#what's that one poem? they mess you up your mum and dad they may not mean to but they do! they took the troubles they all had | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

lesbian-in-leather · 2 years

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Here's a couple more for the writing ask game! : 12, 25, 32

12. If a genie offered you three writing wishes, what would they be? Btw if you wish for more wishes the genie turns all your current WIPs into Lorem Ipsum, I don’t make the rules

Okay FIRST OF ALL I think it's rude that I can't wish for more wishes, we all know I love loopholes. SECOND OF ALL this was really fun to think about, so here we go:

I'd wish for the ability to perfectly retain any and all information about my WIPs until I've written it down, at which point it can be stored with regular memories. How often have you had a great idea just as you're falling asleep, or in the shower, or just busy and don't have time to write it down, but by the time you actually can, it's left your head? Not a problem anymore

I'd wish that I can always think of the word I need. Not only does it stop annoying mid-flow thesaurus checks or ages of combing the internet because I know what I mean but I can't find it - but there are other applications too! Creating a fantasy language? No need for a translation document, I can just type out whatever shit I need and it'll be right. Get wrecked genie, two for the price of one and I didn't cheat so my WIPs are safe

And finally, I'd wish that I have the motivation to write whenever I have the time, so that all of my writing sessions will actually be productive (maybe I'd link this motivation to like. A specific word or something? Idk, I don't trust this genie not to mess with me here)

25. What is a weird, hyper-specific detail you know about one of your characters that is completely irrelevant to the story?

Okay so I know what I said in the last post, and I do over-plan, but also I try to include a lot of the random details because I much prefer reading and writing character driven stories, so like, the little details are usually relevant to something. Having said that, sometimes it's just a very short throwaway kinda relevance, or it's an extension of an actual plot point that doesn't come out until later. Although I do know some random stuff like, one OC constantly fidgets with her necklace without realising, and another one always wears a hoodie and messes with the zip because she likes the sound it makes. Sorry I feel like this wasn't as interesting as it could have been lmao

32. What is a line from a poem/novel/fanfic etc. that you return to time and time again? How did you find it? What does it mean to you?

Okay I physically cannot pick just one, but know that there are also so many more that I could have said here (including but not limited to: all of the works I mentioned in the last post that I am deliberately not allowing myself to repeat). Because I've picked so many examples and you asked a former English student for analysis, I'm going to put them all under the cut and honestly I had so much fun thinking about this and writing out the analysis that I don't even mind if no one reads it lmao

Mentions of death and suicide (in relation to the fictional characters in the texts I'm talking about)

Poems

This Be The Verse, by Philip Larkin

They fuck you up, your mum and dad. They may not mean to, but they do. [...] Man hands on misery to man. It deepens like a coastal shelf. Get out as early as you can, And don’t have any kids yourself.

Technically I first heard this (or, the last stanza of it, at any rate) quoted in The End by Lemony Snicket, but I also studied the full poem when I did my A-Levels, and honestly the whole thing is absolutely incredible. It's such a beautiful poem, and I do think about the entire thing all the time (I have it memorised) but specifically the first two lines and the final stanza have always been my favourite. Something about the acknowledgment of how you can still be fucked up by your parents even if they didn't mean it really, really got to me (I wonder why haha), and the final stanza has such a bleak outlook on everything but... it also really resonated with me, especially at the time I first read the full poem. And even though I don't think like that anymore, and I now have a much more neutral or even positive outlook on humanity and human nature, this poem still holds such a crucial place in my heart, and I do think about it all the time

Ozymandias, by Percy Bysshe Shelley

My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings; Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair! Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away.

Another one I have memorised - what initially started as GCSE work really stuck with me lmao. Again, the full poem gets me just as much, but this passage specifically... oh my god. As someone who has a genuine Issue in my head about being remembered after I’m gone, this poem really got to me. The fact that Ozymandias spent so much time and effort into ensuring he was remembered, and he got his wish... on a technicality. The idea that I can't control how I'm remembered, only what I do, and if I spend too long focusing on my legacy, then that's all that people will know about me... yeah, this poem got me fucked up

Novel

The End, Chapter Thirteen, by Lemony Snicket

“You're the one who made us orphans in the first place,” he [Klaus] said, uttering out loud for the first time a secret all three Baudelaires had kept in their hearts for almost as long as they could remember. Olaf closed his eyes for a moment, grimacing in pain, and then stared slowly at each of the three children in turn. “Is that what you think?” he said finally. “We know it,” Sunny said. “You don't know anything,” Count Olaf said. “You three children are the same as when I first laid eyes on you. You think you can triumph in this world with nothing more than a keen mind, a pile of books, and the occasional gourmet meal.” He poured one last gulp of cordial into his poisoned mouth before throwing the seashell into the sand. “You're just like your parents,” he said, and from the shore the children heard Kit Snicket moan. “You have to help Kit,” Violet said. “The baby is arriving.” “Kit?” Count Olaf asked, and in one swift gesture he grabbed an apple from the stockpot and took a savage bite. He chewed, wincing in pain, and the Baudelaires listened as his wheezing settled and the poisonous fungus was diluted by their parents' invention. He took another bite, and another, and then, with a horrible groan, the villain rose to his feet, and the children saw that his chest was soaked with blood. “You're hurt,” Klaus said. “I've been hurt before,”

Alright I know I don't shut up about asoue but here me out, okay? Similarly to the last post (because even though I'm not letting myself repeat passages, I can still repeat themes) I read this when I was like seven or eight, and it was, once again, one of the first times grey-morality was introduced to me. But, where Witches Abroad taught me that sometimes heroes don't want to be heroes and that villains might not think they're villains, The End taught me that even if a villain knows and embraces the fact they're a villain... that doesn't mean they're evil. Now, as an adult, I actively reject the 'Good Vs Evil' dichotomy, but as a kid, basically everything you're exposed to has the heroes always be Morally Correct while the villains are Entirely Evil (hell, even most media aimed at adults struggles with the concept of villains being terrible people while still being allowed to have redeeming qualities). And then I read this passage. I mean, the whole entire scene still makes me fucking sob, but I come back to this passage in particular over and over and over again. Because Olaf was fucking dying. He's tired, and he's been stabbed, and poisoned, and he was going to let himself die right then and there. He doesn't even deny the accusation that he killed the Baudelaire parents - what would be the point, when we all know that villains lie? No one would ever believe him - but that question in response is heartbreaking. He looks at these children that he's tormented for months on end, and just asks them, simply, if that's what they think. Like he can't quite believe they'd think so little of him. As if, suddenly, he's realising how they see him, how they've always seen him. Realising that, to them, he really is just a cartoon villain. And that death would have been sad enough. That death would have still stuck in my head, and I would still probably be talking about it now, if he'd died on the very next line. But he doesn't. He hears Kit's name and launches himself at the antidote, and the kids and the reader finally realise that he's bleeding out but he doesn't care. All he cares about it Kit, saving Kit, helping Kit, and it's so jarring. He's spent thirteen books not caring about anyone but himself, leaving even his own henchpeople in the dust when it suits him, but suddenly he's not only helping someone else, but disregarding his own wellbeing to help someone that's shown to be directly opposed to him. He helps someone that we, as a first time reader, assume to be his enemy, and he's so panicked at the thought that she's in danger, and so soft when he helps her. He's still the same man he's always been - but we now know that that man isn't evil, and he never was. He's cruel, and greedy, and selfish, and he cares. He loves someone else enough to die for her. He's hurt, but it doesn't matter to him as long as Kit's safe. He's been hurt before

