye leaves Cook finds her telling him, “You have too much pride.” Does that dismissal betray her ambiguity about being an avatar of feeling something real?

The conspicuous detour those three turn into a nauseating miasma might be said to be going somewhere, by contrast; but the not “fun” about them is that they’re light-years away from what rock music can and does sporadically accomplish. BV had had some songs out; but the only aspect of that event we see is his complaining that Cook had registered them in his name alone. “It was supposed to be 50-50,” the disenchanted voice of the millennials reminds the disenchanted Gen-Xer. The boss’ riposte is to tell him, almost certainly correctly, that he’s deluded in thinking himself a musician. BV spits at the skeptic’s feet as he departs that false and final start as a musical money-maker. Faye soon doubts that BV is for her, having a hankering for professional efficacy in everyone but herself. Cook, perhaps in the spirit of farce, offers her a recording contract. She’s soon onstage at a festival with a couple of dozen other new finds, the whole set-up strongly redolent of a large guitar shop with amateurs here and there dribbling out a few chords. Soon she’s even less impressed with her “career” than sleeping with Cook. “I don’t want to do this anymore…” Sooner or later she and BV reunite and leave Austin for BV’s rural homestead (where his father is ailing and his brothers are in and out of jail). They purport to be made for each other, he working on an oil rig. Emmanuel Libitski’s camera work endowing, as throughout, currents of epiphanic power which the advanced species do, as throughout, their utmost to kill (here in the form of a stunted life deemed to be full). The various bits of enhancement from the classical repertoire go nowhere in addressing a non-classical crisis. One composition, the early pop tune, “Runaway,” does, with irony and tatters of vigor, bring BV and Faye to as close to a moment of kinetic truth as they’re ever apt to enjoy.

The many ageing notables, and simply old, surrounding this situation of retreat by Faye and BV deftly complement the disaster in the foreground. We have Patti Smith coming across like a den mother, counselling Faye in the verities of romance, long-term satisfying marriage and life as a widow. (She also resembles the nutty old gal foreseeing “trouble” at Betty and Rita’s short term rental in Mulholland Drive.) Then there’s Iggy Pop, in the mode of a youthful ancient—bare to the waist, of course—holding forth, with far more ancient than youthful, on filmmakers engaging musicians to enliven their productions. We have a ska band hanging around Cook’s place, discussing physio therapy and tattoos, with instruments nearly but never played. One glimpse of a festival concert features dancers shaking their bums, to an effect as thrilling as the Frank Buck zoological featurettes in the 1930’s. Playing against that water-torcher there is Faye in a brief and delicate lesbian encounter, remarkable for its momentum being undone by self-consciousness on the part of Faye and trendy self-serving on the part of the French house-sitter. BV, along that trajectory where each in their own way have turned their back on Cook but still haven’t seen each other as a godsend, starts thriving on the optics of eccentricity—much easier to bring off than real distinction—dating a woman about 15 years his senior, until his mother pulls the plug. Also within that broad miasma on the spot to deliver something better, there is his little tantrum about discovering how many liaisons there were with Cook (slamming kitchen draws and turning on the gas to torch a piece of paper). In this same kitchen-sink distemper he complains of the French girl and gets told, “I don’t have to tell you…”

