#this was the photo from the summer retreat posters last year

[ficwip]

This week’s word is…

✨ GUEST ✨

Find the word in any WIP and share the sentence containing it! Reply, reblog, stick it in the tags, tag us in a new post, or keep it private. All fandoms, all ships, all writers welcome.

[ladydarklord]

The Mighty Boosh on the business of being silly

The Times, November 15 2008

What began as a cult cocktail of daft poems, surreal characters and fantastical storylines has turned into the comedy juggernaut that is the Mighty Boosh. Janice Turner hangs out with creators Noel Fielding, Julian Barratt and the extended Boosh family to discuss the serious business of being silly

In the thin drizzle of a Monday night in Sheffield, a crowd of young women are waiting for the Mighty Boosh or, more precisely, one half of it. Big-boned Yorkshire lasses, jacketless and unshivering despite the autumn nip, they look ready to devour the object of their desire, the fey, androgynous Noel Fielding, if he puts a lamé boot outside the stage door. “Ooh, I do love a man in eyeliner,” sighs Natalie from Rotherham. She’ll be throwing sickies at work to see the Boosh show 13 times on their tour, plus attend the Boosh after-show parties and Boosh book signings. “My life is dead dull without them,” she says.

Nearby, mobiles primed, a pair of sixth-formers trade favourite Boosh lines. “What is your name?” asks Jessica. “I go by many names, sir,” Victoria replies portentously. A prison warden called Davena survives long days with high-security villains intoning, “It’s an outrage!” in the gravelly voice of Boosh character Tony Harrison, a being whose head is a testicle.

Apart from Fielding, what they all love most about the Boosh is that half their mates don’t get it. They see a bloke in a gorilla suit, a shaman called Naboo, silly rhymes about soup, stories involving shipwrecked men seducing coconuts “and they’re like, ‘This is bloody rubbish,’” says Jessica. “So you feel special because you do get it. You’re part of a club.”

Except the Mighty Boosh club is now more like a movement. What began as an Edinburgh fringe show starring Fielding and his partner Julian Barratt and later became an obscure BBC3 series has grown into a box-set flogging, mega-merchandising, 80-date touring Boosh inc. There was a Boosh festival last summer, now talk of a Boosh movie and Boosh in America. An impasse seems to have been reached: either the Boosh will expand globally or, like other mass comedy cults before it – Vic and Bob, Newman and Baddiel – slowly begin to deflate.

But for the moment, the fans still wait in the rain for heroes who’ve already left the building. I find the Boosh gang gathered in their hotel bar, high on post-gig adrenalin. Barratt, blokishly handsome with his ring-master moustache, if a tad paunchy these days, blends in with the crew. But Fielding is never truly “off”. All day he has been channelling A Clockwork Orange in thick black eyeliner (now smudged into panda rings) and a bowler hat, which he wears with polka-dot leggings, gold boots and a long, neon-green fur-collared PVC trenchcoat. He has, as those women outside put it, “something about him”: a carefully-wrought rock-god danger mixed with an amiable sweetness. Sexy yet approachable. Which is why, perched on a barstool, is a great slab of security called Danny.

“He stops people getting in our faces,” says Fielding. “He does massive stars like P. Diddy and Madonna and he says that considering how we’re viewed in the media as a cult phenomenon, we get much more attention in the street than, say, Girls Aloud. Danny says we’re on the same level as Russell Brand, who can’t walk from the door to the car without ten people speaking to him.”

This barometer of fame appears to fascinate and thrill Fielding. Although he complains he can’t eat dinner with his girlfriend (Dee Plume from the band Robots in Disguise) unmolested, he parties hard and publicly with paparazzi-magnets like Courtney Love and Amy Winehouse. He claims he’s tried wearing a baseball cap but fans still recognise him. Hearing this, Julian Barratt smiles wryly: “Noel is never going to dress down.”

It is clear on meeting them that their Boosh characters Vince Noir (Fielding), the narcissistic extrovert, and Howard Moon (Barratt), the serious, socially awkward jazz obsessive, are comic exaggerations of their own personalities. At the afternoon photo shoot, Fielding breaks free of the hair and make-up lady, sprays most of a can of Elnett on to his Bolan feather-cut and teases it to his satisfaction. Very Vince. “It is an art-life crossover,” says Barratt.

At 40, five years older than Fielding, Barratt exhibits the profound weariness of a man trying to balance a five-month national tour with new-fatherhood. After every Saturday night show he returns home to his 18-month-old twins, Arthur and Walter, and his partner Julia Davis (the creator-star of Nighty Night) and today he was up at 5am pushing a pram on Hampstead Heath before taking the train north to rejoin the Boosh. “I go back so the boys remember who I am. But it’s harder to leave them every time,” he says. “It is totally schizophrenic, totally opposite mental states: all this self-obsession and then them.”

About two nights a week on tour, Fielding doesn’t go to bed, parties through the night and performs the next evening having not slept at all. Barratt often retreats to his room to plough through box sets of The Wire. “It’s a bit gritty, but that is in itself an escape, because what we do is so fantastical.”

But mostly it is hard to resist the instant party provided by a large cast, crew and band. Indeed, drinking with them, it appears Fielding and Barratt are but the most famous members of a close collective of artists, musicians and old mates. Fielding’s brother Michael, who previously worked in a bowling alley, plays Naboo the shaman. “He is late every single day,” complains Noel. “He’s mad and useless, but I’m quite protective of him, quite parental.” Michael is always arguing with Bollo the gorilla, aka Fielding’s best mate, Dave Brown, a graphic artist relieved to remove his costume – “It’s so hot in there I fear I may never father children” – to design the Boosh book. One of the lighting crew worked as male nanny to Barratt’s twins and was in Michael’s class at school: “The first time I met you,” he says to Noel, “you gave me a dead arm.” “You were 9,” Fielding replies. “And you were messing with my stuff.”

This gang aren’t hangers-on but the wellspring of the Boosh’s originality and its strange, homespun, degree-show aesthetic: a character called Mr Susan is made out of chamois leathers, the Hitcher has a giant Polo Mint for an eye. When they need a tour poster they ignore the promoter’s suggestions and call in their old mate, Nige.

Fielding and Barratt met ten years ago at a comedy night in a North London pub. The former had just left Croydon Art College, the latter had dropped out of an American Studies degree at Reading to try stand-up, although he was so terrified at his first gig that he ran off stage and had to be dragged back by the compere.

While superficially different, their childhoods have a common theme: both had artistic, bohemian parents who exercised benign neglect. Fielding’s folks were only 17 when he was born: “They were just kids really. Hippies. Though more into Black Sabbath and Led Zep. There were lots of parties and crazy times. They loved dressing up. And there was a big gap between me and my brother – about nine years – so I was an only child for a long time, hanging out with them, lots of weird stuff going on.

“The great thing about my mum and dad is they let me do anything I wanted as a kid as long as I wasn’t misbehaving. I could eat and go to bed when I liked. I used to spend a lot of time drawing and painting and reading. In my own world, I guess.”

Growing up in Mitcham, South London, his father was a postmaster, while his mother now works for the Home Office. Work was merely the means to fund a good time. “When your dad is into David Bowie, how do you rebel against that? You can’t really. They come to all the gigs. They’ve been in America for the past three weeks. I’m ringing my mum really excited because we’re hanging out with Jim Sheridan, who directed In the Name of the Father, and the Edge from U2, and she said, ‘We’re hanging with Jack White,’ whom they met through a friend of mine. Trumped again!”

Barratt’s father was a Leeds art teacher, his mother an artist later turned businesswoman. “Dad was a bit more strict and academic. Mum would let me do anything I wanted, didn’t mind whether I went to school.” Through his father he became obsessed with Monty Python, went to jazz and Spike Milligan gigs, learnt about sex from his dad’s leatherbound volumes of Penthouse.

Barratt joined bands and assumed he would become a musician (he does all the Boosh’s musical arrangements); Fielding hoped to become an artist (he designed the Boosh book cover and throughout our interview sketches obsessively). Instead they threw their talents into comedy. Barratt: “It is a great means of getting your ideas over instantly.” Fielding: “Yes, it is quite punk in that way.”

Their 1998 Edinburgh Fringe show called The Mighty Boosh was named, obscurely, after a friend’s description of Michael Fielding’s huge childhood Afro: “A mighty bush.” While their double-act banter has an old-fashioned dynamic, redolent of Morecambe and Wise, the show threw in weird characters and a fantasy storyline in which they played a pair of zookeepers. They are very serious about their influences. “Magritte, Rousseau...” says Fielding. “I like Rousseau’s made-up worlds: his jungle has all the things you’d want in a jungle, even though he’d never been in one so it was an imaginary place.”

Eclectic, weird and, crucially, unprepared to compromise their aesthetic sensibilities, it was 2004 before, championed by Steve Coogan’s Baby Cow production company, their first series aired on BBC3. Through repeats and DVD sales the second series, in which the pair have left the zoo and are living above Naboo’s shop, found a bigger audience. Last year the first episode of series three had one million viewers. But perhaps the Boosh’s true breakthrough into mainstream came in June when George Bush visited Belfast and a child presented him with a plant labelled “The Mighty Bush”. Assuming it was a tribute to his greatness, the president proudly displayed it for the cameras, while the rest of Britain tittered.

A Boosh audience these days is quite a mix. In Sheffield the front row is rammed with teenage indie girls, heavy on the eyeliner, who fancy Fielding. But there are children, too: my own sons can recite whole “crimps” (the Boosh’s silly, very English version of rap) word for word. And there are older, respectable types who, when I interview them, all apologise for having such boring jobs. They’re accountants, IT workers, human resources officers and civil servants. But probe deeper and you find ten years ago they excelled at art A level or played in a band, and now puzzle how their lives turned out so square. For them, the Boosh embody their former dreams. And their DIY comedy, shambolic air, the slightly crap costumes, the melding of fantasy with the everyday, feels like something they could still knock up at home.

Indeed, many fans come to gigs in costume. At the Mighty Boosh Festival 15,000 people came dressed up to watch bands and absurdity in a Kent field. And in Sheffield I meet a father-and-son combo dressed as Howard Moon and Bob Fossil – general manager of the zoo – plus a gang of thirty-something parents elaborately attired as Crack Fox, Spirit of Jazz, a granny called Nanageddon, and Amy Housemouse. “I love the Boosh because it’s total escapism,” says Laura Hargreaves, an employment manager dressed as an Electro Fairy. “It’s not all perfect and people these days worry too much that things aren’t perfect. It’s just pure fun.”

But how to retain that appealingly amateur art-school quality now that the Boosh is a mega comedy brand? Noel Fielding is adamant that they haven’t grown cynical, that The Mighty Book of Boosh was a long-term project, not a money-spinner chucked out for Christmas: “There is a lot of heart in what we do,” he says. Barratt adds: “It’s been hard this year to do everything we’ve wanted, to a standard we’re proud of... Which is why we’re worn to shreds.”

Comedy is most powerful in intimate spaces, but the Boosh show, with its huge set, requires major venues. “We’ve lost money every day on the tour,” says Fielding. “The crew and the props and what it costs to take them on the road – it’s ridiculous. Small gigs would lose millions of pounds.”

The live show is a kind of Mighty Boosh panto, with old favourites – Bob Fossil, Bollo, Tony Harrison, etc – coming on to cheers of recognition. But it lacks the escapism to the perfectly conceived world of the TV show. They have told the BBC they don’t want a fourth series: they want a movie. They would also, as with Little Britain USA, like a crack at the States, where they run on BBC America. Clearly the Boosh needs to keep evolving or it will die.

Already other artists are telling Fielding and Barratt to make their money now: “They say this is our time, which is quite frightening.” I recall Vic Reeves and Bob Mortimer, who dominated the Nineties with Big Night Out and Shooting Stars. “Yes, they were massive,” says Fielding. “A number one record...” And now Reeves presents Brainiac. “If you have longer-term goals, it’s not scary,” says Barratt. “To me, I’m heading somewhere else – to direct, make films, write stuff – and at the moment it’s all gone mental. I’m sort of enjoying this as an outsider. It was Noel who had this desire to reach more people.”

Indeed, the old cliché that comedy is the new rock’n’roll is closest to being realised in Noel Fielding. Watching him perform the thrash metal numbers in the Boosh live show, he is half ironic comic performer, half frustrated rock god. His heroes weren’t comics but androgynous musicians: Jagger, Bowie, Syd Barrett. (Although he liked Peter Cook’s style and looks.)

“I like clothes and make-up, I like the transformation,” he says. Does it puzzle him that women find this so sexually attractive? “I was reading a book the other day about the New York Dolls and David Johansen was saying that none of them were gay or even bisexual, and that when they started dressing in stilettos and leather pants, women got it straight away with no explanation. But a lot of men had problems. It’s one of those strange things. A man will go, ‘You f***ing queer.’ And you just think, ‘Well, your girlfriend fancies me.’”

The Boosh stopped signing autographs outside stage doors when it started taking two hours a night. At recent book signings up to 1,500 people have shown up, some sleeping overnight in the queue. And on this tour, the Boosh took control of the after-show parties, once run as money-spinners by the promoters, and now show up in person to do DJ slots. I ask if they like to meet their fans, and they laugh nervously.

Fielding: “We have to be behind a fence.”

Barratt: “They try to rip your clothes off your body.”

Fielding: “The other day my girlfriend gave me this ring. And, doing the rock numbers at the end, I held out my hands and the crowd just ripped it off.”

Barratt: “I see it as a thing which is going to go away. A moment when people are really excited about you. And it can’t last.”

He recalls a man in York grabbing him for a photo, saying, “I’d love to be you, it must be so amazing.” And Barratt says he thought, “Yes, it is. But all the while I was trying to duck into this doorway to avoid the next person.” He’s trying to enjoy the Boosh’s moment, knows it will pass, but all the same?

In the hotel bar, a young woman fan has dodged past Danny and comes brazenly over to Fielding. Head cocked attentively like a glossy bird, he chats, signs various items, submits to photos, speaks to her mate on her phone. The rest of the Boosh crew eye her steelily. They know how it will end. “You have five minutes then you go,” hisses one. “I feel really stupid now,” says the girl. It is hard not to squirm at the awful obeisance of fandom. But still she milks the encounter, demands Fielding come outside to meet her friend. When he demurs she is outraged, and Danny intercedes. Fielding returns to his seat slightly unsettled. “What more does she want?” he mutters, reaching for his wine glass. “A skin sample?”

[sussex-nature-lover]

Wednesday 6th January 2021

A Trail with Beatrix Potter friends at Bateman’s National Trust

NB: although other outside sites are not affiliated, I do check to make sure I only link to reputable sources.

The Christmas decorations are all put away and we move forwards properly into the new year.