Fanfic

Now, most of the time with fanfic what sticks in my head is a particular scene, or theme, or even just the feeling evoked by the entire work. Having said that, there are some notable exceptions to this rule (and, again, I’m only choosing two and not letting myself repeat any of the works I talked about in the last post) so I would like to draw attention to:

This Ficlet by @beatricebidelaire

Ernest sits down next to him. “When she [Violet] frowns,” he says in a low voice. “It’s almost as if I'm looking at him.” [Bertrand] Frank doesn’t turn his head. “I thought he always smiled when he’s talking to you.” “You say that as if those are the only times I ever looked at him,” Ernest replies.

Oh,,, the love in that sentence. I can't stop thinking about it. The fact that we can tell it was reciprocated - Ernest looked at Bertrand even when he didn't notice, but whenever Bertrand looked at him he was smiling, and everyone else saw it. OH I feel so many things. This is love, you know? That's what I want, and I love how gentle this quote is. How softly it's presented. Like a fact and a confession all at once

And then there's this fic by @jeromesqualor

And then, all of a sudden, he [Jacques] feels like he’s been hit by a freight train. The laughter stops, and he feels nothing but a strange, pleasant warmth, all over. This is the moment where he realises that he doesn’t want her [Esmé] to ever leave. This is the moment where he realises he’s completely, inconceivably, very inconveniently, fucked. [...] When he’s [Jacques] no longer able to sit straight, when he slumps against the bricks and his head lolls forward to press his forehead into the bars, he distantly hears her sharp, broken intake of breath. “It’s alright, Jacques,” she [Esmé] whispers, cutting through the haze, choked with tears. “It’s alright.”

I found this (predictably) by combing through the Esmé tag, and though it was for a ship I'd never really considered before, it is absolutely one that now consumes my thoughts. These two passages specifically, though, for very different reasons. The first one is such a soft, genuine way to present love and it's beautiful. A freight train that leaves him feeling a pleasant warmth. The fact that he isn't even necessarily happy about it, but the feeling is there all the same. It wasn't a choice, but it isn't bad, either. It's just... I don't know, that's love. Uncontrollable, unpredictable, sudden and slow all at once. And then there's the second section - ohhhhhh man. Because it's so clear that she loves him back - you can see it. But she had to do it - she had to poison him. And she knew he would die and it would be her fault, and it would have been so easy to present her as someone who doesn't care, but that's not true. She did what she thought had to be done, but the second she sees the result she breaks down. It's so out of character, but in a perfectly in-character way - it's something that feels so real, so right, but also something no one would ever expect from Esmé, and I think about it literally all the time

Etc. Plays

I know that usually plays aren't read, but I studied both of these and I've (tragically) never gotten the chance to see either of them performed (though I have seen a film adaptation of Streetcar, but I still read it first) so I'm saying they count

A Streetcar Named Desire, Tennessee Williams

BLANCHE [holding tight to the DOCTOR's arm]: Whoever you are—I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.

Oh my god. Oh my god. This play, this whole entire play, is a masterpiece. But studying it in my class was much less fun than it should have been, because I was one of the only people in that room that liked Blanche, and I stand by that to this day. She is a beautifully written character. She's flawed, and selfish, and materialistic, and so, so fragile that she's already broken before the play has even begun. And it breaks my heart to see it. But this line. This line hurts. Because the Doctor she's clinging to so desperately is taking her away to an asylum. That's how her story ends. It's the last line she says before she leaves, and it's almost the end of the play. And after she's gone, almost everyone goes back to exactly how they were before she'd arrived, like she'd never even existed. And she's been hurt so many times - we learn about her past, and how she's been treated, and see how she's treated during the play. People - and especially men - are not kind to Blanche. And yet, after crying on the floor, being pinned to the ground while screaming and making "inhuman cries", she sees this man. This stranger. And, as an audience, we know what he's here to do. After this line they leave, arm-in-arm. And she's trusting him, she's relying on him to protect her. And he won't. We know he won't - but she doesn’t. She truly believes it. Over and over, she believes she'll be protected. Even after everything that she's seen, and done, and everything that's been done to her... Still, she depends on the kindness of strangers

Hedda Gabler, by Henrik Ibsen (translated by Michael Meyer)

TESMAN [runs to the doorway]: Hedda dear, please! Don't play dance music tonight! Think of Auntie Rena. And Eilert. HEDDA [puts her head through the curtains]: And Auntie Juju. And all the rest of them. From now on I'll be quiet. [She closes the curtains behind her]

This is another play I studied at A-Level (Drama, this time, instead of English), and while this isn't the last time Hedda talks, it is the last time we see her alive. And ever since I first read it, it's been bouncing around in my head. It's the understated way she disappears - and only a few lines later, she cuts herself off with a gunshot to her own head. It's the way everyone around her misunderstands her so thoroughly - her own husband thinks that mentioning the dead will get her on side, and no one thinks it odd that she brings up a woman she's repeatedly made it clear that she dislikes. As a reader or a member of the audience, you can see that she's realising there's no way out of her life - she can't divorce her husband, she might even be pregnant with his child. And she tells them that she’s going to end it - I'm sure, to her, she was making her intentions perfectly clear. "From now on I'll be quiet." It's so sad, and soft - especially when said by such an unpredictable character. And then her death is the culmination of everything she's been feeling throughout the play - the longing for beauty, because to her it is beautiful. And I think part of the reason it sticks with me so much is because I was the only one to see her that way in my class. Not everyone hated her (though a lot of them did), but no one else was sympathetic to her. I'm not saying she was a good person, but I did empathise, especially in a room of people all arguing that she deserved her fate

I apologise for the sheer amount I talked about all of those. And if you did read all of this rambling, thank you! I appreciate it, even if it might not have been particularly coherent

#aaah thank you for sending more asks!!!#i am having literally SO MUCH FUN answering these #the lesbian herself #weird questions for writers #vaguely functional directions #by the time i finished this it was only like #half an hour until my daily queued post #so i just booped it up to the top of that list lmao

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ladydarklord · 3 years

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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?”

#I hadn't seen this one before so I thought I'd share #noel will never dress down #ah yes the patient boyfriend Julian Barratt

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kim-ruzek · 3 years

Text

They fuck you up, your mum and dad

Summary: Introspective fic. Jesse asks a question about her father and it sets off all of Amanda's worries and fears.