With nothing those unskilled laborers demonstrate being up to paying the dues they’ve unsuspectingly been embarrassed by, Malick introduces the only visitor to Austin who isn’t road kill. One of the encounters, during the first separation from Faye is a former girlfriend of BV’s, a musician attending to business who is immediately recognizable as not desperate. She gives him a long look being a preamble to discovering if his entertainment confines had matured to something else. Faye had just embarked, after being compelled to admit BV was a shiftless drifter, on that abortive contract with now patently entertainment-cynical Cook. Here was the other side of the coin. Her undemonstrative career satisfaction is palpable in face of BV’s cluelessness. On the heels of their recalling what didn’t work the first time, and her recognizing now nothing has changed, at the airport tarmac, where she will embark on a tour, she pitches the gambit that she’d give their partnership another try, suspending her busy concert schedule. A brief rainstorm adds to the implausibility of the direction she has mooted. “You miss me?” she asks. “Yeah,” is the ambiguous word BV uses as a pleasantry but she uses as spotting a visceral implacable foe. Then, as she knew he would, he declares, “Honestly, I can’t answer that…” [meaning, “I can’t stand living with someone whose honesty puts me to shame]. Then I gotta go,” she says, knowing—like the swimmer at the end of Knight of Cups—that there are bigger fish out there if the one in her face fails. (Just after this, Faye tells Cook, “I want out!” That she and BV are meant for each other—up at the farm, she exclaims, “I want that, too!” [the kitchen, not Cook’s kitchen, having become too hot]—brings to bear a safari on our part as to the paradoxical nightmare driving them to the simple life. Patti, imbuing Faye with her best shot, tells her, “I could play this chord all night!” (It was Faye, early on, who described her romance with BV, “We thought we could just roll and tumble, living from song to song, kiss to kiss…” Nibbling at the fringes, but dreary compromise in the wings. Her dad, concerned that she was no longer a constant and dutiful daughter but having entered the shark tank of show biz, tells her, “We just want you to be happy—a bit of a disconnect inasmuch she was having a taste of what could hardly be termed “happy.” The underground corridors she had stumbled into [like Alice] may deliver, were she tough enough, a delight of sorts; but “happily ever after” is far from what nature is about. “I thought I could do better than others.” BV tries on one of Cook’s expensive jackets. “You want to be me?” the multi-millionaire asks. “It’s [his fabulous property] all for sale… I don’t like it…” He asks, as they confront the dazzling yard on a lake, and an infinity pool, to take seriously the question, if he can rise to it, “What do you see?” BV replies, “The pool.” Cook corrects, “Stage! Show! It’s always a free fall…” He had also, as a kind of warning to the unwitting cynic, “The world wants to be deceived.” Dabbling in the big picture which Cook’s dangerous aura had prompted, an unprepared BV trots out the ingratiating cliché, “They say. ‘Follow the light.’ But where do you find it?”)

We do have here an affair of chords; and shared songs; and love. But in bragging that one chord is enough, Patti is embarrassingly showing her age. One chord repeated can set the stage by clearing away the sticky muck of mundane entertainments and happiness. It can activate a partnership as between someone like BV’s long-gone girlfriend, music and nature itself, the representatives of which make a flicker here, but only that. (The consensus that a sloppy, self-indulgent spray of incidents has been allowed to put in an appearance does not take into account the volatility [with its barracuda stresses] implicit in creative action, though seldom exposed where practitioners more self-deluded than Cook take satisfaction in being entertaining. Finding more rhetoric on the home stretch— “I played with the flame of life,” but only that—Faye shows herself to be a dutiful student of Patti. BV declares, in the same vein of compromised impressiveness, “I gotta go back and start again. Like a kid. I didn’t have the right heart in me. You’re the only one I loved.” Faye, in that same deceptive key, intones, “Mercy was a word I never thought I needed! You were looking for simplicity. I want the same!”

There is a “simple” side of this destination; but, as the girl who could read BV like a (comic) book well knew, there is a lot more. A chord, a sensual impetus, brings to the song a menu of notes or activities (far surpassing mere aural statements). And it also includes a default step of sheer motion by which to refresh cloying trajectories. Fluency with silence (not the same thing as voice-over) is a must most of us find very difficult. The subsequent range of chords and harmonies and discords are innumerable. It includes bringing to light initiatives like rock and roll, more or less redolent of its uncanny sensual dynamics, its creative roots. All this is indescribably hard, indescribably necessary and indescribably enriching. Its interplay of such alertness could be described as song to song, far from Faye’s enumeration of easy listening.

And yet, Malick has shaped this enigma in such a radical way that still more is required of a correspondent. The tenor of most of the films I’ve dealt with have been adequately coverable by descriptions rooted in the term dynamics. Here, Malick tells us, not in so many words, to deliver what it is about dynamics that makes it so bloody hard. Stemming from reflections beginning from two and a half millennia ago, and really catching fire about two centuries ago—and taken up, after its fashion, by quantum physics and avant-garde art—the notion that human sensibility is vitally instrumental in the essence of nature has nudged us from its mysterious outcomes; but its generator has proved to be rather forbidding. Trying to delineate that fuel source involves the paradox that nature itself comes about in two stages—a first endowing entities, including sentient entities, as materially passive; and a second (and decisive) spark, provided by sensibilities (like musicians) taking to heart the need to kick things up a bit. Many try to deliver that kick, but most make a mess of it, the dip to inertia being mercilessly in effect. That mess is the core of world history. Like the entire avant garde film world, the search is on, in Song to Song, for those few who are in for the long haul.

#terrence malick

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