On one of our visits to Bateman’s National Trust gardens we saw they’d got a Beatrix Potter inspired winter trail for children to follow. We didn’t do it as we didn’t have a youth to provide cover for us, but it did amuse me that right by the first poster we saw 

was a real life Squirrel Nutkin scrabbling about amongst the wet leaves. They’re the same in our garden, often burying tasty bits from the bird seed just a couple of steps from the tray and never remembering where they left them. That would be the reason we had tiny, late Sunflowers growing in some of our pots.

Because I took photos of the posters I decided I’d go through my pictures trying to match them up here.

We didn’t look for pine cones at Bateman’s but these rather splendid examples were at Sheffield Park Gardens a couple of months back. I really like the play of light on this picture.

and a lovely finished door wreath at Standen House. I don’t know if the occupant’s called McGregor.

I think the Gardeners at Batemans are wise to hungry Rabbits, although I suspect, that like the ones in our patch, they just can’t, or won’t read the signs, we actually have a collective noun for our bunnies - The Nibblers.

There are supposed to be certain plants they steer away from, such as anything onion scented. My experience is they’ll chovel away at anything and just leave it if it’s not to their taste. And don’t even start me on the day I got up to see my resplendent parsley pots had all had a buzz cut.

When we get produce from National Trust gardens, we always pay at the till or the honesty box rather than embark on a scrumping trip.

Flowers from Scotney Castle Walled Garden

Cherries, Courgette and French Beans from Sissinghurst vegetable gardens

Last year we really missed not being able to pick up some goodies. Sissinghurst usually turns up some real treasures, asparagus; fantastic fine beans including a purple variety as above; cherries - for which Kent is quite renown and the most memorable and best tasting courgette of my life.

Medlar Pear against the late Autumn/Winter sky (Bateman’s)

Our very own Flopsy, Mopsy or Cottontail doesn’t seem to have any problems. Crow usually leaves out a trail of carrot peelings for them too.

If you’re in the mood for baking, I found these recipes

Epicurious Winter Fruit Pie with a walnut crumb

Summer Berry Pie

I saw this Blackbird in the Mulberry Garden at Batemans once. It looked for all the world like it was saying ‘You there - No! Entry denied’ Whether it was repelling under the gate or over the wall invaders, it certainly looked like a very stern guardian.

Well, we found the broom for Mrs T and I’ve got something spiky in my library of photos

There were quite a few huge Sweet Chestnut trees at Petworth House - not to be confused with Horse Chestnut, whose fruits are inedible, but good for playing Conkers with

and plenty of fallen leaves in our garden at home

Hhmm, the Jeremy Fisher poster was right by the Lily Pond. I’m not at all sure those fish are meant to be caught and if he did try angling there, he might hook up with rather more than he bargained for.

Jeremy should have headed down to the River.

My Duck and feather photos came from the visit to Sheffield Park

The Ducks there are so used to people you can get really close up.

and there are plenty of feathers on the ground from their grooming sessions.

Field mouse, also known as wood mouse, is the most common and widespread mouse species in the UK. They can be tricky to spot during the day: they're lightning quick and are nocturnal. They sleep in burrows when it's light and venture out to forage during the evenings.

You might be familiar with my dislike of rodents <shudder> but one Summer we did see Field Mice playing in the shrubbery at dusk. They move in a very different way from House Mice, there’s less scurrying and more skipping, I guess that makes them a bit sweeter somehow, to my eyes anyway.

as sculpted by Ms NW tY

No Snow Rabbit, just my favourite Snow Cat again and finally some archive photos of the garden under snow.

It can be very pleasant to look at if it’s a gentle covering, but The so called Beast from the East in 2018 caused widespread chaos. We’ve not had snow here yet this Winter, although apparently another similar phenomenon is forecast. Fingers crossed we escape it this time.

What I Learned Today:

The author Beatrix Potter was born in 1866 and died in 1943. She wrote 30 books, 23 of which were the famed children’s tales. In her 30s she started by self publishing but became very successful and still is today. There’s an awful lot more to her than you might have known so it’s worth reading more on the link. I was amazed. She and her husband were very interested in conservation and she bequeathed her Grade II* farmhouse retreat to the National Trust on her death, in fact...

She left nearly all her property to the National Trust, including over 4,000 acres (16 km2) of land, sixteen farms, cottages and herds of cattle and Herdwick sheep. Hers was the largest gift at that time to the National Trust, and it enabled the preservation of the land now included in the Lake District National Park and the continuation of fell farming.

Potter's study and watercolours of fungi led to her being widely respected in the field of mycology. 

 With the proceeds from the books and a legacy from an aunt, Potter bought Hill Top Farm in Near Sawrey in 1905; this is a village in the Lake District in the county of Cumbria. Over the following decades, she purchased additional farms to preserve the unique hill country landscape.            Wikipedia

[hauntedbunkbeds]

Day 1: Thin Walls

Writing Prompt: Day 1, Surreal and Mundane: In today’s work, take something mundane and make it surreal, just like it says on the box. Play around with something normal until you make it strange!

Thin Walls

The floor of my first apartment was covered in a dense, beige carpet that I wanted to hate, but I couldn’t. I loved the way I could slip silently from my room to the tiny hallway bathroom like a cat. I loved lowering my feet to the floor in the morning and scrunching up my toes in the shag. I had always dreaded getting out of bed in my dorm room, where the floors were an ancient grey tile that made me feel like I lived in a janitor’s closet. The tile was always frigidly cold in the winter, and weirdly moist in the summer months, a result of an overworked A/C window unit. I had come to college in the city expecting a more idyllic experience, surrounded by hardwood floors and tattered paperbacks, the sound of coffee brewing while I would sit writing, blowing cigarette smoke out the window of our eighth-floor dorm room. I don’t even smoke. I don’t know what I was thinking. The dorms were shit, of course. My roommate was a business major with a Disney obsession that bordered on fetish territory. Instead of the vintage maps and photos I would have gathered from thrift shops on lazy Saturdays, our room was covered in Moana and Finding Nemo posters. On the deadline to renew our space in the dorm, neither of us asked the other if were going to continue living together. I felt somewhat panicked about the prospect of finding an apartment in the city, but I knew the alternative was hating my life. I’m a nester, and I was trapped in a cage with nothing but torn up newspaper for bedding.  

My first night in my new apartment was exhilarating. The blank walls, the vast expanse of beige carpet--it felt like a newly-stretched canvas begging for a Pollock-esque attack of color. I had spent my freshman year living like a monk, saving every penny from my job stacking books at the school library. Even still, the only apartment I found in my price range was, by any first-world definition, a complete dump. The carpet was, admittedly, hideous and filthy. The oven face was half-consumed with rust, the fridge howled like it was in its death throes, usually in the middle of the night, and as I set my last box of things down in the middle of the living room floor, I heard two voices through the thin walls. They were fighting.

 Hey, I thought, That’s the city! This will be character building.

I don’t mention this as an excuse, but I am from a small town a couple hours out from the college I enrolled in. My father was a farmer, my mother sold MAC cosmetics, her eye on a pink Cadillac that would never materialize. I don’t feel like a country bumpkin, as a coworker would meanly (he thought endearingly) sometimes address me. But in retrospect, maybe in some aspects I was overly naive. I suppose the reason I’m writing all this is so you can be the judge. Are my experiences tainted by my inexperience? Or are they, as I suspect, a little...off?

I ask because I am biased, mostly due to the fact that I am terrified.

Too exhausted to put together the cheap IKEA bed frame I bought the weekend before, I slept on a mattress in the middle of my bedroom floor. “Middle” is literal but not what you think. On three sides of my mattress there was less than a foot of carpet before you reached the wall. At the foot of the bed, there was a generous yard of space before you reached the door. I could literally jump off the bed and into the bathroom across the small hallway, if I wanted to, which I did, but I was scared of scaring the people who lived below me. I was on the fourth floor of a building that reminded me of the Happiness Hotel from The Muppets Take Manhattan (if you haven’t seen the movie, it’s not what you think, i.e. “happy”). I saw a couple other students there, but none that would make eye contact with me, or return my polite, tight-lipped nods in the long cement hallway that led to the underground laundry room I was secretly terrified to use. Mostly, the building housed adults in their late twenties to early thirties who looked so beaten down by life it made you wonder if they were ever innocent, or if something happened when they were born that stole that from them. There were not many older residents, as the building had no elevator, but the people who lived there were ancient enough in their stone-faced weariness to feel as alien to me as an octogenarian. It does not help that I am also painfully shy.    

As I fell asleep that first night, the voices on the other side of the wall were no longer fighting. They seeped through the plaster as a warm, muffled hum. I couldn’t make out the words, just the cadence of two voices in a rhythmic back-and-forth, speckled with occasional laughter. I enjoyed the seeming ease of their conversation, something I rarely enjoyed in my own social life. I just wasn’t good at talking to people. I got lost in my own head, and none of what I found in there felt good enough to say out loud. There were always awkward silences, and I felt boring.

That first night in the apartment, I was exhausted and happy, and drifting off to the sound of their muffled conversation was oddly comforting to me. I dreamt about throwing my first party. I would introduce everyone by their first and last names, everyone would dress up without being told to, and we would debate philosophy and drink martinis. Note to self: Take a philosophy class, figure out what a martini is.

The next morning, I made an entire pot of coffee. Not because I would drink an entire pot of coffee, but because I loved the sound of it hissing and bubbling, and I wanted it to go on for as long as possible. I had spent almost every penny in my bank account on the move from the dorm, and cheap thrills were all I had. When it was done, I poured myself a cup in a mug I had found at Goodwill (“#1 Grandpa”) and began unboxing what few things I owned. It wasn’t long before I heard the voices again.

The first voice that spoke was a man, the second was a woman. This made sense to me, as it seemed that the apartment building I had settled in acted as some kind of beacon for couples who looked more like cellmates than lovers. The men carried themselves like middle-aged coal miners trapped in the bodies of twenty-something weed dealers. The women squinted like they were trying to harness their telekinetic potential. I later learned that the squint was a warning: Look at my boyfriend and I will spit on you. I learned this the hard way.

I easily assumed the couple with whom I shared both a living room and bedroom wall with was one such couple. I felt an smug superiority to them. I was nineteen: A glowing, vibrating ball of potential. They were....some other age: Two gas station Bic lighters, burning the finger of whoever tried to keep the little flame alight for too long. In retrospect, I was grossly pretentious and judgmental, and while I blamed my shyness for the fact that I didn’t have a lot of friends, I can admit now that it was definitely also my own fault.

As I arranged my books in alphabetical order on the mismatched thrift store bookshelves I had acquired, the voices raised again. This time I could make out words, some phrases.

Your job.

Stupid.

Gone.

(or was it “Done?”)

Fucked.

You do it.

We do it together.

No, your job, you do it!

Fucked forever.

Back and forth, an endless game of tossing blame to each other. My superiority complex tingled as I envisioned the day I lived with my future (hypothetical) boyfriend. We’d be renovating an old Brownstone together, a herculean effort for two graduate students studying English and Egyptology, but we’d cobble together our resources and return the property to her former glory on a shoestring budget. A montage of playful paint fights and blanket forts played in my head as I arranged my books to the sound of my neighbors screaming at each other over something one of them had fucked up at their dead-end job.

Later that afternoon, I went for a walk. Down the street from my building there was a hospital, and I discovered on accident that behind the building there was a small courtyard where patients could smoke, but almost never did. It became my secret garden, this patch of grass with a smattering of benches marked with bronze plaques bearing the names of people who never made it out of the hospital. I would read there, the peaceful silence only broken by occasional wailing, which was something I had grown used to since I moved to the city.

I had been in the apartment for a month when classes started back up. I had settled in, a stack of unwashed dishes and a cleared path from the bedroom to the bathroom cut between mounds of unwashed laundry were the tedious reality of life on my own. The fantasy of living on my own unmasked for its true monotony.

It was nearly Christmas, and the frigid weather outside made my increasingly-sad little apartment feel finally, suddenly, precious to me, as it had been only in my fantasies, and only because winter had metamorphosed the world outside into something so ruthless and unpleasant that even the dingiest of apartments felt like a vacation retreat. When classes let out for Christmas break, I tried not to leave the house unless absolutely necessary. It was then that I heard the familiar sound of my neighbor’s voices through the walls again, yelling at each other as if this argument were the one to end them all (though I knew better than to think that, at this point). I wasn’t sure if the walls had grown thinner, or their voices had just grown louder, but for whatever reason, I could hear them more clearly than ever.

She: Worthless bum!

He: That’s not fair. I’m trying. I’m trying to help us! I want to (unintelligible).

She: You had a job to do and you didn’t do it.

He: I need more time!

She: Time? You’ve had time!

He: (Unintelligible)

She: (Laughing cruelly) You’ve had hundreds of years!

The voices stopped suddenly, as if they had been caught, and my bedroom fell silent. Alone in my bed, I swear to God I could feel them staring at me through the walls. I held my breath, willing them to keep arguing. I didn’t move for what felt like hours, and they remained silent. As I finally fell asleep, the only sound was the ticking of the radiator pipes.

The next day my mom picked me up to drive me home for Christmas break. I gave her a tour of my apartment, to which she responded with an enthusiasm that felt very sad and forced. I almost didn’t show her the bedroom, but she pushed the door open ahead of me and stepped inside. I had cleaned up in anticipation of her arrival, but the room still looked very sad. I was seeing it through the eyes of an outsider for the first time, and I felt embarrassed.

“Oh, honey,” she said. “What happened here? This doesn’t look good.”

She gestured towards the wall, in the direction of where the voices had come from last night. A dark, amorphous stain had formed on the wall around eye level. It was a sickly brown, the kind I had seen before, when I pipe burst in our bathroom at home and on our dining room ceiling the ring of water damage bloomed until my dad finally had to cut out a huge section of the plaster.

“Oh geeze,” I said. “I hadn’t noticed that before.”

She touched it.

“This is moist,” she said. “You better call the super ASAP or whatever burst could ruin this whole wall.”

I reached out toward the stain, but couldn’t bring myself to touch it.

“This is a shared wall,” I said. “I can hear my neighbors on the other side.”

“Well,” my mom said, turning to return to the living room. “You should tell them, too.”

Christmas break was perfect. I hadn’t realized what a relief it would be to fall asleep in my childhood bedroom again. The nights were so quiet it almost freaked me out. I joked with my dad that I needed an ambient sound machine that just playing ambulance sirens now. I helped him out with farm work (even the cold felt less oppressive out here, in the open air) and my mom and I got our nails done at the salon inside Wal-Mart. They let me drink wine with them at dinner. Mom bought me a trunk-full of groceries. She ordered Chinese food on New Years Eve. The smallest things felt so opulent to me. I hadn’t realized how completely broke I was, how adding cream to coffee had become a budgetary extravagance.