Warnings: mentions of addiction, gambling addiction.

Word Count: 3k

Read on AO3

Notes: So. I've been rewatching season 15 and I'm in my Amanda feels. This came into my mind last night and would not leave until I wrote so hence my first ever svu fic was born. Although, full disclaimer, I do have the personal headcanon that Nick is Jesse's father, but this is canon compliant in that Murphy is.

The title and poem is from This be the verse by Richard Larkin! (Thank you @fighterkimburgess for the suggestion).

I hope you enjoy!

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.

They may not mean to, but they do.

They fill you with the faults they had

And add some extra just for you.

Amanda always knew that this day would come.

She knew it from the very moment she saw that positive pink line on that drugstore pregnancy test. She knew it when she decided that she was having her baby, that she was keeping her. She knew it when she bumped into Declan Murphy, and the reality that her baby’s father was a career UC was brought once more to the forefront of her mind.

Jesse was a perfect, beautiful baby.

Amanda had such trouble with love, never falling for the right people, never really experiencing real love. But from the very first time she laid eyes on Jesse she loved her, loved her with such a fierceness and strength that she had never felt before. Jesse was the first person who Amanda ever loved, the first love that wasn’t tainted by the darkness of the person’s soul.

Jesse was bright-eyed, beautiful, and angelic. Her soul was the most purest, untouched from any evils. And she was hers, completely and utterly hers.

Of course, that’s not true. There’s no way, biologically and scientifically, that could ever be true. A woman can’t just spontaneously get pregnant—even in the Bible, Mary was blessed by God himself, if she was so inclined to believe.

Jesse is half Amanda’s, half Declan’s. Amanda will never admit—not even to Sonny late at night—just how happy it made her that Jesse took after her in looks, that Amanda’s genes came out the strongest. It’s a petty kind of pride, she thinks, but as selfish as it is, Jesse is hers and she’s always going to happy that’s reflected in her looks.

Not that Amanda would ever love her less if she didn’t. She doesn’t think she physically could—another thing that makes her proud. One of her main wants when she became a parent was that she’d never be like her own mother, that her love would never be conditional, that if she ever had more than one child that she’d never favour the one over the other. And with the fierce certainty that erupts in her at the thought of not loving Jesse, the certainty that isn’t possible, reassures her that she’s at least keeping to that goal.

Still, there are times when Jesse pulls an expression that so strongly reminds Amanda of her old lieutenant, of Jesse’s father, that it brings up the thought, the reminder, that one day this conversation would be had, that Jesse would ask about her father.

Jesse knows who he is, knows the basics. She’s met him, only a handful of times, but she has met him. Liked him, even. They’ll never be like the typical father and daughter, but their moments together has always been positive.

Jesse understands this, knows that Declan is never really going to be around. It’ll make Amanda sadder, if it affected Jesse in any way. But truth be told, Jesse is never that much bothered by it. Not even in a way that’s just her being too grown up, but in a genuine way. A way that it doesn’t mar Jesse’s bright spirit, doesn’t bring any darkness or mess her up in any kind of way absentee parents can do.

Amanda has done good, something that some days she can’t quite get her head around. She’s given Jesse a big, loving, albeit unconventional, family that never leaves her lacking for anything.

She’s got Amanda, a mother who’d quite literally die for her. She’s got Frannie, who’s very much protective over the young Rollins’. And she’s got Billie, a sister, a playmate. Someone who Amanda hopes will grow to be a friend as well as a sister, that the two will be each other’s confidantes. That, especially in the teen years when rebellion is rife, that her daughters will have each other’s backs, even if that means helping to the other to keep secrets from her.

And she’s got so much more. Aunt Liv and Uncle Fin. Her cousin Noah. Even Uncles John and Don, and those rare occasions Nick is in town. And recently, her new uncle, Uncle Elliot. And finally, she has her Uncle Sonny. Sonny, probably the next important person in Jesse’s life aside from her. And through Sonny, even more since they had begun dating, Jesse has grandparents, aunts and uncles and even more cousins.

Jesse is so surrounded by love and people who will protect her with their dying breath. And so, even though Declan is barely present, she’s growing so self assured, with no holes or gaps in her life. This is something Amanda will always be grateful for, that she can’t give Jesse a traditional family but that it doesn’t matter, because the one she’s got leaves her whole.

Amanda had hoped this meant she’d have more time before Jesse came asking about her father.

It’s partly for selfish reasons. Because Amanda has this strong connection with her daughter—both, really—that she’s a single mother, that her daughters are hers and hers alone.

Although as Jesse grows, the less Amanda can think that. She always will of course, because it’ll never change, but it also has. It’s shifted; no longer is Jesse this small, squishy thing who needs Amanda and Amanda alone. She’s a precocious six year old, with her own personality and traits.

Jesse is, biologically, half Amanda and half Declan but she’s fast teaching Amanda just how little genes are important. Because Jesse is made up with little pieces of everyone in her life. She’s taken to using phrases and sayings that Fin uses, she keeps wanting a blazer like aunty Liv’s, and she’s got a Staten Island twang picked up from Sonny.

Amanda loves seeing this, loves seeing her family reflected in her daughter. But it also makes her panic, to cling onto her little girl and never let her go. Because she’s hers.

But this isn’t only why she almost dreaded this day. It’s still her being selfish, but Amanda thinks that everything she feels for her children could be seen as selfish, because nothing else in the world matters more than her two angels.

Declan may, biologically, be Jesse’s father, but Amanda knows who she sees as her dad, in her heart. That Sonny is her father, really. He was the first other person to ever hold Jesse, the second person she first called too, the man she loves and always wants to be with them.

He plays the games he knows she likes, helps her with her homework, takes her to her grandparents and stays with her when Amanda’s busy at work. That he had been doing this long before they were even a couple, that Jesse cuddles had been fixing his bad days ever since she was born.

In Amanda’s heart, Sonny is always going to be Jesse’s dad.

And she so desperately wants it to be true, to have biology support the truth she knows in her heart. She doesn’t put much stock in biology these days anyway, but it would make things oh so more easier. Because Amanda will always think Sonny as her daughter’s dad, but as it’s so, so apparent—Jesse is her own person.

Jesse has her own thoughts and opinions and feelings. And Declan is, biologically, Jesse’s dad. And Amanda knows that what her heart feels, thinks, knows...it means nothing compared to what Jesse’s heart does, what Jesse decides is fact or fiction.

And so Amanda has feared this day, almost. The day Jesse shows an interest in knowing more about Declan.

Fears it because it brings up Amanda’s very real worry that Jesse will reject Sonny, her worry that they’re all just playing at house and if they begin addressing how Jesse has someone else’s blood running through her veins everything will crumple before she can stop it.