Returning to the city was like being sentenced to another year of hard labor. My mom helped me carry the groceries up to my apartment and tearfully hugged me goodbye. It was dark when I finally opened my bedroom door and saw it.

The water stain on my bedroom wall had grown to nearly triple its size. Now, it reached from eye-level to knee-level, its brown rings of soggy blotches drooping towards the floor. But it was not only larger. It had changed. Once just a shade or two darker than the yellowish paint, the spot had taken on the color of whatever it was that had begun seeping through the plaster surface--a dark brown, black in spots. I didn’t have to touch it (I wouldn’t touch it) to know it was wet. Parts had dripped onto the carpet, leaving dark stains on the beige shag.

God, I’m so fucked, I thought, remembering my mother’s warning to tell the building superintendent about the water stain, which I had immediately forgotten as soon as I locked the door behind me. I grabbed my pillows and blankets off the bed, thinking it was probably a good idea to sleep in the living room, and I was about to retreat to the safety of my couch when I heard it.

It was the woman’s voice, but she was alone.

She was alone, and she was laughing.

The next morning I called the superintendent, who took far more convincing than I had expected to agree to come look at the damage. I had imagined him rushing up with an old metal toolbox, sweaty and panicked, furious at me for my negligence of his precious building. Instead, I was met with a series of, Now you’re sure? I almost began to doubt myself, until I opened my bedroom door to peek in, just to remind myself that I wasn’t overreacting. I was almost knocked back by a scent I recognized from working on the farm--wet, decaying earth, alive with rich rot and mold.

The super was up in forty-five minutes, setting the record for slowest climb up four flights of stairs in recorded history. At the risk of becoming a lazy narrator, he was exactly what you might imagine the superintendent of the worst apartment building you’ve ever been in to look like. Instead of a toolbox, he held a bag of sunflower seeds.   

When I opened the door to my bedroom, his face didn’t change, but he said “Mama Jama” and shook his head.

He reached out to touch it and without thinking I cried out, “Don’t touch it!”

“Why not?” he said, looking back at me with a squint that made me think I was going to be spit on soon.

“I don’t know,” I said, embarrassed. “Sorry.”

He shook his head and touched the wall. His fingers came away wet and stained with a black mucus-like substance.

“I thought maybe a pipe had burst,” I offered.

“No pipes in this wall,” he said, popping a couple sunflower seeds in his mouth thoughtfully.

“Oh,” I said. “Well, what about the people in the other apartment? Have you heard anything from them?”

“Which apartment?” he said, not looking at me, still eyeing the stain like it was a stand-off.

“The one that shares this wall with me,” I said. “Do you think something this big would affect them too?”

He shrugged.

“It could,” he said. “If there was an apartment on the other side of this wall.”

A wave of goosebumps made me involuntarily shiver.

“This wall,” I said, pointing in the direction of the massive brown mass that took up most of it.

“This wall,” he said, tapping the stain, his fingers making a soft squelching sound. “Why would you think that? The other side of this wall is just insulation, wiring, and brick.”

“I don’t know,” I lied.

“Anyway I’ll try to have someone out here tomorrow to get this...issue, taken care of,” he said. “In the meantime, don’t sleep in this room.”

“Okay,” I said.

As soon as he left, I packed my backpack and went to the hospital. I sat in the garden and read until my fingers were shaking so violently from the cold that I could no longer turn the pages of my book. In the hospital lobby, there was a vending machine that would spit out paper cups and fill them with hot coffee with that hissing, bubbling sound I had grown to love. I put in three quarters, got my coffee, and took my little paper cup to a chair in the corner. A nurse was typing away at a computer and hadn’t noticed me yet, as far as I could tell. I wondered how long I could feasibly stay there, sitting in that chair, sipping my watery coffee, before someone asked me to leave. Hours? Days? If I could just wait it out until the repairman came, I wouldn’t have to see, or smell, the stain again. Even still, that didn’t solve the larger issue, which I could not name.

I sat there, reading the same sentence of my book over and over again, tearing my now-empty paper cup into smaller and smaller shreds, until exhaustion finally took over.

If I go home, I reasoned, and I’ll be so tired at this point that I’ll fall straight asleep on the couch. I’ll be too tired to worry about whatever the fuck is going on with my neighbors. The super was wrong. He just got the floor plan confused. It’s a big building, and he seemed pretty out of it anyway.

I compiled a convincing list of explanations, convincing enough that I was able to return to my apartment, unlock the door, toss my backpack down, and flop down on the couch without realizing that there had been two voices yelling when I arrived, and that they had suddenly gone quiet. I had fallen asleep so fast I had not noticed when the two voices began whispering again, when they became frantic. In fact, it was not the voices that woke me at all. It was the tapping.

It was still dark when I woke, and I was in such a haze I did not recognize the sound that had done it. It was rhythmic, but not mechanical.

Tap tap tap.

Pause.

Tap tap tap.

Pause.

Tap. Tap tap.

I sat up on my couch, half wondering if the mechanic was already there, if I lost track of time and it was already morning. In my half-dream state, I tried to find the source of the sound. I wish I had not looked towards the wall. I wish I had not noticed the vintage map (that I had so sought after for so long) which hung above my couch, gently quivering. Quivering in time with a tap.

Tap.

Tap tap tap.

Coming from the behind the wall.

I stopped breathing.

And everything was quiet for a moment.

Until the whisper.

“She’s awake.”    

[hollerace-blog]

The Shed

One of the salient advantages at growing up at 314 Midfield Avenue was that surprises were many and close between. My dad (and his friends) always seemed to have something in store. Add my mom’s brother, Uncle Buzz, to the mix, and adventure, usually concomitant with fun, was ever on the menu.

That spring Saturday so many years ago stands out. My brother and I awoke to the sounds of carpentry coming from the backyard. Various implements banged in a striking cadence of metal on wood.

Still pajamaed, we raced into the yard, mindless of our grandma’s call to breakfast. We scarfed down her velvety scramblers posthaste. A handful of men worked at the project. Uncle Buzz (a reputed carpenter by trade) led the tradesmen as Dad handled some plans and made measurements.

“IT’S A TOOL SHED. WELL, GONNA BE,” Mom offered. “BUZZ, YOU DON’T NEED A BEER! IT’S GOING FOR NINE!” My mother had a unique way of telling time. For years, I had no idea of actual numerical chronological increments. Our household was limited to a number of phrases that merely approximated real times in hours and minutes. We deciphered code phrases like “going for”; “a little after”; “not quite,” among others.

The concept of a tool shed did little to boost the morale of the Hollerkids, but it’s not every day a new edifice arises in your yard. So, jeaned and sneakered, we ventured out. This foray did not last long, since Buzz delivered yet another hammer blow to a gnarled, already indigo fingernail. A raft of curses ensued, accompanied by Dad ushering us out of earshot. Snagged.

Buzz came to the rescue, proffering his seemingly endless supply of silver coinage for us to go to the matinee at the Marilyn. We celebrated with Milk Duds, Junior Mints and popcorn doused in semi-buttery, mucilaginous petroleum product. A few Roadrunners, some Stooges and jutting-jawed white men shuttling fighter jets in dazzling array kept us at bay for the afternoon.

Back at home, the skeleton was complete. This seemingly massive structure spoke of more than a mere tool shed. My brother and I conferred in our bunks that night, sharing dreams about this mysterious new building.

By the time we got back from Mass the next day, our future shed was just about done. But the mystery lingered on. Over Mom’s paprikas, the subject stayed off the table. After the meal, I noticed Dad had left something behind. It was a clear piece of lucite. A small key dangled from one end. On the plastic, hand-etched in my father’s precise fashion were the words:

CLUB HOUSE AND TOOL SHED

“A CLUB HOUSE!” two boys screamed in concert. We burst out the back door and hit the shed. It was actually a two-room affair; the larger space was for the “club.” Someone had put a couple of old folding chairs and a rickety table about the room.

Somehow, the silent signal made its way to both our noggins. We owned this! No rules! No grown-ups! Nirvana! My brother and I were hootin’ and Holleran. We stomped, danced and otherwise caroused. With nobody trying to simmer us down.

Mom had to drag us out to the real world at suppertime. I made sure to secure the lock; no strangers could violate our Valhalla.

Our fortress was spare. A single, sliding window was the only outlook. To that end, we left the door open most of the time. The wall dividing the shed was made of Homasote, a dismal, gray fiberboard affair, but begging for thumbtacks.

Not to fear. One day, Tom and I retreated to our castle to see some color photos affixed to that wall. Willie Mays, Al Kaline, a crookedly grinning Larry Berra. All these borrowed from Dad’s Sport magazine. We cautiously decorated to our own tastes. A grinning, gapped Alfred E. Newman did not go over well, but remained. For some reason, adults viewed this character as a denizen of some warped Sixties Gehenna.

As school ended in June, we looked forward to quality time in The Shed, as Mom had dubbed it. One day, my brother brought up a touchpoint. “Do we have a club, or what?”

Whoa. The idea of an organized association of any sort was foreign to us. But heck, the Little Rascals had clubhouses. They even put on shows! But what about nomenclature? A cool handle meant everything. We both descended into deep thought. Which didn’t last long.

“I’ve got it!” exclaimed Tom. “The Night Crawlers!” Debate over. We both had seen the sign advertising these varmints at Ted’s Bait Box for years. The moniker was menacing enough, with no swears or other nastiness that might upset adults. Perfect.

Tom voted me president; I voted him sergeant-at-arms. Politics done.

Prospective members became a problem. Word ignited around the neighborhood. I got skinny that guys we didn’t even know—from the other side of the Avenue—were claiming to be members. Of course, Lloyd and Barry Tichey from across the street were charter Crawlers. We had to let in Linda Fortune, who lived in the three-top above the Ticheys. Her dog, Hercules, became our unofficial mascot.

We discussed others. Tom wrote the name of every vaunted associate in chalk on the fiberboard. Inky O’Doul, Johnny Sabo and Swedey Johnson, who was by popular mandate the most popular kid in Park Terrace.

I can’t accurately describe the Night Crawlers as an organization. We never had a meeting. No charter, no dues, no mission statement.

As luck would have it, things eventually went dark. One day, I returned from a sojourn to the local playground (better known as “The Field”). The door to The Shed lay open, as it often did. Only standing in that doorway was one Michael Fanelli.

I could hear him muttering something to my brother, who cowered away. Fanelli wasn’t the most hated kid in the neighborhood; he was just the least liked. He was not of any type other than rodentine. He could have been twelve or sixteen. Black clothing, engineer boots in summer. He seemed to belong to no school or family. . 

He was tolerated by the Dirt Kids from Tin Can Alley, mainly because he would treat for candy at United Cigars. Otherwise, no one claimed him as a friend. And I didn’t want him in my backyard.

His mouth was a slash of a sneer as he kept calling my brother “kid” in the snottiest way. I didn’t hesitate. “Clear out, Fanelli,” I said. “Hit the road.” 

“Screw you and your crappy club, kid,” said my nemesis. Nonetheless, he shambled down our driveway. I felt Tommy’s sigh of relief in Fanelli’s wake. I clutched him instinctively. He was already tough stuff but I could feel a tremble.

He said, “Fanelli said we had to let him in the club or he’d kick my ass.”I knew the interloper  was all mouth and no action. Word was that he would talk trash to guys at The Field and sidle away when anyone had a problem.

I saw no need to consult Bucky Maraglino and Rats Müller about Fanelli bothering my brother, knowing that these older guys would intervene for us. For a while, Fanelli faded.

The Shed served us well that summer. We’d hang out on drowsy days. Our grandmother would make us pitchers of iced tea, levering cubes out of trays to fill an old enameled pot that served as a cooler. Chips and other salt-laden treats were always on hand, and slabs of meat on Wonder were always available for lunch.

 Kids would come and go throughout the day. Tom and I ruled over this tiny kingdom. I just enjoyed sitting back, inhaling the still-fresh woodsy aura of the building. I felt safe, protected and independent.

 Guys supported us. Wifty Schultz, already a budding artist, dolled up a Newman poster with our club name in two-toned type! Some cool flame decals appeared for window decorations. The space became our castle, our keep. Dad would putter in the tool quarters but pretty much left us alone. 

These were heady times, for sure. The days seemed warmer, brighter. The two sturdy maples in our yard brought relief from city heat, slicing sharp sickles of sun that darted through the sparse, dusty patch where grass could find only a timid purchase. In those days of innocent clarity, nothing could stop us. We were indeed Dukes of Earl.

We were fortunate that Michael Fanelli never made a return visit to The Shed. One day, biking up to The Avenue, I peered down an alley behind stores. We used to flip baseball cards back there. I saw Fanelli kicking the wall, his black boots looking odd and scrufty in the heat.

I couldn’t resist, and approached the kid. He looked especially feral; his sneer seemed  nastier, more menacing. “They kicked me out of United,” he said. “Caught me stealing.” It was a neighborhood tradition not to nick anything from United Cigars. Old Mr. Kessler, no humanitarian himself, treated the kids with benign neglect.

Fanelli cast his eyes away from me. I was astonished to see he was crying. He said, “I guess I can’t be in your club.” I felt badly for him, for some reason..

“No. You can’t, “ I said. “Not when you threaten to beat up my brother,”

“I didn’t mean nothin’.”

I said, “You should think of that before you open your mouth.” I decided not to make fun of his tears, as much as I wanted to mock him. But I couldn’t resist a final dig. I  added, “Just stay away from our house, our club. Or I will kick your ass.”

He shied away, sniveling. I went into United and got a Tru Ade and a couple of Fireballs.  I wasn’t sure of any physical prowess over Michael Fanelli. I don’t even know if I ever saw him again.

I rode home and went right to the shed. For some reason, I gave my brother a Fireball and held him close. I said, “Nobody’s gonna bother us anymore. We’re the Night Crawlers.”

Tom and I stood there, clinging to each other, protected by The Shed.

And it was all good.

***

We had a few good summers in that shed. Soon, my brother outgrew me and became MY protector. After Mom sold the house, the new owners tore down The Shed. They also put a statue of a saucy jester in the front yard. That would have driven Dad up a wall.

Many years later, on a visit home from the Left Coast, I stopped by the Sons of Sweden. A lot of the old gang was there; drinks were hoisted; jollity ruled.  Some guy I didn’t recognize was reminiscing about the old neighborhood. “Where did you live, anyway?” said Hook Grywalski.

“Barketine Lane,.”said the guy.. This was up on the Hill, a small enclave for the monied set.

Swedey Johnson jumped in, “But you were never a Night Crawler.”