And fears because, well, because Amanda’s never really been admired or respected by anyone—especially when it comes to her own blood. But that’s the thing about children, they look at you like you’re their superhero, that you’re invincible. And Amanda knows her daughters will one day see the world less black and white, and she’s prepared for this. Excited, even, because she catches herself often marvelling at the thought of how her relationship with her daughters will be when they’re adults.

But how can she explain how Jesse came to be? How she made a stupid decision and slept with Declan? That she didn’t even realise she was pregnant before Yates, a serial killer, pointed it out. Jesse knows the basics, and Amanda knows that her daughter isn’t asking for these more adult descriptions, but it ignites her ultimate worry in her. That one day her daughter will understand how she came to be, and that she’d think less of her.

Jesse is her first love of her life and the thought of her thinking lowly of her, of judging her, is one that’s too much to bare. One that has brought her to tears in the middle of night just thinking about it, just the idea of her daughter thinking of her in a negative light.

And it’s not because Jesse was conceived after a one night stand, not really. Amanda does worry about that, too, of course—same with Billie. Especially with the girls realising that Amanda made the same mistake twice, and not even with the same man.

But because the story of her and Declan is not a pleasant one. It’s messy, chaotic, unromantic.

How will she ever explain to her daughter that she was only conceived, if you trace it back to the beginning, because she is an addict, because she wasn’t strong enough to stay on the wagon, that she gambled illegally and that she risked everything.

That she only met Jesse’s father because she was outed as a cop, because she was stupid enough to put herself in a situation where being a cop can get you killed.

In general, in a weird way, Amanda feels grateful for her having that lapse. The whole thing with Nate and Lena had hit her like a truck, had stolen her breath and made everything spiral, and made her loose control. Even a year later, it hurt. The betrayal had cut deep and it robbed her of her gambling sobriety.

But then she had Jesse. But then she had stared into Jesse’s eyes for the very first time, and so much of that hurt was instantly evaporated. Because if that didn’t happen, if she didn’t fall if the wagon then, she never would’ve met Declan—she never would’ve had Jesse.

Of course, there’s a chance she still would meet him, because after all he was in charge of svu twice. But Amanda knows, knows, that had she not met him then that she’d never have slept with him, and so she never would’ve had Jesse.

It’s quite remarkable how the act of having Jesse wiped away her remaining embarrassment over it, that she finally accepted that it was just something that had happened.

But there’s always two sides of a coin. And having an addict for a mother, having it be so that your mom only met your dad because she was an addict... How could she ever expect Jesse to know that and not think less of her?

And how does she expand on how she met Declan to a curious six year old? Not quite old enough to deal with bigger information pieces, but not too young to be satisfied with an non answer.

Amanda tries to reassure herself, that at least Declan was a good man. That her conversation with Jesse is infinitely more easier than the one Liv has to have with Noah. But there’s a part of her mind that rebuffs that. That says that Noah is adopted, that Liv is his saviour, whereas she was the one who made the choices that brought Jesse and Billie into the world.

It’s not a fair rebuff. Adoption is always a tough subject, and then there’s the fact that Noah’s biological father was a rapist. That’s never going to be an easy thing to address. Although, if anyone knows how to do it—or rather, how not to do it—it’s going to be Liv.

This reassurance does nothing for her, and she once more wishes so, so strongly that Sonny was her daughters’ father. It’s so easy to just operate on that. Sonny had always been here. He had even been called dada briefly by Jesse when she was a baby.

Even Declan had noted it, on Jesse’s third birthday. He had stopped by, had interacted with Jesse. There was a moment when he was helping Amanda get the cake that he had directed her attention to where Sonny sat playing with Jesse.

“He’s good with her.” Declan had observed. Then he had said something that had taken her by surprise but will forever have a residence in her mind.

“You know, if you ever need me to sign any papers, just say the word. I’ll never be a traditional dad to her, but if you have someone... I’ll sign.” He had said. Amanda had gaped at him, unsure of what to say, but in typical Declan fashion he just moved on easily.

In all this, Amanda has one reassurance, that it’ll be easier with Billie. Billie, like her sister, had called Sonny dada before she could speak much but unlike Jesse, she hadn’t stopped. Most of Billie’s life, her memories, had Amanda and Sonny being an actual couple.

It’s not like Amanda thinks Jesse rejects the idea of seeing Sonny as her father. In fact, she’s fairly certain she does. Father day cards are always addressed to him and since they got together, Jesse’s rather gotten in the habit of just calling him Sonny, not Uncle Sonny. Amanda knows her daughter, and she knows that the dropping of uncle is because Sonny’s no longer an uncle, or at least no longer just that.

But Amanda’s fears go well beyond that. It goes to her fears of how her daughter will see her, if her daughter will think herself as a mistake, as a regret. Her wish for Sonny to be her dad just is so strong not because Amanda wishes for just an easy life, but because there’s so much that could cause Jesse strife in the story of her parents, and Amanda never wants her daughter to feel anything bad.

Jesse is so perfect, so innocent and whole. Her world is small, but filled with so much love. Amanda sees such darkness on a daily basis, and has been through such darkness, but Jesse knows only light. And Amanda knows that Jesse will one day fight her own demons; that Jesse will have her heart broken, that the world will be unfair to her someday.

That thought aches, aches, Amanda’s heart, the desire to protect her daughter from anything bad surging. But it’ll happen, and Amanda can only take comfort in that she’ll help Jesse through it, and that Jesse has so many other people to help her through it.

It’s a source of pride for Amanda that Jesse is having a stable childhood. Amanda herself had such a rocky one, had learnt that home isn’t always as warm and welcoming as it should be. It left a deep scar on her, learning that how and when she did. Sobriety is all about taking responsibility for your own actions, and Amanda doesn’t excuse her mistakes, but she understands that all the chaos she put herself through stemmed from that.

Every day at work Amanda sees just how emotional scars can have an affect on one’s self, and she personally knows that. And that’s why she has feared this day. Because Jesse’s world is whole and balanced, because Jesse doesn’t have a part of her that feels empty, lacking. Because Amanda so hopes that it’ll never change, but that she can’t know that.

Jesse came to be because of something so messy and chaotic. She wasn’t made through love, she wasn’t a purposeful action. Her arrival quite literally changed Amanda’s whole world, for the better, but there’s always the fear that Jesse will see it differently.

There’s so much Jesse can take from Amanda’s life, all with the potential to mar her beautiful life, all with the potential to leave her with scars, with the potential to steal chunks of her soul. And that is what leaves Amanda with a cold fear, because the thought of her daughter loosing a piece of herself, for being fucked up by her parents like Amanda was is something she’s so afraid off. And she’s scared that it’ll be because Jesse will become disillusioned about Amanda, that she’d see her mother only as the bad, disaster of a person she was before, and that’s what will fuck her up the most.

Amanda barely had any time to think about this, however, because she has a rather impatient six year old looking at her and waiting for an answer.

“How did you and Declan meet?” Jesse had asked. She’s never called Declan dad, never knowing him long enough, and Amanda will always feel a little happiness that she’s the only parent in Jesse’s life who’s called Mama, who’s given a title—and gratefulness, of course, that Declan doesn’t mind not being called dad in his infrequent visits.

Amanda looks at her beautiful, perfect daughter and she takes a deep breath.

“He saved me,” She answers simply. Because that’s what he did. Because Amanda got so lucky that he was undercover, that he was a kind cop, that he choose to have her back, that he was so ready to defend her to IAB, to even Liv. There’s so many parts of their story that Amanda can’t quite tell her daughter yet, but she can tell her that her dad is kind, and that’s the important thing.

Someday, she’ll have to tell the full story, and that’s when she’ll have to face all her fears. But for now, she’ll just say this and hope that this is one gene of Declan’s that comes through Jesse; that her daughter will be as kind and understanding as her father, that she’ll believe in Amanda the same way Declan did all those years ago when he saved her life. And that it’ll be enough to save Jesse herself, save her from history repeating itself.

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.

They may not mean to, but they do.

They fill you with the faults they had

And add some extra just for you.

#svu #amanda rollins #jesse rollins #rollisi #<- tagging just bc it's very subtly in the background #ree writes #ree's.writing #svu fanfiction

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victimhood · 3 years

Text

God money breeds god complexes

I didn’t want to overexplain the chapter in the notes, but it turns out that yes, I do want to explore the concepts behind it after all. This is an expansion on the meaning of chapter 108 of The Beautiful Game, which is also known as “Booker’s ending” for the fic, but I have no idea how coherent these musings will be.

What is the point of the chapter? Class conflict!!!! LOLOL Why is this the point of the chapter? Err...because The Beautiful Game is really a musing on life itself? This statement really shows its colors in the final chapters.

Now, what is the class conflict in this chapter?

Merrick: owner of capital accumulated thanks to vaccine patents, owner of the football club that Booker plays for

Booker: an employee at the football club. Don’t be fooled by his massive wages--he’s still an employee on a wage contract.

For all the debate about overpaid footballers, one thing is true, and this is a line Booker said in chapter 64: After all, lord knows they will always find a way to make more money off them than they will ever pay them.

Case in point: the finances of Barcelona FC are a complete mess, and Lionel Messi is on an eye watering wage that reportedly breaks down to over 2 million pounds a week. However, with a deeper analysis, some economists dug up that Messi is responsible for practically 50% of Barça’s revenue:

The player made 383,655,000 euros over the 3 years but he has generated 619,265,000 euros in the same time period. This means that the player has made the club a profit of 235,610,000 euros.

Football almost uniquely illustrates the surplus value equation, which is put forth by Marx as "an exact expression for the degree of exploitation of labor-power by capital, or of the laborer by the capitalist", because labor and product are the same within football--both rest within the form of the football player, whose labor generates the entertainment product that is the football game but who are in themselves marketable products--pieces of the notion of the player is turned into merchandise which can be sold. Further, the revenue-generating potential of a player is quantified into the transfer value, which is a payment made from one club to another to obtain the rights of the labor-product (i.e. the player).

Anyway, what I really mean to say is that the chapter is important for me to include, even though its purpose is very opaque at first glance. I cannot write about modern football without illustrating the capitalist machinations behind modern football.

There’s also symbolism! The mistral is a strong, cold, northwesterly wind that blows from southern France into the Gulf of Lion in the northern Mediterranean, and means “masterly”. Coming from Provence, le mistral is a reference to Booker as a masterly playmaker in the game but...it also portends storms. The chapter also calls into question who is the true master, for which the answer is Merrick, as the owner of capital and Booker’s labor rights.

Booker could not fight against Merrick--but he also isn’t given an obvious reason to in this chapter, although we’ve been told before that Merrick has a very cold approach to his players. Merrick has offered Booker a pay rise, but he’s also totally exploited the fact that Booker turned down a competitor, to offer Booker less money than his fair market value.

And then there’s another very interesting conflict between Merrick and Booker, which is exceedingly European and convoluted to explain, but European class divisions are not formed on the basis of money, but on the basis of symbolic markers (which can be cultivated by money). In polite old-money societies, money itself is crass, and talking about money is the crassest of all.

Merrick LACKS the old-money class indicators, while Booker actually possesses them: this is demonstrated in Booker’s knowledge of wine, which takes Merrick by surprise and causes resentment within Merrick. Booker was aware of this because when Merrick asks him how he knows about wine, he provides a misdirecting answer. Being French does NOT confer any special knowledge of wine. In actual fact, the supremacy of French wine is upheld by the most British of wine institutions: the Court of Master Sommeliers, and the other various British wine and spirit institutions.

The OM academy knew exactly what they were doing when they placed Booker away from home. It’s classism, because they didn’t think a social housing environment would encourage a kid to follow the norms they want to impose. They bumped Booker into a middle class household for him to take on bourgeois values by osmosis. Some of it worked, some of it didn’t. By sheer dumb luck he had a kooky wine-obsessed host dad (As a side note: this is also a pointed callout on the bobo to antivax pipeline)

Anyway, Merrick is a total BoJo type, who is extremely insecure about their class standing (because their pedigree by birth doesn’t cut it, even if their education does), and by virtue of this insecurity continue to inflict immense damage on the world.

Merrick’s resentment of Booker’s accidental display of superior class knowledge leads him to shove Booker over when he senses an opportunity--which is pure schoolground bullying. What Merrick doesn’t know is that Booker has trauma from experiencing domestic violence in his childhood, and this random act of violence was triggering for Booker. It doesn’t matter that Merrick doesn’t know--the effect is the same. It’s an act of banal cruelty, meant to reinforce power relations.

And the end of all this, we roll into Booker’s final line, which is “his tears will not fall on her,” a line that just breaks me in so many ways. From the chapter before I’ve already gone into a whole existential musing on the duties of parenthood, and Booker and Nile are the characters who carry this duty in this fic. I think often to Philip Larkin’s “This Be The Verse”, a poem that resonated so much to me as a teen with a lot of familial difficulties.

This Be The Verse

They fuck you up, your mum and dad. They may not mean to, but they do. They fill you with the faults they had And add some extra, just for you. But they were fucked up in their turn By fools in old-style hats and coats, Who half the time were soppy-stern And half at one another’s throats. Man hands on misery to man. It deepens like a coastal shelf. Get out as early as you can, And don’t have any kids yourself.

Now that I’m an adult who accepts my parents have flaws, I think the final verse of this poem bears a pessimism that I’ve learned to work through. I even belive I’ll do a better job of parenting, but if I have to be real, it’s because I am in a place of financial security. If we write for ourselves first and foremost, part of the overarching message of the fic has been to say that there is a better way, there is a way beyond what we know and we may not see the final work but we can build the foundations for the future.