[a-w-k-o-h-a-w-n-o-h]

how many people can one person lose?

i find silence to be one of the most deafening things ever.

i was supposed to be organising my things today. when i do this i often end up sitting and pondering over little scraps of memories, whether they be train tickets or plane boarding passes, or polaroids, or photobooth strips, or signed gig tickets. festival wristbands, photo prints, birthday cards, letters. i keep everything. it all means something.

today i got so overwhelmed that i felt like i couldn’t move. these little things that were once so priceless i now find myself haunted by. it’s the first time i’ve really sat and looked at any of these things since before the summer of 2019, just before things started heading the way they did. somehow the weight of what those adventures meant to me meant that they were left pretty unscathed, but ever since i lost everything else i was holding onto, those memories i have feel so far away.

everything ended up kind of scattered around me while i sat on my floor, just staring at anything. i don’t know how long i was staring for, but i know that it was long enough for things to not feel real anymore. i looked up and caught sight of a 2017 tour poster on my wall and i realised that the version of myself that made those memories feels like a totally different person. whoever that is is completely separate from me, it was before me. “before” seemed to be my only real thought.

right now, i can see my map of the world that i have on the wall. i bought it at the end of 2019, because i felt like i’d travelled a lot that year. i’d made memories around the world. the purpose of the map was to put pins on the locations that i’d visited. i’d done so much stuff. i’d flown to america to see my favourite musician and i’d spent every waking moment with people that meant the world to me. i met kate, peter, and gabe in person for the first time ever after knowing them all since 2012. 18 months later and i can’t remember the last time gabe and i spoke, or had a conversation more than small talk. peter is ghosting me and kate and i don’t text much. 18 months later, i’ve pushed the right people away, but some of the best seem to have slipped away from me too. 15 months after i did the uk/europe tour and i couldn’t give a fuck about a single person i spent my time with apart from the three that i can’t seem to hold on to properly.

everything just seems to have boiled down to nothing. i knew everything was temporary but i never thought it’d come down to every last little glimmer. 

after a while of sitting and staring, i guess i started checking my phone. i know i did this because forever was passing by in 2-minute sections; i’d look at my screen and it’d be 19:57, 19:59, 20::01, 20:03. i’m forever waiting for a text i won’t receive, forever flinching at notifications, forever hoping somebody wanted to tell me about their day, wanted to talk to me about music, wanted to have a conversation with me. i wish i could do stupid little things like tweeting or posting on instagram without suffocating. it’s pathetic. i often wonder if anyone noticed i stopped texting first.

i went to pick up my phone to text my friend and it was like a reflex to retreat back and that’s why i’m writing tonight. she hadn’t replied to my last message and i know that that’s normal. she’s probably busy, and even if she wasn’t, it’s okay. i’m not entitled to her time, she can text whenever she wants. but my first thought, i think, was “don’t bother her again”. it’s so strange to realise my mind is learning all of these miserable things even though i’m doing everything i can to be aware of it. i know that my friend just isn’t looking at her phone right now, but i automatically got scared of fucking up anyway.

how many people can one person lose? and have i reached my limit? being physically isolated from my family is enough, it’s more than enough. losing my only other constant; my friends; genuinely gives me chest aches all day.

january 23rd 2021, 21:03.

[b-beeprichie]

A Ghost Of You

Title: A Ghost Of You [1/?]

Paring: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier

Rating: M

Summary: When sixteen year-old Richie Tozier moves to Derry, Maine, he’s convinced nothing can change how much he hates it. His parents don’t care, his only friends are out of state, and the boy living next door definitely isn’t helping.

Word Count: 2,516

Warnings: Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Character Death, AU

A/N’s: Hey Tumblr! Welcome to my first Reddie fic. I haven’t written in years but I couldn’t get this Ghost!Eddie prompt out of my head. This will be posted in chapters.  Hope you like it! Shout out to @gazeboseddie & @second-fannypack for offering up their time to do Beta work.

Clouds blocked off the rising sun, the town of Derry cast in the soft blue of early morning fog. They had been on the road for hours now, skipping through shades of black until the sun peeked over the rolling hills of Maine. It was early enough that the roads through town were still empty, and the streetlights reflected orange off the glare of Richie's glasses from where he sat in the backseat. He was crowded in by boxes, face pressed against the cool window glass. It was really the only thing keeping him calm -  watching the way his breath fogged up the glass, wiping it away with jittery fingers, and starting over again. Breathe, wipe, repeat.  It wasn’t easy to be in the car for so long. He had already been yelled at more times than he could count for his constant chatter, having only his walkman now to keep him company for the remainder of the drive. He didn’t want to talk to his parents anyway, and he never wanted to move to Derry, Maine. What kind of town was called Derry anyway? It sounded like a fucking cow town, small and simple, not at all what Richie was used to back home in New York.

The car came to a full stop, Richie too busy sketching finger drawings of dicks against the glass to notice. It wasn’t until his mom began shouting over the music spilling from his walkman that Richie jumped, simultaneously wiping the glass free of graffiti.

“What?!” He shouted and turned to look at his parents, annoyed with being interrupted from what was obviously going to be a beautiful work of art.

“We’re here, Richard, get out the car and don’t talk to your mother that way.” His father chastised from the driver seat, causing Richie to roll his eyes when neither of them were looking.

Not that they would have cared either way. They weren’t particularly good parents, and not only from a sixteen year-old’s stand on things. It’s not that they didn’t try, but alcohol wasn’t exactly a good solution for solving problems, and his parents tended to insist on finishing bottle after bottle. They didn’t care about much of anything unless they were drunk, and that never ended well. Richie touched a fading scar on the back of his hand from a particularly bad argument that had ended with his mother flinging a bottle across the room, and him having to clean it up. She apologized for days afterward, and as a result his dad had even bought him a new bike, which now sat strapped to the top of the car.

“Whatever.” Richie grumbled to himself, climbing out of the back seat to stretch his long legs while he took in the surrounding neighborhood.

It’s just as he had imagined, old colonial homes fitting into the perfect image of a suburban neighborhood. Richie had only seen the house in pictures, after his parents had made the purchase and announced that they were moving. It’s nicer than their old place, he honestly couldn’t complain about that part. However, he was still miles away from his school, from best friends, and from his life. At least they didn’t move in the middle of the school year, but the summer had just started and now all his summer plans were gone down the drain.

The movers had gotten there days before, setting things up while the Toziers made their ten hour drive into town. There wasn’t much left to do at this point, aside from unpacking the few boxes that were strictly left for them, like most of Richie's room, his dad’s dental equipment, and family photos. You know, the important stuff. It was barely past 8am, leaving the whole day to unpack what was left and settle into cheese town. With a loud groan and the cracking of his knuckles, Richie grabbed a box. Better to get started now before his parents began bitching at him. He was in the process of fighting to get a box out the backseat when he noticed the house next door, the tall grass catching his eye. The downstairs windows were boarded up, there was no car in the driveway, and the lawn looked as if it hadn’t been cut in ages. It was the only house in the neighborhood that didn’t quite fit, and Richie would’ve assumed it was abandoned, had it not been for the kid he saw staring out at him from the upstairs window. Even with the aid of Richie's coke bottle glasses, the kid was hard to see, but it was obvious that he was staring.

“Jesus Christ.” Richie swore under his breath and nearly dropped  the box in his hands that was clearly labeled as fragile.

He caught it quickly, the glass inside producing an alarming clinking sound. Richie glared at the kid who clearly had a fucking staring problem. Responding without thought, he shifted the box in his hands to give the guy the finger, waving it around angrily in front of his face. He would have shouted if his mom weren’t right on the porch, already bickering with his dad about something. The rude gesture did its job, though, as the kid snapped out of his one-sided staring contest. He even had the audacity to look shocked, quickly followed by annoyed. He had been the one staring, watching Richie as if he were some sort of freak. He disappeared after that, the spot he once stood empty and dark as his shadow retreated in the background. What an asshole.

For the rest of the day, unpacking was an easy, albeit exhausting, distraction. Between dealing with his parents and the summer sun rising high in the sky, Richie was sweaty and gross by the end of the day, and ready to lie down in his new room. There were only a few finishing touches needed before room was actually his, and the sixteen year-old bopped around while he stuck posters to the wall and hung up pictures of friends from back home. He hadn’t had many friends, but the ones he did have were like family, always there for Richie when he needed them. He definitely wouldn’t have that here in Derry, not with the milk town simpletons he was sure made up most of the town's population. Richie grumbled just thinking about the kid he saw earlier, and cautiously peeked out his window to see if he could spot any movement next door. The house had been strangely silent, with not so much as a light turning on or a door opening all day. Not that Richie cared or anything, it was just weird. The kid was weird, too, with his snooty face and judgmental stare. Everyone here was probably like that.

Now Richie barely made out the shape of something moving in the window across from his, before the light turned on and the kid was suddenly right there, staring again as if he hadn’t gotten a good enough look the first time. Richie nearly jumped out of his skin with fright, letting out a loud shout and instantly growing annoyed. Seriously - who did this guy think he was?

His mouth moved but Richie couldn't make out what he was saying. Probably something bratty, from the looks of him. He looked like more of a dweeb than Richie did, and that was really saying something. At least Richie dressed his age, while this kid looked like someone's dad, even in pajamas. Richie frowned and stepped forward to open the window, propping up the screen so he could lean half way out and really get his point across. The distance between both houses is far enough that it couldn't be jumped, but close enough to get away with talking if they both stood there. It was quiet in the neighborhood, late enough that everyone is asleep aside from the insects living in the tall grass.

“Hey!” Richie shouted and reached for the first thing he could get his hands on which happened to be an eraser.

He flung it outside, a satisfied smirk curled his lips as it hit the window across from his home with an audible thud. The kid rolled his eyes and glanced over his shoulder, looking longingly at something before he opened the window. The kid still looked a bit off, pale despite the fact it was summer and the heat in Maine was outrageous, and he definitely still looked like a prude but holy hell Richie found him kind of adorable. Richie almost felt bad for flipping him off earlier - keyword: almost. Sure, he was adorable but it didn’t change the fact that he was obviously a stalker.

“Can you maybe not throw things at my window?” This fucking kid had the nerve to say as he whispered angrily out the window.

“I don’t know,” Richie responded sarcastically, already reaching for something else to throw. “can you maybe not stare into my bedroom window at night? I mean I know I’m hot stuff but if you want to see me naked you could at last ask instead of staring like some sort of pervert!”

The kid gasped and sputtered in frustration,his face flushing an angry pink. In hindsight, maybe Richie should’ve stopped calling him a kid, since he didn’t look that young, just a lot smaller. Maybe even the same age, if Richie was being generous. But anyone shorter than him was a kid if he had any say.

“W-What? I was not...I am NOT a pervert!” He huffed and all but leaned out the window, finger pointed in Richie’s direction. “You were looking in my window, and you were looking in my window first !”

Richie rolled his eyes, made a face and mocked the other boy in a high pitched voice, a hand moving along with his mouth to enhance the performance. It was a pretty great impersonation in his own personal opinion, and definitely did not warrant the baseball that flew through the window and hit him square in the face. Richie had no time to react; he barely registered the kid, shaking with rage and swinging his arm back, until something hit him hard enough to knock him to the floor, throwing his glasses from his face.

“Oh shit, I’m sorry!” Richie could hear over the sound of his own groaning as he rolled around on the floor, nose held in his hands. He could smell blood. Jesus fuck, that kid had an arm on him.

“Oh what the fuck!” Richie groaned and sat up, ready to jump out the window and take this kid down. “A baseball?!” Richie grabbed the object, a smear of his own blood on it. “A baseball, you hit me in the face with a fucking baseball!”

Richie full on shouted, blood dripping down his chin. The fact it was well past midnight never crossed his mind, as Richie’s parents had learned quickly to sleep through their child's antics. They never stirred while their son was shouting curse words just down the hall.

As for the kid, he looked genuinely apologetic. He turned the strangest shade of pink Richie had ever seen while he fidgeted with the front of his faded oversized sleepshirt.

“I’m sorry!” He looked over his shoulder and lowered his voice back down to a whisper. “I didn’t mean to I just-I got mad, I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry. Oh god you’re bleeding, you need to go to the doctor.” The kid paced back and forth in front of the window, muttered to himself about hospitals, plastic surgery, and possibly having a panic attack.

The kid’s reaction was intense, but despite the blood and the gnarly bruise Richie would have in the morning, it didn’t hurt that bad. Richie pulled the hem of his shirt up to stop the bleeding, wiping it away the best he could.

“Hey kid.” Richie spit blood out the window. “Take a fucking breather, it’s fine, look.”

Richie turned to the side to show off his nose, bloody but not broken. The kid gagged dramatically but managed to pull himself together.

“It’s Eddie, my name is Eddie.” The kid - Eddie, still looked flustered and in shock, but he breathed deeply to calm down while he stood with his hands on his hips.

“Well Ed’s, I’m Richie, nice to you know...meet or whatever. If you call stalking and assault a nice meeting.”

“It’s Eddie, not Ed’s, just Eddie.”

“Excuse me, Eddie.” Richie leaned against the windowsill, he pointed at the drying blood on his face. “You almost broke my nose, I’m pretty sure that means I can call you whatever the fuck I want, seeing the last person to take balls that hard to the face was your mother.”

Eddie paled noticeably from his already unhealthy shade of white. He looked almost afraid, not at all the reaction Richie was looking to get out of him. This startled Richie, and he became even more unsettled when he spoke Eddie's name and got no response other than a fearful look in the other boy’s eyes. Was there something behind him? Richie took a deep breath and quickly turned around expecting to see someone standing behind him in his bedroom, to explain the suffocating sensation that had washed over him.

There was nothing, just a few empty boxes, a lamp, and the clock on his nightstand reading 1:32am. Still, Richie couldn't shake the eerie sensation. Goosebumps had risen on his arms and he visibly shivered.

Richie turned back around, ready to bitch at Eddie for freaking him the fuck out, but the light was now off and the window was closed, blinds entirely still as if no one had been standing there in the first place. Richie squinted, but tried not to think too hard about it. It was late, maybe Eddie’s parents had woken up. They were probably good, unlike his own, the type to care if their son stayed up too late and shouted swear words at the neighbor.

Richie waited a minute before he shrugged it off and went to the bathroom. He still had blood on his face, it had started to dry and crust over. In the mirror he could see the bruise that had started to form. He should ice it. Richie turned his head from side to side, noting that it wasn’t the worst he'd ever had. Richie had actually broken his nose once before and that was awful, a fight at school that ended with him in the hospital for a broken nose and bruised ribs. With the rest of the blood cleaned off, Richie stared at himself in the mirror. His mind went back to the boy next door, that dark feeling that someone had been watching them. He shook his head to clear his thoughts, instead focusing on how easy it had been to get under Eddie’s skin. Richie smirked to himself. The summer had just begun, after all, and he had new plans to spend it annoying his new neighbor.

[squeakowl]

234 nice things to be happy about

The last footsteps in a school hallway after everyone has gone home.