And so I just love Booker and Nile’s final lines so, so much:

make it better, make it better, make it better.

she will always be safe with him, but his tears will not fall on her.

#oh no why can't i just write fanfic fanfic lol #domestic violence cw #trauma triggers #tog fc #tog: the beautiful game

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antigoneidk · 4 years

Text

Unexpectedly good| h.h.

summary: Getting out of your comfort zone isn’t as bad as it seems, getting to know strangers can be fun. Espesially cute ones.

words count: 3.2+

pairing: harry holland x writer!reader

warnings: none

a/n: this is my first time writing about Harry, but I thought why not?

True love exists they say. You're seeing it all around you as you taking a walk around your neighborhood, you’re reading it through written words late at night sitting on your bedroom floor, you’re hearing through melodies while driving around the city.

But does it last forever?

You also notice people getting their hearts broken, couples married for decades separating their ways, fighting for things they thought they never would. You’re listening to your friends crying, or artists expressing this pain through paintings, poems, even movies with actors playing their roles really well, drifting everyone with their emotions. Promises, vows are getting broken.

And you can help those questions that are always running to your mind: if it doesn’t last forever,then why the hell do we bother with it? Why do we even dragging ourselves into these situations when we could easily just be alone and happy after all? If love means suffer, why do others are still falling in love?

It would never make sense. Are they dumb?

Maybe.

We’ve been taught from early years some rules.

Number one: always be kind to others around you.

Number two: listen to your parents.

Number three: find someone to love.

And is not that they told us to do with words, but somehow they showed us with their actions. Your dad would kiss your mother goodbye before work, or give her presents. Your mum would prepare a fancy dinner for him, usually to thank him for everything he’s done for their family. They would go on dates, spoil each other, “I love you"'s would be heard every now and then. Or after an argument they’ll fall asleep and the next day they’ll get up with smiles on their faces and a forgiving speech already made up.

“My parents are divorced.”

Are they single? No, at least one of then has moved on and met somebody to love.

And that is my point. They got their hearts broken once, why do they risk it for the second time?

“Hey are you okay?” the blonde girl asked next to you, clearly worried.

“Umm yeah? Why are you asking?”

“You have these weird expressions while you’re writing and you scared the shit out of us. Also I’m really curious to know what caused you this” your male friend sipped his iced coffee. You laughed at him closing your notebook leaving your pen inside it and copying his movements. The cold liquid felt hydrating.

“I don’t think you will any time soon baby" you placed your cup at the table. “And to be honest with you, nobody will"

“The disrespect! Girl, we’ve been here for the past two hours and this is the first time you're talking" her voice sounded serious at first, turning to more playful after. They both knew that you were an artistic soul, always with a pen in your hand ready to imprint your thoughts at a paper. Writing meant everything to your existence, the only getaway from the world.

“You need to be more confident with your writing y/n. You are talented and you keep wasting your talent away. Imagine how you can change the world with all your inspirational things you write for us, all of your creative stories that I have no idea how your mind is capable to think of them. And I'm not saying this because I'm your friend, this is my honest opinion”

“And some may say that you are just a hopeless romantic. But I am in awe with you and how you describe feelings that are so difficult to talk about.”

You smiled bright at your friends. “What did I do to deserve friends like you guys?”

“You were just lucky that we felt sorry for you that day at the library” he took your hands into his and turned to the girl next to you, that had wrapped her arms around your torso and had placed her head to your shoulder. “Do you remember how lonely she looked?”

“Ouch"you said moving your hand towards your heart playing it hurt. “Oh my Gosh, was I like this?”you asked biting your lip. It was your first year at a new busy town, with people that looked way cooler that you were, a lifestyle out of your comfort zone. Denying that you didn’t seemed lost would be a lie.

They both nobbed their heads laughing and you covered your face thinking how much you have changed the past few years and even though you still wokred with yourself, you had made progress there.

«I think we should go guys, it's getting late and I have work to do» the man of the group announced, Gigi next to you complaining that he just ruined her night for the dumbest reason «in history»

«Who goes home to do work? Have you lost your mind? Let's go get a drink» she turned to you «Is he crazy?»

«I mean he may have a reason»

«Are you siding with him now? Do you have a boyfriend and you just don't want us to know?»she leaned to his side wanting to learn more curious. Your friend was the person that wanted to know everything about the others, not because of the gossip, she wasn't like that. The reason behind it was that Gigi felt the need to protect her family and close friends from bad situations. And to do that, she pressured others just so they can help her create a picture about them, a guide for her that she might need in the future.

Noel on the other hand seemed more like incurious about his friend's private life. Not that he didn't care, but he would wait for the other with no pressure. He was there for who might needed his help, whenever they felt ready to open up. Lies was the only thing that he couldn't forgive. From anyone.

«I'm gonna kill this bitch I swear» he got up following you that you were already behind them giggling with them.

«You are so annoying Noel» Gigi grabbed you by the arms and made her way to the exit of the cute café you spent your afternoon at. You glanced back at him with curved lips but eyes drowning with tears of laughter, while he was getting up from his chair, laughing with his sweet laugh of his and looking around for things that you might have forgot.

«Oh I'm sorry» you heard your friend apologizing at the same time you crashed with her back. You turned your head at her ready to reassure her, before your eyes met a pair of brown ones.

«It's my fault I wasn't paying any attention» a blonde boy next to him apologized shyly.«Ladies first» they both stepped back making room for the both of you to make your way out. You took a look at the boy that caught your attention at first smiling shyly back at him when you noticed him doing the same. You held onto your friend tightly as you walked away, giggling with her quietly.

«Gigi what was that?» you asked after a while, being sure that none of them would here you.

«I have no idea» she said before slowing her step finally staying still in front of you. «But they looked cute» her eyes made their way behind your back.

«Yes he did» you mumbled taking a look at your shoes. At the very time you realized what words your mouth left out loud you corrected yourself quickly «They were cute yeah..um..where-where is Noel?» you shallowed the inside of your cheeks staring back at her.

«Behind you» she replied with a smirk. «Hey baby y/n forgot her pen there, would you wait for us? Just for a minute?»

«What? No-»

«No she didn't, I checked everywhere. Y/n just search again at your bag»You rolled your eyes and opened your bag, diving your hand into the mess inside just for you to reveal the pen that was missing apparently.

«I can't with you guys sometimes» her walking far from the two of you had you chuckle at your friend, yet thinking that something would have come out of this. But it was just a stranger, a handsome one, that you would never see again. The chances of meeting this man were minimal so you tried to not distract your mind with possible scenarios.

You were curious though. What would have happened if you went back there? Maybe he wouldn't be there, not all people like to enjoy their drinks inside a room with others. Maybe he would have been sitting at a table with the blonde guy talking about his day or problems hat he might have. How will his voice sound like? Or he would be the one listening to his friend.