Dancing in Chuck Taylors in your 1970s bedroom to rock music as quietly as you can without your parents hearing.

The lift ocean waves give you when you wade out against them.

Finding an old photo between the pages of a book you got at a thrift store.

A white cotton picnic blanket laid out on the grass, stained with grapefruits that have cut.

The feeling of hiding behind a tree and peeping around so you can as you wait to scare a friend.

Sinking your feet into warm sand.

Flapping a Polaroid, impatient to see the photo develop.

Watching the spinning of couples decked out in bright dresses and black tails spin dizzyingly on the dance floor.

Hearing the sound of your skates gliding over the ice on the lake, your breath appearing before you.

Standing on a swing and looking up to the tree overhead as you rock back and forth.

The first scratch after putting the needle down onto a vinyl record.

Trying to shuffle together with all your friends to fit into a photograph.

Wearing an ugly Christmas sweater and loving it.

Playing skip rope games during the summer and sledding in the winter.

Decorating every inch of your room with posters of bands and tickets to their concerts.

Building a fortress in your garden out of blankets and sticks.

A hair pin with a dragonfly made of precious stones.

Blowing dandelions across the field and watching the wind carry them away.

The feeling of finally mastering a tune on a guitar.

Buying crazy boots you know your parents might hate but you love.

Going all out on Halloween in a costume that’s actually terrifying.

Daring yourself to go as close to the edge of a cliff as you can to look down onto the waves crashing against it below.

Figuring out a puzzle no one else can.

Falling asleep with a cat curling up beside you.

Dying your hair a wild color in the middle of the night with a friend, laughing all the way.

Finally getting tickets to see your favorite artist live.

Finally managing to do a cartwheel after loads of attempts and laughs with friends.

Cruising down a road toward the sunset ahead, with relaxing music on the radio.

Trying many scents in a custom perfumery to make up your own bottle of personal perfume.

Fitting as many flowers into your hair as possible.

Trying to pass your friend’s love notes for them in class without getting caught.

Watching as your dog rolls itself in the grass you just cut and become very green from it.

Lounging on a hammock in the summer, the sprinklers going off, and the mist on the warm breeze cooling you as you rest under the shade.

That dream where you feel like you’re flying so realistically, you’re rather sad when you wake up.

Someone leaving you a random act of kindness note.

Long road trips where you can watch the scenery and be doused in sunshine.

Being the lead in your art school friend’s movies.

Being the talk of the dance hall in the 1950s with your swing dancing moves.

Being offered your crush’s earphone when sitting next to them on the bus to share music.

Being immensely proud when your sibling graduates and bringing a homemade sign to embarrass them.

Patching up your old plush toys when they started to fall apart.

Finding the notes from the previous owner of a second hand book about their thoughts and some of their secrets.

All your friends fawning over movie stars in your 1950s sleepover complete with silk robes and a magazine for the pictures.

A pillbox hat adorned with a brooch given to you by your mother.

Going to the local village fete to dance and eating all the sweets on offer.

Deliberately stepping into puddles with your boots on, on a rainy day.

Opera gloves which are buttoned above the elbow.

The trickling of a water fountain in the botanical gardens as you take a stroll around.

The very first warm day of spring when you can lie on the grass in the garden.

Slowly befriending a cat that always is around the house but belongs to someone else.

Walking into a surprise party on your birthday.

Your friends arranging your hair into hearts as you lie on the grass, reading aloud to them.

Staging your own theatrical performance with blankets as curtains and homemade props.

Making midnight pancakes.

Wearing your parent’s old denim jacket, covered patches from their rock and roll days.

Finding a couple’s initials engraved onto a tree and coming up with a story about their lives.

Wearing socks with frills at the ankles over Mary Jane shoes.

Cycling along the Amsterdam canals.

Spinning fast until you get dizzy and fall onto the grass.

The bustle and scent of Moroccan spice markets.

Drinking pink lemonade out of your fanciest crystal glass just for fun.

Trying to tailor your own dress out of leftover fabrics.

Your friend making silly faces in the window when you’re trying to concentrate in the classroom, barely holding in your laughter.

Sitting down to a good dinner with friends on a terrace in NYC during the summer.

Comparing photos of your dog when you first got them to how much bigger they are now.

Crunching every pile of autumn leaves you can find.

Being the only one who dances without embarrassment at the school dance and loving it.

Your hair being pulled back into a proper Renaissance knot and braids, with a headband and jewelry to match.

A chiffon prom dress from the 50s, in pastel colors with a large skirt.

An old telephone with a separate earpiece and mouthpiece.

Leaving Maxim’s in Paris during La Belle Epoque, glowing from a lovely evening.

Drawing in water colors.

Bringing home a bouquet of flowers you picked from your long walk in the woods and placing them in the spot of honor on your windowsill.

Trying to talk to your next door neighbor and best friend  through open windows that face each other’s rooms, but being as quiet as you can because it’s late.

The tickling fizz of popping candy going off in your mouth.

Wearing your older sister’s prom dress and imagining what it would be like when you eventually go.

Receiving a letter from your loved one who is far away, full of tenderness and affection.

Finding a tree you had given up hope on surviving the winter blooming beautifully in the spring.

Reading on a boat you rowed out onto the center of a lake, using the small patch of shade from your gigantic hat brim so the whiteness of your book pages does not blind you.

The early morning mist hiding within the forest and glowing with the sunrise.

Your friends playing with your hair and putting flowers into it.

The rhythmic gallop of a horse as you streak across a field.

Opening many heavy books to check if your pressed flowers are going well.

Listening to harp music.

Getting a secret admirer’s card and rose on Valentine’s Day.

Going home for the holidays and hardly being able to wait to see everyone again.

Applauding and cheering for your friend after they’re elected class president.

The feeling of caramel candy melting in your mouth.

The dust on the heavy red velvet curtains in an old theater.

Decorating your friend’s back yard in anticipation of a surprise birthday party.

Finding the perfect item after spending hours thrifting in a second hand store.

Hearing stories about how your parents were so cool and funny when they were younger.

Watching old animated films with clever tricks and puppets to induce wonder.

Reading back over your own journal entries and smiling because you now know it all went okay in the end.

The serendipity of having a bird perch on your shoulder.

Trying so hard to find a perfect skipping stone by the lake, being conflicted about losing it, but skipping it anyway and having your patience pay off with the perfect skip.

Taking a beautiful photograph of someone you love.

Harvesting apples on your friend’s family orchard before the school term begins again.

Decorating your letters and journals with all manners of stickers and felt tip drawings.

Finally organizing your bookshelf as you want it to look.

Cutting your hair super short after months of daring yourself to do it.

Long phone calls with your best friend who is on the other side of the world.

Putting on shorts over your swimsuit and heading to lunch along the beachfront after a sun-soaked morning.

Winning a cycling race with your friends when you were much younger.

Being part of the hustle and bustle of a busy New York City street.

Proudly wearing an embarrassing birthday badge your friends gave you.

A friend you made while traveling teaching you phrases in the local language.

Watching as your friend talks to their crush and hopefully asks them out.

Getting a new pair of jeans and being admired at school for them.

Exploring a foreign city on your own with only the map and a camera.

Sitting on a wall and watching the sunrise.

Making up the most marvelous bedtime stories for your siblings.

Traveling down a Venetian canal in a gondola toward the carnival festivities in your grand costume and mask.

Your next door neighbor playing the most wonderful piano music as the light fades into night and the city’s hum quietens.

Your friends fixing a ribbon bow in your hair.

Finding the most beautiful iridescent shell on the beach.

Reminiscing about how you first met someone after becoming very close to them later on.

A bustling speakeasy with barely any room to walk, let alone make it to the dance floor, with killer jazz music.

Running into your favorite artist after a concert and getting to chat with them a bit without needing an autograph or a photo.

Another person’s dog runs over to you and gives you a few licks and accepts a few strokes before running back to its owner.

The excitement of starting a journey.

Breathing in fresh mountain air and seeing valleys and peaks in front of you.

A friend making a charcoal sketch of you when you weren’t paying attention.

Dipping your feet into the lake as you sit on the deck.

Your father doing simple magic tricks which you still haven’t solved years later.

A sunny day clouding over so you retreat inside for a good long reading session.

Your younger sibling’s dance recital making you so happy, you whoop and applaud for them.

Singing a song softly to yourself before your friend hears you and joins in until you’re belting it at full volume, complete with miming actions.

Surprising your mom on her birthday by coming home without telling her.

Cycling over cobblestones.

Sharing a massive milkshake with a date across the diner booth.

Going to sleep in soft silk PJs.

Putting on an elegant opera cape before heading out to an evening at the theater.

Walking through an art museum slowly and seeing all the most amazing things you’ve ever laid your eyes on.

Laughing so hard you fall on top of your friends and keep on laughing.

Wearing a new dress you weren’t too sure looked good on you and getting complimented on it.

Jamming everyone into a small photo-booth for a good picture

Drawing your favorite characters from the book you most recently read.

Looking back through your yearbook and reminiscing over the photos and messages.

Unashamedly crying over a very good movie.

The first thrill when your crush slips their hand into yours.

Finding a signed copy of your favorite book in a second hand store.

The smell of a resting peach pie on the kitchen counter.

Having half of a friendship necklace and giving the other to your best friend.

Getting to be your favorite character of all time in your school play.

Wearing your mom’s clothes from when she was your age.

Falling into the crunchy-fluffy snow after a fresh snowfall.

Heading to the late night food market for some good eats with friends.

Not sleeping during a sleepover but just laughing until it’s dawn again.

A smell that suddenly brings you back a long forgotten memory of the past.

Being able to recognize a constellation among the plethora of stars in a desert.

Finally being able to fall onto your soft bed after the longest but best day.

Bursting with so much feeling you find yourself penning the lines of a poem that you’ll end up keeping forever, even if the experience passes.

Finding a rare, previously unknown record for a favorite artist of yours.

Receiving a good old fashioned letter from your friend from across the country.

Just soaking in the bath surrounded by candlelight and with a good book.

Being as happy for a friend as they are about one of their accomplishments.

Hurriedly fixing a costume backstage before the ballerinas have to run on for their cue and seeing your work being marveled at when they enter.

Being the first customer to a bakery because you’re up so early to catch a train, and getting the freshest batch of the day because of it.

Visiting the site that inspired your favorite poem or book.

The daydream of being transported back into the 1920s just for one day to see.

Cuddling a friend’s bunny rabbit.

Hiding out in your tree-house while it rains, reading and listening to music as you wait it out to go back inside.

Receiving a typewriter as a gift.

Buying the best smelling bath products imaginable and indulging yourself.

The music of a clarinet solo.

Swapping your Halloween candy load with your friends for your favorites.

Mushing your face into a bouquet of roses and inhaling their scent.

Dancing by yourself at home to the greatest songs.

Your hat threatening to blow off your head as you’re cycling down the street at full speed.

Finally finishing your scrapbook that took years to fill up.

Finding a heart locket at a flea market with someone else’s love story described on the back of the photo.

A matching ice blue 1950s coat and skirt combination.

Sitting on your friend’s car’s hood, just chatting in a field as the sun sets after a great summer day.

Homemade hot chocolate after a terrible day.

The feeling of having found your new favorite film after watching it for the first time.

A beautiful smokey eyed wink.

Walking into a crowded bathroom during a 1950s party with other women trying to powder their nose in the small mirror.

The faraway lights and music of a carnival, the ringing bells, and happy shrieks, and the scent of fried food that’s faint enough that it’s tantalizing.

The wind blowing petals off a blossoming tree into your path.

The elegance of a swimming swan.

A paper plane your friend sends you with a note landing on your desk.

Tying ribbons and lanterns onto a tree to decorate it for an outdoor dinner party later.

The atmosphere of calm in a coffee shop as you relax into a leather armchair.

Heading to a flea market with friends for some food and interesting finds.

Visiting Rome in the summer.

Finishing the first draft of your book.

The satisfying feeling of working all morning in your vegetable patch and managing to harvest many things you’ve grown from seeds.

Taking a jog through the woods when the sunlight streams in.

Eating candyfloss on a twilit pier.

Being given monogrammed stationary.

Going to a tea tasting and trying the most delectable flavors.

Trying to fit onto a longboard with your friend to cruise down the street.

The scent of a beautiful lavender-honey hand lotion.

Receiving a postcard from someone you haven’t thought about for a while.

Finishing the thickest book you’ve ever read.

Strolling around a Victorian greenhouse.

Lying in a bedroom with your friends, just listening to music off a vinyl record.

Your parents finding a box full of things from when you were younger and explaining all their memories of your youth as they show mementos.

The manic feeling of your favorite artist playing your favorite song at their concert.

Managing to host an entire dinner party for your friends without a hitch and being complimented on the food.

Receiving handmade paper flowers from your crush.

Elves walking through the forest at night, moonlight illuminating their silvery robes.

Drinking champagne with raspberries in the glass.

Finally getting a reservation at a fancy restaurant after they said they were booked out.

Finding someone who also enjoys a secret passion you held.

Feeling the waves lap up against your feet.

Walking into a bookshop so crowded with books that they cover every feasible inch.

Getting a necklace with your initials.

Sitting on a wicker chair on the porch with iced tea as you watch the sunset.

Flying a homemade kite by running as fast as you can down the street.

Finally learning how to play a piano piece perfectly.

Finding a secret note meant for someone else, left in the pages of a library book.

Dressing up for a costumed ball in Imperial Russia.

Tasting free samples at a farmer’s market.

Climbing to sit on top of a statue of a lion and your friends quickly taking pictures before you’re told off.

Being the last to leave La Louvre.

Humming as you indulge yourself in making a massive pancake breakfast on Sunday.

Your long distance friend calling you up with some amazing news that almost makes you cry in happiness for them.

Swinging from a rope above a lake and letting go to send yourself flying into the water.

Wearing a wide brimmed straw hat with a ribbon.

Decorating your sneakers with felt tips.

Nursing a tired bumblebee back to health by giving it some sugar water.

Drawing on the pavement with chalk.

Zip-lining across a forest valley.

Enchanting your younger siblings with a simple magic trick.

Finding a bracelet you had thought you lost.

Buzzing cicadas on a hot summer’s night, while you’re sitting bed with your windows open.

Spotting a shoal of silvery fish swim by in the shallows of the sea.

Walking the hot white steps of Santorini, taking in the view.

Walking home and finding your friends have slipped a bouquet of flowers in your bag.

Entering a solemn and grand cathedral.

Sitting in a diner at 2 in the morning with a good friend after you’ve been out all night at a fantastic concert, eating fries and thick milkshakes, talking about everything under the sun while the neon sign outside buzzes, and fades in the first rays of dawn.

[flightofthepigeon]

Abroad and Afar (1/2)

Summary: Sometimes distance makes the heart grow colder.

You rest your head against the window, the glass cool against the warmth of your cheek. The rain’s steady pitter-patter almost lulls you into sleep, but the dull ache of your heart keeps you awake.

The bedroom you grew up in was just as you left it a year ago, moving overseas for college. Off-white walls served as the perfect backdrop for your colorful posters and paintings you had done spur of the moment.

Your books were still crammed in the bookshelf, pens scattered across your desk, stacks of notebooks filling its drawers. Your stuffed animals, remnants of your childhood, still lined your bed against the wall.

But none of it gave you any comfort as you thought about what you just saw.

Two years ago, you met Changgu in high school, when you were partnered for a project. He looked kind of nerdy, bangs skimming the tops of his round-rimmed glasses. But he was kind and always asked you how you were, tutting if you hadn’t eaten and insisting on carrying your books whenever he saw you.

It was easy to fall in love with him, with the way he’d interlace your fingers as you walked down the hallways, the way he’d chew on the end of his pen when he was concentrating, the way he always looked at you with a sparkle in his eyes.

You got into the same college and when you told him you were studying abroad, he gave you the biggest smile and took you out to dinner to celebrate. He asked you about everything, where you were going, what classes you would take, what you were looking forward to.

He wasn’t exactly happy you’d be gone for so long, but he didn’t lose his optimistic spirit before you left. He helped you pick out luggage at the mall and researched the weather so you would have the perfect clothes to keep you warm. He bought you books about the country and read them himself so he’d know exactly what kind of place you were going to.

At the airport, he cried as he hugged you and promised he would talk to you everyday, no matter what. The last thing you saw was his watery, but bright smile as you went to board the plane.

It was hard being away from Changgu, but at first things went well. You skyped often, looking forward to the nights when you’d turn on your computer and Changgu would be waiting to hear all about your day. You texted him on Whatsapp daily, the two of you sharing funny memes and cute selcas to make the separation less difficult.

But as the months went by, you felt Changgu pulling away from you. It took him longer to respond and Skype dates took place less often. But you just chalked it up to him being busy with exams and missing you the longer you were gone.

As a surprise, you decided to come home a month early. You could have spent your summer break abroad, but you missed Changgu too much and thought he would be happy to see you.

The second you landed, you took a taxi straight to his house, ready to see the boy you loved and his signature smile.

But as you approached the front door, you heard Changgu’s distinctive laughter through the open living room window. When you glanced inside, you saw him sitting next to a girl, far too close to be friendly.

You could feel your heart cracking as Changgu’s smile faded and he leaned closer to the girl, his lips pressing against hers. The moment felt so intimate, you looked away as if you were the intruder. 

You forced yourself to look back, a numbness spreading through you as you quickly snapped a photo and retreated, calling another taxi to take you home.

When you finally got home, you collapsed in your bed and let the sobs wrack your body, tears soaking the blankets you clutched tightly in your hands. You fell asleep, body spent from the crying. When you woke up, you forgot for a moment that Changgu was cheating on you.

But then you remembered the look in his eyes as he kissed her and you seethed in anger. How could he do this to you? After everything? And just because you were gone?

There were no answers to your questions, it was clear that Changgu was too weak to handle your relationship. There was only one thing you could do.

You grabbed your phone off your nightstand, fingers itching to type every curse word you knew. But, you decided to keep it brief and texted Changgu the picture you took of him and the girl.

“We’re done.”

[alfredrserrano]

Developers pivot from broker happy hours to drive-thrus, virtual sales launch events and more

Ana-Marie Codina Barlick, Louise Sunshine, and Matt Barry

Warehouse drive-thrus. Virtual video launches. Zoom open houses.

Gone are the days (at least for now) of the broker happy hour or sales launch event, forcing residential and commercial developers to come up with creative ways to pique agents’ interest.

Codina Partners and USAA Real Estate, along with their leasing team at Fairchild Partners, organized an event in mid-June: a caravan tour of a new industrial development in Hialeah called Beacon Logistics Park. About 50 brokers attended the tour — without leaving their cars.

Photos from the tour

Ana-Marie Codina Barlick, CEO of Codina Partners, said the idea stemmed from parents driving their kids to birthday caravans during the lockdown. “If the kids can do it, why can’t we do that?” Codina Barlick said. “[Brokers] are actually interacting more with the product this way because an event turns into happy hour.”

Developers who have typically lured real estate agents into their sales galleries and projects with open bars, charcuterie boards and presentations are now shifting gears in the face of a pandemic that discourages large gatherings of people, handshakes and the standard Miami kiss on the cheek.

At Beacon Logistics Park, brokers were greeted in their cars by a welcoming committee that handed out a branded bag with a large hand sanitizer and disposable masks. Later, they were given croissants from Bachour Bakery – a Codina Partners tenant at Downtown Doral. Inside the warehouse, stops were guided by signage and posters. The developers ended the tour by giving out gift certificates.

The event gave Codina Partners and USAA the chance to showcase the finished development to prospective brokers. Future tenants include Cargill, which signed a lease for 70,000 square feet at the project earlier this year, before coronavirus hit. Compared to other asset classes, “industrial really lends itself to a drive-thru,” Codina Barlick said.

Unlike industrial, residential developers can’t invite brokers to drive through their sales galleries.

One project, Monaco Yacht Club & Residences in Miami Beach, launched a “global virtual sales gallery” last week by sending out an e-blast video on Friday to Worldwide PR Affiliates, a partnership of public relations firms around the world that shared the video with their clients.

Fredrik Eklund during a recent webinar

Matt Barry, managing director of Optimum Asset Management USA, which is developing the luxury condo project, said the “virtual launch” allowed the developer to begin marketing the units again after a quiet period in March and April. The video was translated and sent out in different languages.

Prior to the pandemic, Optimum planned to host events in the Hamptons this summer and summer retreats in Europe to appeal to buyers. The sales center in Miami Beach is open by appointments only, and the developer plans to come up with more virtual events this summer, including virtual tours.

Similarly, CC Homes — a partnership between Armando Codina and Jim Carr — went from hosting events in Washington, D.C., New York and Connecticut to promote a single-family home community in Doral, to presenting online open houses.

Now, the Canarias at Downtown Doral sales team is hosting Zoom open houses to groups of brokers, according to Diana Ibarria, senior vice president of CC Homes.

“Our sales surprisingly have increased during the pandemic,” Ibarria said, pointing to less new inventory of single-family homes, due in part to owners’ hesitation to list their houses for sale.

More than 300 homes remain for sale out of 520 at Canarias, Ibarria said. Prices range from $590,000 to over $1.5 million.

Louise Sunshine, a strategic adviser for Fort Partners, who is working on Four Seasons-branded developments in Surfside and in Fort Lauderdale, said her advice to developers is “to just stop and rethink what they’re doing.”

Sunshine, a sales, marketing and development expert, began co-hosting a webinar series with Haute Living on art and design, bringing on Fredrik Eklund to a webinar in order to expand the project’s reach to the broker community.

“Fredrik commands a lot of attention and we have given him the exclusives for the penthouse,” she said. “In new development, you usually don’t give an exclusive to anybody. He’s able to draw a lot of attention to the building through his social media efforts.”

One aspect of new development is that agents are selling a project that hasn’t been completed yet, Sunshine said. Construction on the Four Seasons development in Fort Lauderdale is reaching the ninth floor. “In new development, really, what do they see? Everything they’re going to see when they get to a sales office,” she said.

Fort Partners has hit pause on all in-person events, only allowing appointment-only visits to the sales center.

Though it’s too early to know if the new tactics will result in closed deals, Sunshine is optimistic.

“The world has changed. Marketing and sales have gone digital,” Sunshine said. “We are finding that one out of four buyers will buy virtually.”

The post Developers pivot from broker happy hours to drive-thrus, virtual sales launch events and more appeared first on The Real Deal Miami.

from The Real Deal Miami https://therealdeal.com/miami/2020/06/29/developers-pivot-from-broker-happy-hours-to-drive-thrus-virtual-sales-launch-events-and-more/ via IFTTT

[larrygmaguire]

via The Reflectionist - Medium

Photo by Dingzeyu Li on Unsplash

Solitude is your best friend. It’s there that creativity will come, without coaxing, without manipulation.

Welcome to The Reflectionist, a daily dose of reflection on the nature of the self, personal reality, creativity, life and work by Larry G. Maguire, submitted to the public record for posterity. Articles here are free to read and always will be. If you enjoy my writing or gain some personal value, please consider supporting my work ❤. Patronage starts at only $1.

When I was about 15 or 16, I would come home from work in the evenings and head straight for my tiny box bedroom.

There I would sit alone on my bed for hours, music on, the old single glazed aluminium window slightly open, smoking a Carroll’s №1.

Leaving my bedroom door slightly ajar would allow a draught to come up through the house and take the cigarette smoke out the gap in the window.

It was perfect.

There on my own, I would contemplate life, myself, the girls I fancied and how it might be possible to get to know some of them despite my practically incurable introversion.

It was a strange situation to be in because I lived in a house full of women.

There were always friends of my sisters toing and froing so you would think that I would be used to girls.

But I wasn’t. I kept my distance instead.

My father worked a lot, and so I was the only male in the house most of the time.

I was a shy young fella.

I know what that was now.

My formative years were such that I developed along an introverted line, but these days, I’m forever grateful for that.

Grateful because if I did not have a home environment that drove me to find the peace of my own company, I would not be comfortable today in my own skin, alone to think.

These days there is little I value more than my own company.

Being alone with my thoughts is the perfect condition.

That doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy the company of others, I do. It’s just that given the preference I’d probably choose myself over others.

A personality condition conducive to writing.

Finding A Quiet Space

Last summer, I converted the shed at the bottom of the garden into a studio office.

My wife calls it “The Man Cave”, and she’s as happy I built is as I am because I am an absolute terror when I’m trying to do any meaningful work in the house with people around.

It’s almost midnight, and I’ve been here most of the day to day editing articles, browsing Medium and deciding which publications are a good match for me.

I’ve also been looking into the Medium Partner Program.

Anyway, it’s tranquil, and I have very few distractions, which is very important for creative work, for any solo work.

Finding a quiet space in which to create is perhaps one of the single most essential prerequisites for creative work.

This is true now as it has always been, despite the popular convention towards collaboration.

I wrote about this a couple of days ago. Here we allow ourselves to be herded like cattle into boxes by corporate entities who pretend through their willful managers, to care for our wellbeing.

They don’t.

Our Motivation To Work

Corporates and large organisations don’t honestly care about you; they care about your productivity.

You are a number on a spreadsheet. You an arbitrary unit hired for your ability to earn revenue and subject to replacement should your productivity is not what they determine as acceptable.

Sure there are employment rights, toilet paper, and air-conditioning. You get free coffee and fucking gourmet dinners, but they are simply tools to help you, and I feel more secure in our insecurity.

The people to whom you report often feel as you do, but they carry out the instructions of their superiors nonetheless.

Duties they must fulfil to keep their jobs.

The person cares for you, but they’ll do their job first. They shelve their humanity and yield to bureaucratic responsibility for the sake of that job — for security, which ironically, is not security at all.

Employers don’t care for you.

You must care for yourself and the work you do, and ultimately if you are to find the space to fulfil your creative potential, then you must paddle your own canoe.

Yes, there is, of course, merit in working with others in a collaborate environment but only for a while and the right reasons.

To make something truly worthwhile, something that reflects that inner, ultimately unknowable aspect of yourself, you must retreat into your own private space away from the noise and distraction of the world.

Creativity Flourishes In Solitude

Psychologists attempt to understand the nature of the mind’s “Black Box”, the place where the magic happens.

Information goes in via the sensory apparatus is transformed somehow, then remarkably produces behaviour that is unpredictable and insight that can never be brought about by thinking.

Answers to enduring scientific questions, for example, have come our way by means for which we have no account.

The mathematician Poincaré explains one of his essential discoveries as follows;

For fifteen days, I strove to prove that there could not be any functions like those I have since called Fuchsian functions. I was then very ignorant; every day I seated myself at my work table, stayed an hour or two, tried a great number of combinations and reached no results. One evening contrary to my custom, I drank black coffee and could not sleep. Ideas rose in crowds: I felt them collide until pairs interlocked, so to speak, making a stable combination. By the next morning, I had established the existence of a class of Fuchsian functions…

It appears that for Poincaré, he needed time away from his scheduled activity, apart from his standard working pattern so that other areas of his mind could become active and offer alternatives. For him, the established structure wasn’t yielding results.

But groundbreaking scientific achievements are not the only things at risk from our increased inability to find solitude. Physicist Alan Lightman in his book In Praise of Wasting Time, says;

The loss of slowness, of time for reflection and contemplation, of privacy and solitude, of silence, of the ability to sit quietly in a chair for fifteen minutes without external stimulation- all have happened quickly and almost invisibly…The situation is dire. We are losing the ability to know who we are and what is important to us. We are creating a global machine in which each of us is mindless and reflexive cog.

Lightman goes on to suggest that half our waking minds be designated and saved for quiet reflection. Otherwise, we are destroying our inner selves and our creative capacities.

For a mind free from the pressure to perform to someone else’s agenda and demands, there is peace and creative potential, and although I don’t smoke any longer, I still value that quiet time alone.

Thanks for taking the time to read my stuff. Every morning you’ll find me sharing a new thought on life, art, work, the self and the nature of reality on The Reflectionist. Everything I write online is open and free, and I’ll keep doing it because I enjoy it. But it takes lots of time, so if you like what I’m creating, consider becoming a patron ❤

You’ll also find me here

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Why Creativity Flourishes In Solitude was originally published in The Reflectionist on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

[caveartfair]

Art Basel in Miami Beach’s Opening Day Sales Reflect a Hesitant Market

Installation view of David Zwirner’s booth at Art Basel in Miami Beach, 2018. Photo by Dan Bradica. Courtesy of David Zwirner.

Confronted with a partially gilded plate of risotto piled high with white truffle shavings at a dinner to celebrate the Haas Brothers’ show at Miami Beach’s Bass museum on Monday, a prominent designer and architect turned to me and shrugged, “People say that there’s a crisis coming, but I look around and I don’t see it.”

The dinner kicked off the annual pilgrimage of art collectors, art lovers, and many others who come to Miami to soak up the scene during the Art Basel fair and 24 others taking place around it this year. At Art Basel in Miami Beach’s VIP preview on Wednesday, opinions were mixed about whether the art market—or at least portions of it—may be slowing.

While the economy doesn’t currently look to be headed for a crisis, UBS Global Wealth Management’s chief economist Paul Donovan said he does view the stock market’s recent volatility as a correction, following an unprecedented period of market expansion. After a sell-off on Tuesday, the markets now sit roughly even with where they were when last year’s Art Basel in Miami Beach opened (U.S. markets were closed Wednesday in observance of a national day of mourning for President George H.W. Bush, but opened sharply lower on Thursday). Donovan said that the fundamentals powering the economy remain strong, and that Tuesday’s sell-off reflects the kind of stock market volatility that could be expected while uncertainty around U.S.–China trade relations persists.