Or they would be waiting for their girlfriends to come.

It sounded more realistic at that time.

«What happened now?». You grabbbed his arm slowly walking behind the blonde annoyed girl friend of yours. The irritated sound of his voice was showing, tired of her attitude she had the past xouple of minutes.

“She is just a little mad at us, you know she had other plans for tonight. What can I say? We are bad friends I guess" you joked making the boy next to you roll his eyes smiling.

Few days later you found yourself into your little appartment, working at a new assignment that had to be ready in a couple of hours. Your fingers tapping the keyboard faster that lightning, the words showing in front of you in seconds, your mind working nonstop, new ideas popping every now and then out of nowhere.

Three hours later and ten pages were ready to be sent back at your boss. Ten pages fillled with things that only God knew how much you loved them.

The power of art. How art can change someone completely, how people can be reborn, how the prospective of life can turn, how individuals could change into creatures ready to rule the world with their creativity, their visions of a better future.

Your phone rang unexpectedly, the sound of the familiar ringtone disctracting you from checking possible mistakes on your writing. You picked it in your hand, the photo of your blondie friend lit up the screen.

“Hello” you answered happy to hear her after days.

“Hi y/n, what are you-” a loud car horn stopped her from finishing her sentence, voices from far away screaming, a chaos starting to build up. “Watch where you’ re going phycho” you bit your lip curious as her aggressive tone sounded from the other side of the phone.

“Are you okay? Gigi?”

“Why do all idiots get driving license?”

“I don't know babe, let's just pretend that they didn't pay others"

“That's true" she paused for a while and then continued “Yeah anyway, what are you doing?”

“I just finished my article. Do you wanna come over?” you suggested.

“I was thinking if you're interested in meeting at that café we went with Noel” it was only ten minutes away from where you lived, so it worked perfect for you.

“That sounds like a plan”

“Great! I'm gonna be there in twenty minutes so take your time"

“Okay I'll see you soon" you hanged up the call and moved to your closet. The weather was cloudy and windy, unlike the day before. People were walking down the streets holding on to their jackets really tight, so you assumed that it was getting really cold out there, a feeling of sadness covering you from the inside as summer was coming to an end sooner that you'd thought.

Ten minutes after you were outside finally, hugging your body as tight as possible, holding your own jacket, try to protect your self from the cold. Your rapid steps got you to your destination earlier that usual. You opened the door, the warm air hitting your face, the smell of coffee and donuts filling your lungs. You scanned the space around you, an empty table catching your eyesight a few meters away from where you stood. You sat there ans waited patiently for your friend to come and join you. The attention of yours caught the food that was getting ready to be served to customers, looking like the most attractive thing in the universe. I'm getting one of these for sure.

“Sorry for being late. Guess who I bumped into” Gigi interrupted your thoughts as she sat at the chair across you.

“Bratt Pitt?”

“I would have died. Try again I'll give you one more chance”

“Is it a celebrity?” you leaned to her half smiling.

“Nope" she shaked her head and crossed her hands down to her chest, leaning back.

“Then why would I know? Was it your ex?”

“Who sees their ex and smiles like that? Wake up"

“I give up"

“Do you remember the two cute boys we saw here?” she placed her arms at the table. “Yes don't look at me like that. They will be here in a few"

“You invited two strangers? What if their intentions are bad? Have you lost your mind?” you started panicking, yet making sure that you won't drag all the attention to you from the others.

“That would have been fun for your miserable life but no they're not bad. They seemed really nice actually and that's why I told them that we will be here so shut your mouth. And you even said that you liked that brunette boy, you should thank me”

“I never said anything like that Gigi. And I don’t care if they are the nicest people we've ever met, they're still strangers-“

“Not anymore" she lifted her arm and then stood up with a bright smile on her lips. “Um hey guys" she greeted them and then pointed towards you. “This is y/n I told you about" you got up and turned around so you can meet them yourself.

“Harrison" the blonde guy said to you and you smiled back at him.

“Y/n" you shacked his hand politely. He did not seem bad at all and even though you felt sorry for him, it was still irresponsible from her to act like this. You made room for him to pass you and came face to face with the brunette boy.

«I'm Harry» so that's how his voice sounded like.

«I'm y/n. Nice to meet you» he shacked your hand and you couldn't ignore the feelings you got, the warmth, the electricity you felt, the sensation just from the palm of his hand. You sat back down, across your bestfriend and next to Tom.

At first you felt really awkward, compared to Gigi that looked so confident and never stopped talking, moslty about her life, how she ended up in this town, what she's studying, her hobbies. She was a person that had the ability of opening up to strangers real quick, very friendly. She made you feel like home, like she was the big sister everyone wanted. That's how she won a place into your heart, you have always needed a friend like her, and she was at the right place the right time.

«So y/n what do you do in your free time?» Harrison asked.

«Oh..um I write I guess?»

«You have to see what she wrote last week. I admire her talent and I'm sure she will get far one day»

«It's not that big of a deal» you grabbed the cup in front you. «I just love writing about life and things in general»

«I would love to read something of yours» you heard Harry speaking and you turned to watch him. His curls seemed perfect covering a little of his forehead, his cheeks a light red, probably from the heat, his eyes staring back at you.

«You think so?» he caught you by surprise, as mostly the people that learnt about your obsession with writing never actually asked you to read anything from your writings, and maybe there was a chance that this was the reason behind you doubting all of your work. It was a battle that you didn't ask for.

«Yes» his lips turned into a smile, your did to as you couldn't help it. And you met him only half and hour before.

Their stories were interesting. Harrison had a passion for acting and was actually preparing for a really big project that he couldn't share much information for. But your curiosity was loud, you wanted to learn about this job, or how he was able to handle his emotions.

Harry was into photography, a fact that surprised you in a good way, and as you heard him talk about it more as the time went by, both of you gained more confidence and comfort around each other, absorbing plenty of informations.

At this point you thanked your friend for inviting them, and noted to do that in person after. They were truly the nicest people and seemed like two boys that you would totally hang with them anytime.

“This is amazing. I would love to see them one day” you stated. He moved closer to you, his one arm came behind your chair and rested there.

“I'm free for you anytime, as long as I'm gonna read anything, a poem or a story, only of yours”

“You really want to read them? They are not that good” you pointed at Gigi "Don't listen to her"

“You're really cute” he pulled your hair behind your ear “And yes I want to read one of your writings, I know that they will be good, I can already tell how artistic you are and I like that” he really said that? Was this true?

“Hey mate we have to go. Tom is waiting for us" Harrison pushed Harry's arm destroying your little moment, thankfully cause you actually didn't have any answer for his statement. Just questions that he wasn't going to answer.

“Already? He can't wait for a little more?” Harry got up after Harrison as he wore his jacket.”I'm so sorry girls. We'll make up for this I promise you. And I'm gonna bring my work with me just for you" he whispered his last sentence to you, while the other two of the group were talking on their own.