“Equities are more vulnerable to any further attempts to tax trade than is the economy at large,” he explained. “Disruptions to trade (or to the outlook for trade) are likely to keep markets relatively volatile.”

That is not necessarily bad for the art market: Donovan said that the majority of UBS’s clients don’t purchase art with any view to a potential return on investment, but rather on the basis of passion. In a survey of collectors with a net worth of at least $5 million that the company conducted in mid-November, 84% of collectors said they are either actively or opportunistically looking to add works to their collections, with 64% of collectors reporting they plan to spend $100,000 or more on art in 2019.

Installation view of Lévy Gorvy’s booth at Art Basel in Miami Beach, 2018. Courtesy of Art Basel.

And Art Basel’s director for the Americas, Noah Horowitz, said on Tuesday that in a market affected by collectors’ passions and moods—which can be swayed by a season of auctions as much as by the macro-economy—the fair expects strong performance during its five-day run.

“There’s recently been some volatility in the markets; everyone is cognizant of that,” he said. “In the end, the fall auctions in New York were very solid, and that at least impacts psychology—people have sort of exhaled and are showing up onsite here full of enthusiasm.”

But uncertainty in aspects of their financial lives may lead collectors to seek out safer bets in Miami this week, retreating to more easily traded mediums like painting, for example, or to take more time when considering acquisitions. Both tendencies were observed by dealers during Art Basel in Miami Beach’s opening day.

David Zwirner said sales early on were “pretty strong, not riotous,” adding that collectors were taking longer to make decisions and weighing more options before committing to buying. He couldn’t say whether that was related to uncertainty in the economy at large, but did observe that the gallery’s clients have been noticeably slower to transact in recent weeks compared to a few months ago, during Frieze London in October—which, notably, coincided with the start of the most recent market swings.

“You can always tell when there are more reserves that come off than turn into sales, and we definitely had a bunch of reserves that didn’t convert into sales [today], so that’s an indicator,” Zwirner said. “The primary market is super strong; everything we brought in the primary market sold in the first hour. But on the secondary market, people are slowing down a little bit—they want to understand the price, how it all works.”

Those sales included paintings by Oscar Murillo and Harold Ancart for $380,000 and $150,000, respectively. On Wednesday, Zwirner also sold, for undisclosed prices, a 1991 Kerry James Marshall painting and works by Lisa Yuskavage, Yayoi Kusama, Michaël Borremans, Wolfgang Tillmans, Raymond Pettibon, and Ruth Asawa.

Installation view of Pace Gallery’s booth at Art Basel in Miami Beach, 2018. Courtesy of Art Basel.

The gallery also produced an online-only show curated by Miami collecting scion Jason Rubell this week, the first effort of the gallery’s new director of online sales Elena Soboleva. (Soboleva previously worked at Artsy.) Zwirner said it’s emblematic of the way the gallery wants to use the online space to showcase not only the artists it currently represents, but also new artists and perspectives from others in the art world.

“The Rubell family is basically ground zero [for Miami], but it creates a great model for other things that we can do in the future,” he said. “There are only that many people that can see us physically, who can come to a fair or come to the gallery. And our audience now, with galleries in London and Hong Kong, it’s a much bigger, global audience. So we want to introduce a different platform for them to interact with what we’re doing.”

Dominique Lévy, the co-founder of Lévy Gorvy, echoed Zwirner in reporting a more measured pace of transactions on Wednesday. “I think that the market is slightly shifting away from that sort of pressure trend,” she said. “People are looking more carefully. People are getting more informed and more knowledgeable. But the energy is there.”

Overall, Lévy said that for the kind of historical work she and partner Brett Gorvy are showing at Art Basel in Miami Beach, a slower pace doesn’t necessarily mean lower sales totals in the long term. She said that the gallery is still in conversations with museums about the centerpiece of its booth, Keith Haring’s Silence=Death (1988), a work inspired by the now-iconic pink triangle that first appeared in a 1987 poster created by the Silence=Death collective, and which Haring painted the year he was diagnosed with HIV.

Lévy attributed the market’s change of pace mostly to the dramatic increase in the number of opportunities that collectors have to transact. “There’s been so many fairs, so many auctions, so much,” she said. “It’s the end of the year, and people are being more thoughtful. To me, it’s incredibly positive. I don’t see it as a slowdown. I don’t see it as a negative. I see it as a market that grew super fast in volume, scale, and width.” She added that the gallery had sold several works, all priced below $1 million, in the fair’s opening hours, including Adrian Piper’s Race Traitor (2018), which sold for €175,000 ($199,000) to an American foundation.

Untitled (Electric Light), . Mary Corse Pace Gallery

Untitled (XXXII G), . James Turrell Pace Gallery

Trading volumes have, in fact, contracted by 21.7% over the past decade, while the value of those accumulated transactions has only gone down by 3.2%, according to The Art Market, an annual report commissioned by Art Basel and UBS. But it’s a shift that has favored the biggest galleries selling the most expensive inventory, so it’s not something that Lévy has felt.

“We feel exactly the other way around: that the belly of the market, if so called, is going up and up and up, not shrinking,” she said.

But Horowitz said that “the continued consolidation at the top end of the market” is what he and his team see as the foremost challenge facing the art market. The fact that, on Art Basel’s sales floor, galleries that are opening museum-sized flagships and launching research institutes abutt dealers with fingers and toes crossed that their sales this week will allow them to head home in the black is not lost on the fair’s organizers.

Starting next summer, at its Swiss edition, Art Basel will implement a new booth-pricing scheme whereby the biggest, most successful galleries—which can turn a profit at the fair in a single sale���effectively subsidize the younger galleries. The change was spurred in April, when Zwirner suggested such a scheme to Art Basel global director Marc Spiegler on stage at a conference in Berlin; the proposal garnered immediate support from Pace Gallery CEO Marc Glimcher, who called out approvingly from the audience.

Reducing the cost of participation can help smaller galleries’ bottom lines, but it doesn’t address the more fundamental issue of how to grow collector demand, the number of people buying art, and, ultimately, the number of artworks transacting annually. On Tuesday, at a conference about potential implementations of Blockchain technology in the art market, which was organized by collector and gallerist Adam Lindemann, Glimcher suggested that a more existential long-term challenge for the art market is figuring out how the art world can learn to transact with the many wealthy individuals who don’t currently collect art—and particularly how to draw those potential buyers’ attention to artists who aren’t household names.

Shoe Head, 1976. Philip Guston Hauser & Wirth

“We’ve focused on this little top of the pyramid, but the bottom of the pyramid has grown substantially,” he said. Confronted with that growing “bottom of the pyramid,” an audience that may not have the same cultural and social background as what’s been typical in the art world—or that may be as interested in art’s financial performance as its aesthetic value—Glimcher said that many in the art market have pushed potential collectors away.

“This is not what we got into this for!” he said, mimicking a typical gallerist’s expression of frustration.

“But we need to learn how to interact with a much larger group of people,” he said.

Of course, as Glimcher noted, he’s still done very well transacting at the top of the pyramid. During Art Basel in Miami Beach’s first few hours on Wednesday, Pace sold an untitled Larry Bell sculpture from 1970 for $250,000, Mary Corse’s Untitled (Electric Light) (1968/2018) for $180,000, James Turrell’s reflection hologram Untitled (XXXII G) (2014) for $150,000, and four works by Peter Alexander for figures between $40,000 and $125,000; all works came from the gallery’s thematic stand of artists from the Light and Space and Finish Fetish movements that emerged in Los Angeles in the 1960s. The Institute of Contemporary Art, Miami is currently fêting Bell’s career with a major survey show and, on Tuesday, Pace announced that it would extend its representation of Corse, which began with only its three locations in Asia, to New York.

American collectors were the driving force behind a majority of Hauser & Wirth’s sales on day one, said partner Marc Payot. The gallery notched a handful of Art Basel in Miami Beach’s largest reported sales on day one, led by Philip Guston’s 1976 painting Shoe Head, which sold for $7.5 million; another untitled work from 1969 sold to a European collector for $2.7 million. A monumental new canvas by Mark Bradford, Feather (2018), sold for $5 million, and was promised to an American museum. Two historic pieces by Larry Bell, an untitled sculpture from 1967 and the painting My Montauk (1960), sold for $550,000 and $2 million, respectively, as did two works from this year for $100,000 apiece. The first work the gallery has offered by Amy Sherald since taking her on following the unveiling of her iconic Michelle Obama portrait sold for $175,000 on Wednesday, also as a promised gift to a U.S. museum. Other sales included a Paul McCarthy sculpture, White Snow Cake (2017–18), which went to a collection in Asia for $1.2 million, and the Louise Bourgeois sculpture Femme (2004), which went for around $2 million to an undisclosed buyer.

Amy Sherald, When I let go of what I am, I become what I might be (Self-imagined atlas), 2018. Courtesy of Hauser & Wirth.

White Snow Cake, 2017-2018. Paul McCarthy Hauser & Wirth

These are the kind of results that can foment envy and even anger among galleries in Art Basel’s outer aisles, driving calls for the big galleries to help support upstarts in the industry who are nurturing the next generations of artists and collectors. For its part, Hauser & Wirth has recently sought to contribute more content and research, sectors of the industry that have also struggled to scale at the same pace as sales.

“When you observe the market in the last few years, it’s exploded,” Payot said. “But the research, the intellectual work that’s so needed has not, and the means to do that has not.” In response, the gallery recently launched a nonprofit institute, which will further bolster and digitize the academic work the gallery undertakes, and an art magazine, Ursula, run by former New York Times art critic Randy Kennedy. Two thousand copies of the publication’s debut issue were reportedly distributed on day one of Art Basel in Miami Beach.

Payot added that Hauser & Wirth hasn’t seen any impact thus far from the market’s volatility. But he pointed to the number of paintings that the gallery, like many others, sold on opening day as an indication of collectors’ current thinking.

“A trend to painting, a trend to relatively safe assets, is ongoing. It’s nothing new,” he said. “Especially if you’re talking higher-priced items, it is relatively conservative, but we don’t see weakness in the market whatsoever.”

“It would make sense, but….” He trailed off, shrugging with a smile.

from Artsy News

[ginobsessions]

At the start of July I received this message from a fabulous gin friend…

“Hey lovely, one of the co-founders of Cape Byron Distillery is going to be in town later this month. He wants to do a tasting with some lovely gin peeps. I’ve got an area sorted at the Oliver Conquest at 7pm on Thursday 26 July. Can you make it?”

I didn’t know anything of the distillery, but the tasting was being held in the first week of my summer holidays…what better way to celebrate the beginning of my six weeks of freedom?  Yes, yes, a million times yes, of course I can make it.

Along with the invite I was sent a video link, which posed as an introduction to the distillery.  Now, you all know how I love a good story, well this certainly seemed to have the makings of one and I was most definitely interested to find out a little more.

Click here to watch their promo video

  I was greeted by some familiar faces at The Oliver Conquest, introduced to Eddie Brook, one of the co-founders of Cape Byron Distillery and handed a large Brookie’s G&T (more on that in a bit).  Once our (soon to be very) merry bunch had all assembled, we settled in for what has to be one of the most enjoyable, casual, witty and interesting gin tastings I’ve been to.

Eddie is incredibly charismatic and it is clear from how he speaks that he is utterly passionate about what he does.  He opened the evening with the very amusing story of how his parents, Pam & Martin Brook, came to buy a rundown dairy farm in the hinterland of Byron Bay 30 years ago.  He went on to explain how 160 years ago the rainforest used to stretch from Lismore in the south, through Byron Bay and up towards the Nightcap Ranges, across 75,000 hectares, while today less than 1% of that rainforest remains.  When his parents bought the farm back in 1988, it looked as shown below.  Desolate land serving no purpose.

Since buying the farm the family have planted over 35,000 subtropical rainforest trees, completely transforming the area and creating a thriving ecosystem which is teaming with life.  A proportion of the profits from Brookie’s Gin feeds into the Big Scrub Landcare Foundation, which Martin Brook is Vice President of.

Eddie then captivated us all, explaining how the gin actually came about.  When working with SouthTrade he was tasked with organising a whisky tour around Australia with Jim McEwan, three time Master Distiller of the year, and Eddie’s idol!  Eddie went full fanboy when talking about Jim, proudly and unashamedly gushing about his hero.  Putting it into context, Eddie said, “If I could of had posters of Jim McEwen on my wall, I would have!”  He talked about how nervous he was to first meet Jim and how they had gotten to know each other during the tour.  Eddie said they had shared a connection from the beginning, based on similar values and beliefs.  He shared the story of his family farm with Jim who turned to him and said “we were meant to meet and start this distillery.”

In no time at all Jim visited the rainforest and likened it to a spiritual retreat.  He was able to taste the fruits and wild plants which Eddie had spoken about and was left thinking about how he could use these to make gin.  Brookie’s is created with 26 botanicals, 18 of which are indigenous to the Northern Rivers (Byron Bay) including Byron Sunrise finger limes, Aniseed myrtle, cinnamon myrtle, macadamia, native ginger and native raspberry and their pure spring water comes from Mount Warning.

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There are three points of distillation involved in the creation of Brookie’s, the second point being something called the Babylon Bag, which was devised by Jim and takes its name from the Hanging Gardens of Babylon.  These muslin bags are filled with botanicals and hung inside the pot still above the alcohol.  The idea being that these particular flavours vaporise in the bag and then pass over as top notes when the gin is tasted…did someone say tasting?

No tasting yet, because first we had to feel the gin…what?!  Yup, pop a drop on your finger, check the surface tension of the droplet by effectively trying to shake it off, then gently rub it into the back of your hand.  Sounds totally random but I’ve become a little obsessed with this routine now when tasting gin, never fails to make me smile.

Jars of botanicals were passed around, and finally a bottle of Brookie’s Byron Dry Gin made its way round too.  My oh my was it delicious and worth the wait.  An incredibly balanced gin which takes you on a journey through so many flavours, just as intended.  A combination of citrus and juniper, herb and pepper, all with a creamy texture.  In the absence of finger lime as a garnish, pink grapefruit was used as an alternative.  Pink grapefruit?!  Now they really had me.

But there was more.

Whilst merrily quaffing our G&Ts, Eddie passed around the Brookie’s Bryon Slow Gin, made in the traditional English sloe gin style, but using Davidson’s plums which are steeped in Brookie’s Dry gin for over six months.  Wowee, if you guys are looking for something to warm your cockles in the upcoming winter months, then this is the tipple for you.  By far one of the most delicious sloe gins I have tried.  The plums are also pretty insane and ridiculously sour…imagine Haribo Tangfastics but better.  There was also much hilarity as we discovered each others #plumface when devouring sampling the dried Davidson’s plums.

Being such great gins, it’s not hard to imagine that the bottles of Brookie’s Dry and Brookie’s Slow were demolished fairly quickly, and we were all left wanting more.  Thankfully there was plenty of time for silliness and photos, although even that had to come to an end due to an imminent last train home situation.

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Photo Credit Captain Gintastic

It was only then that the terrible realisation dawned on me, Brookie’s wasn’t yet available to buy in the UK, next best thing? I claimed one of the empty bottles for my collection…well if nothing else at least I could sniff it and imagine the flavour.

At the end of last week I received some amazing news, Brookie’s Byron Dry Gin is finally available to buy in the UK and you can order it online from Amazon or The Whisky Exchange.  Although my post this week was a little better than even that news.  No points for guessing what it was…

        Brookie’s Byron Dry Gin At the start of July I received this message from a fabulous gin friend... "Hey lovely, one of the co-founders of…

[ixvyupdates]

After 14 Years of Teaching, I’m Packing Up Room 103 for the Last Time

It’s June.

The classroom walls are bare.

The grit outlined empty spaces left behind by charts, posters, reading lists and student work jut out starkly against the grime.

The books are packed away into crates labeled with room numbers.

Chairs are stacked, the broken ones separated from those still hanging on.

Hallways that had since August reverberated with the unmistakable cacophony of school now echo with silence.

The diplomas have been distributed. The awards announced. The mailings stuffed. It’s time to go home.

But this year is different.

It’s my last one as a high school English teacher; at least for now.

I’ve been in classrooms ranging from pre-K to 12th grade for the last 14 years.

The last eight of those years have been at a charter school in West Philadelphia.

Our first graduating class was in 2011. I was their teacher.

I have taught nearly every senior that has walked across that graduation stage to receive their diploma.

I have taught two, three, sometimes four siblings from the same families and innumerable cousins. I walk down the street and cars roll down their windows, voices yelling out, “Hi Mr. Wright!” Families know me. And I know them.

And as I pack up room 103 for the last time, I am shaken with sadness, pride and, yes, shame.

I have spent nearly a quarter of my life serving and learning from this West Philadelphia community. And now, as I prepare to drive away for the last time, I feel like I am leaving family.

There is much to be proud of. Huge student growth. College acceptances, scholarships and graduations. Teaching awards. Memories and lessons that, at least for myself, will last a lifetime.

But there is also the shame that I cannot separate from the act of leaving the classroom. I’m not leaving education. Indeed, I will be in more schools than ever, supporting first- and second-year teachers as they embark on their teaching careers.

But there is the inescapable fact that leaving the classroom is akin to leaving the trenches and retreating backwards to the safety and comfort of the homefront.

The classroom is where it happens. The daily interplay, the literally thousands of decisions that are made in the classroom every day, the innumerable connections and communications between teachers and students. Those are the times when the magic happens, the times when lives, of teacher and student alike, are changed forever.

There is nothing, nothing in this world, like the power and energy and magic of the humming classroom. It is intoxicating, draining, exhausting and electrifying.

And even though I know it is time for me to step outside of the classroom, at least for now, it fills me with incomparable sadness and shame, exacerbated by the fact that as word spread through the school, it was the younger students, the sophomores and juniors, who came up to me and demanded to know why I was leaving now, just when they were about to set foot in my classroom.

“It’s time,” was all I could muster.

I tip my cap to all teachers who stay in the classroom, who take their summer to recharge, lace their shoes back up, and get back to the grind of doing the magic and work that so many people write and pontificate about, but don’t have the courage to actually do.

You are all stronger than I.

Photo courtesy of Zachary Wright.

After 14 Years of Teaching, I’m Packing Up Room 103 for the Last Time syndicated from https://sapsnkraguide.wordpress.com

[lazyupdates]

Wikimedia / Shutterstock

Time continues to pass with accelerated force, while history plants its seeds. Often, we don’t pay attention to the subtle changes making their way into our environment and tend to miss out on marvelous transformations.

With technological advances and world revolutions, many significant sights and cities have undergone drastic redesigns that have enabled them to develop in a modernized world. Discoveries following world wars and new machines have allowed for structures to be rebuilt in efficient ways that help progress societies.

Looking back at the changes can be quite shocking and can even provide you with a new perspective. From developing luxurious high-rises to cutting-edge renovations, the planet has seen vast improvements over time that can be remembered with pride and appreciation. Below are 8 before and after photos of places that have changed significantly from the past.

1. The Moulin Rouge cabaret in Paris, France during the 1950s and in 2018. This spot was where famous French artists, like Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, the man who made their famous posters, according to The Guardian, frequented before it was accidentally burnt down in 1915. It was later rebuilt and revived as a club for entertainers during the 1920s and on, and hosted icons like Mistinguett, Edith Piaf and Charles Aznavour. Now it primarily serves as a tourist attraction, with extravagant shows filled with bright lights and costumes, that are open to the public.

Wikimedia / Shutterstock

2. The Tower Bridge in London, England, from 1894 to 2017. This viaduct adjacent to the Tower of London, a historic castle, took 8 years to build and has now become a staple attraction for visitors from around the world. In 2008, the bridge began to undergo what was a four-year-long major renovation project, which included LED lights and a new paint job, says The Telegraph.

Wikimedia / Shutterstock

3. Mulberry Street, in New York City, USA from 1900 to 2014. This road is located in the centre of Little Italy, in Manhattan and has been a setting to many prominent events through history, as well as Mafia crimes, explains Lonely Planet. The sidewalks are no longer covered with carts and merchants, but with busy patios of popular restaurants.

Wikimedia / Shutterstock

4. The Great Library in Osgoode Hall, Toronto, Canada from the 19th century to 2018. This space was an addition following renovations to Osgoode Hall in 1929, uniquely meant for the Law Society of Upper Canada, says Blog TO. It contains 120,000 legal volumes and is a private space paid for by lawyers who are members, that opens to the public during regular operating hours. Its layout and furniture style has changed, but it remains one of Toronto’s hidden treasures.

Wikimedia / Instagram

5.  Los Angeles City Hall in California, from 1927 to 2018. This building is located in the Civic Center district of downtown Los Angeles and houses the mayor’s office, according to their personal Facebook page. Being located in a prime spot, it has had the chance to be included as the backdrop of many famous movies and shows, such as The Adventures of Superman, War of the Worlds and L.A. Confidential. You can now find it surrounded by palm trees and sports cars.

Wikimedia / Instagram

6. Museum of the City of Lodz, in Łódź, Poland from the 1920’s to 2017. The castle was previously owned by a Polish-Jewish businessman, Izrael Poznański, and served as a personal palace with numerous offices and dining spaces, explains Culture.pl, a Polish historical website. The space now works as a museum honoring architecture and national history.

Facebook / Refotografie

7. Dubai, UAE from 2005 to 2012. This global city has quickly transformed from being a desert to becoming a business hub and one of the most visited places in the Middle East. Countless skyscrapers were built over the last decade, including the tallest tower in the world, Burj Khalifa, confirms Guinness World Records. Oil revenue initially launched its development but now its funding relies primarily on tourism, real estate and aviation.

Pinterest / Shutterstock

8. The Coney Island Cyclone at Luna Park in Coney Island, New York from 1961 to 2018. Originally created as a part of a long-time amusement park, Astroland, the ride has now become an iconic part of the island and its culture. Made of wood over 90 years ago, says Fortune, the roller coaster currently finds itself surrounded by many new, high-tech counterparts.

Wikimedia / Tumblr

9. Front Street in Toronto, Canada, from 1950 to 2018. The main road, which is now home to the Fairmont Royal York hotel and Union Station, was excavated mid-twentieth century for the construction of the subway, according to Toronto.ca. The street was first laid out in 1796 and is still one of the most walked-on in the city.

Wikimedia / Shutterstock

10. Estadio Olímpico Universitario in Mexico City, from 1952 to 2018. At the time of its erection, this multi-purpose stadium was the largest in the country. Since that time it’s held the 1955 Pan American Games, the 1968 Summer Olympics, says Olympic.org, and a few 1986 FIFA World Cup games. As a constituent of the National Autonomous University of Mexico, it also works as a playing field on campus.

Wikimedia / Shutterstock

11. The Bode Museum on the Museum Island in Berlin, Germany, from 1909 to 2018. Originally, the building was called the Kaiser Friedrich Museum, after Emperor Frederick III, explains Visit Berlin, but was later renamed in 1956 to honour its first curator. Today, it sits near the Fernsehturm Tower, and holds works varying in eras, from the Middle Ages to the Renaissance.

Wikimedia / Shutterstock

12. The Acropolis of Athens, in Greece, from the 1900’s to 2018. The Acropolis, meaning “highest point,” in Greek, says the English Oxford Dictionary, is an ancient fortress located above the capital city of Athens. It’s comprised of a number of ancient buildings, including the Parthenon. The archaic site remains a historical attraction that is recognized worldwide.

Wikimedia / Shutterstock

13. Bondi Beach in Sydney, Australia, from 1937 to 2018. The famous beach officially opened to the public in 1882, and since has been a popular retreat for locals and visitors, alike. Though it is historically famous for its strict laws against indecent swimwear, according to Australia’s Daily Telegraph, it has now converted to contemporary norms and allows bikinis and topless sunbathing.

Wikimedia / Shutterstock

14. Tokyo Station Building in Chiyoda, Tokyo from 1997 to 2018. The Marunouchi business district, neighboring the Imperial Palace, is where the original building still lies. An expansion, not far from the Ginza commercial district, was added more recently, with further renovations developing until 2013. Shockingly, two Japanese prime ministers were assassinated at the station, one in 1921 and the other in 1930, says CNN.

Wikimedia / Shutterstock

15. Pike Street in Seattle, Washington, from 1909 to 2018. Seattle’s Pike Street is most famous for being residence to Pike Place Market, the country’s oldest operated public farmers’ markets, dating back to 1907, according to Seattle.gov. The 33rd most visited tourist attraction in the world sees more than 10 million people yearly and contains a variety of family-owned shops, restaurants and fresh seafood and produce.

Wikimedia / Shutterstock

16. The Chicago Skyline, in the State of Illinois, from 1970 to 2018. This beautiful metropolitan city inhabits over 2.7 million people and is the third-largest in the United States, after New York and Los Angeles. Being the birthplace of the first skyscraper in 1885, as reported by The Guardian, it now holds more than 100 high-rises, making its skyline one of the most noteworthy.

Wikimedia / Shutterstock

17. Jama Masjid in Delhi, India from 1976 to 2018. Built in 1644 following orders by Mughal Emperor Shah Jahan, it is one of the largest mosques ever built in India and can hold up to 25,000 guests. The building faced two attacks, one bombing in 2006, and a shooting in 2010, though none were fatal, says the Encyclopedia Britannica.

Wikimedia / Shutterstock

18. Chiang Mai, Thailand, from 1976 to 2018. The city of Chiang Mai is the largest in northern Thailand. Found above the Ping River, says Chiang Mai by Hotels.com, it holds some of the most beautiful Buddhist temples, dating back to the 13th century. The old city is where these intricate gems exist, a place often crowded with awestruck tourists.

Wikimedia / Shutterstock

19. Hampton Court Gardens in London, England, from the 1930’s to 2018. Home to a large trapezoid maze, commissioned in the 18th century, it covers 60 acres of land, says Historical Royal Palaces, and is known for being remarkably well-kept. It sits behind a palace originally belonging to King Henry the 8th during the 16th century and is now open for public tours.

Wikimedia / Shutterstock

20. Beacon Hill, Hong Kong, China in the 1970’s to 2018. Located in the northern region of the Kowloon peninsula, this high hill is over 400 metres tall and is a part of Lion Rock Country Park, says the AFCD of the government of Hong Kong. The hill was also used as a lookout spot for intruders during the reign of the Qing Dynasty and is now a site occupied by a police transmitter and radar station.

Wikimedia / Shutterstock

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After 14 Years of Teaching, I’m Packing Up Room 103 for the Last Time

It’s June.

The classroom walls are bare.

The grit outlined empty spaces left behind by charts, posters, reading lists and student work jut out starkly against the grime.

The books are packed away into crates labeled with room numbers.

Chairs are stacked, the broken ones separated from those still hanging on.

Hallways that had since August reverberated with the unmistakable cacophony of school now echo with silence.

The diplomas have been distributed. The awards announced. The mailings stuffed. It’s time to go home.

But this year is different.

It’s my last one as a high school English teacher; at least for now.

I’ve been in classrooms ranging from pre-K to 12th grade for the last 14 years.

The last eight of those years have been at a charter school in West Philadelphia.

Our first graduating class was in 2011. I was their teacher.

I have taught nearly every senior that has walked across that graduation stage to receive their diploma.

I have taught two, three, sometimes four siblings from the same families and innumerable cousins. I walk down the street and cars roll down their windows, voices yelling out, “Hi Mr. Wright!” Families know me. And I know them.

And as I pack up room 103 for the last time, I am shaken with sadness, pride and, yes, shame.

I have spent nearly a quarter of my life serving and learning from this West Philadelphia community. And now, as I prepare to drive away for the last time, I feel like I am leaving family.

There is much to be proud of. Huge student growth. College acceptances, scholarships and graduations. Teaching awards. Memories and lessons that, at least for myself, will last a lifetime.

But there is also the shame that I cannot separate from the act of leaving the classroom. I’m not leaving education. Indeed, I will be in more schools than ever, supporting first- and second-year teachers as they embark on their teaching careers.

But there is the inescapable fact that leaving the classroom is akin to leaving the trenches and retreating backwards to the safety and comfort of the homefront.

The classroom is where it happens. The daily interplay, the literally thousands of decisions that are made in the classroom every day, the innumerable connections and communications between teachers and students. Those are the times when the magic happens, the times when lives, of teacher and student alike, are changed forever.

There is nothing, nothing in this world, like the power and energy and magic of the humming classroom. It is intoxicating, draining, exhausting and electrifying.

And even though I know it is time for me to step outside of the classroom, at least for now, it fills me with incomparable sadness and shame, exacerbated by the fact that as word spread through the school, it was the younger students, the sophomores and juniors, who came up to me and demanded to know why I was leaving now, just when they were about to set foot in my classroom.

“It’s time,” was all I could muster.

I tip my cap to all teachers who stay in the classroom, who take their summer to recharge, lace their shoes back up, and get back to the grind of doing the magic and work that so many people write and pontificate about, but don’t have the courage to actually do.

You are all stronger than I.

Photo courtesy of Zachary Wright.

After 14 Years of Teaching, I’m Packing Up Room 103 for the Last Time syndicated from https://sapsnkraguide.wordpress.com