“It's okay don't worry. I'm sure he has a reason for whatever happened"

“No my brother is just a asshole and not responsible but don't let me get started" you laughed for a moment and watched straight at you, Harrison and Gigi hugging each other. They seemed like they got so closed within an hour only. It was unbelievable how she knew exactly what to say to win everyone's heart and mind. “I'm just hoping that I'll be able to see you again"

“Um I hope to as well" you smiled at him goodbye and waved at the two boys, that were walking now outside the café.

“You're lucky that I have Harrison’s number”

“What?”you turned your attention back to her. She was in a really happy mood and it showed not only from her expressions but from her body language as well.

“You dumbass how are you gonna see him again if you can't find him huh?”

She was right.

“I'm sorry for earlier. I was wrong" you apologized, feeling sorry for staying mad at her when all she wanted to do was to get you out of your comfort zone.

“You're still thinking about it? Just tell, how was he? He was cute right?”

After 2 hours of gossip and analyses you were finally back at your safe place, wrapped around with your favorite blanket and your favorite movie on. Everything seemed okay when a message from an unknown number called you back into reality.

‘Hey this is Harry! I forgot to ask your number but I was lucky enough to find it. Goodnight<3'

-----------

he is so cute what the hell?????

#Harry Holland #harry holland x you #harry holland x y/n #harry holland x reader #harry holland fluff #harry holland fic #harry holland imagine

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billyskullknits · 5 years

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Creative Assumptions

I was visiting my aunt last month and she mentioned she'd been sorting some old boxes and found a stash of cards I'd made for her and Gran. Obviously they were awful, as I'd been, like, five when I made them, but it gave us a nice trip down memory lane about the many and varied creative endeavours I'd had as a child.

I did a lot of crafting. I think most children do, even without much parental guidance, but I was lucky enough to have a family as eccentric and creative as I was. Dad taught me to knit, Gran taught me to paint, Nan taught me to bake (but, sadly, not to wash up), and Mum taught me the basics of sewing and upcycling - or, as it was called in the nineties, 'artistic MacGyvering'. I used to make room decorations out of sweet wrappers and write riddles on the back of unused rolls of wallpaper. I'd fill exercise books with short stories and sew the hopeful beginnings of patchwork quilts, which soon turned into patchwork cushions, then never turned into anything except a few scraps of fabric sewn together.

So it seems odd to me now, looking back and looking forward, how my school teachers deemed me 'unartistic'.

Not my so much my Art teachers. I was actually pretty good at Art class. I loved ceramics, I didn't smear myself in paint, and I could even draw still life fairly recognisably. Nevertheless, I struggled to draw things I'd never seen, and found myself at a loss when told to 'just draw something'.

I remember one occasion. The teacher asked us to make a poster about a book; she wanted beautiful art, big bold colours, maybe a poem or a song or a creative story, or (she said, looking directly at me) maybe just some neat bullet points summarising the main points?

It was obvious in that moment, before I'd even put pen to paper, that my poster wasn't going up on the display board.

You may ask what I did to deserve this reputation. It's quite simple: I was good at maths.

See, in the nineties there was this generally accepted psuedoneurology that people have either a 'Right side' creative brain or a 'Left side' logical brain, and as I was logical and scientific and good at maths I was obviously terrible at art. It was the beginning of schools in the UK recognising that actually students are different from each other, and that maybe classes should be adapted to cater to all types of people, but back when they thought that there were only two types of people.

This thinking messed me up for a long time, I'll admit. Despite my full sketchbook, my numerous knitting projects, my paint sets, my short stories, the handmade room decorations (which are still stuck to the ceiling, as far as I remember), I still somehow managed to internalise that I was Bad At Art, and therefore could never make a career out of being creative. I didn't take optional art classes, I dropped creative writing, I even had to argue with my teachers about continuing to study History because apparently they had decided it was too 'soft' for me, despite my straight As. I studied Maths at university because I was good at it, and got a boring job in a boring office, because that's what Left-Brainers did.

The moral of this story, I suppose, depends on what you need to hear. There's definitely a 'Never Give Up On Your Dreams' in there somewhere, however unoriginal. Maybe a 'There Are Many Forms Of Art And They Are All Valid', though I still struggle to call myself an 'Artist'. I think if there was one message I could give to my younger self - other than the whole 'gender and sexuality are fluid' thing - is this:

Don't let school tell you what you want to do. Obviously they want you to follow whatever you're best at, but also think about what it is you enjoy.

Your teachers don't know you. They know your grades, and they know your answers to their questions, but there is so much to you that no one will ask about. The people who taught me Art were wonderful and supportive, but everyone else thought I was stilted and uncreative because they never asked me the right questions because they assumed they already knew the answers.

Shout out to everyone in school atm wondering what the heck they want to do with their future, and everyone who's left school and is still learning what they're good at.

Linktree

#ramblings

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janniewaley35-blog · 7 years

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Measures That You Can easily Succeed To Start A Coffee shop Business.

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doomwillow · 8 years

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The Faults of Our Parents

There was a quote that was said on the TV series Criminal Minds which goes "They mess you up, your mom and dad. They may not mean to, but they do. They fill you with the faults they had, and add some extra, just for you. - Philip Larkin."

The episode is about two brothers who are identical twins who are on a killing spree. The thing is, their mother, when questioned, was clearly as disturbed as the brothers are, in her own psychopathic ways, which is probably why the quote was mentioned.

I looked the quote up and found out that it was part of a poem that Philip Larkin did.

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.

They may not mean to, but they do.

They fill you with the faults they had.

And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn.

By fools in old-style hats and coats.

Who half the time were soppy-stern.

And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.

It deepens like a coastal shelf.

Get out as early as you can. And don't have any kids yourself.

This lead me to think and wonder. I have two wonderful kids who grew up in my care (and of course, another one, who I am sure, is as equally as wonderful, who grew up with her mother), who I love deeply and dearly. Am I really messing them up? I really hope and pray not.

Looking back at all the things that happened with me and my kids, I know that all of the times, parents only want the best for their children. They always want them to grow up healthy, happy, wealthy, and wise. :-) The way they do it might not be always be agreeable to their children, but I know, being a parent myself, their intentions are always for the best. I want them to know that they are loved, deeply cherished, cared for and protected... unconditionally.

However, the reality is that we are all a product of our upbringing- people like to think that they are free of bias and totally open-minded, but no one became who they are in a vacuum. Since hurt people, hurt other people, we’ve been caught in a feedback loop of abuse and criticism which is passed down from generation to generation, and that has created the person we are today.

I have faith in my kids though. In spite of all the criticisms and hurtful words that I've said, I know they would take both the bad and the good from us, their parents, just hopefully more of the latter. I know that eventually, they will be aware of how their parents have "messed them up." This might just be the first step in trying to not pass those flaws on to their own children. But they have to know that at the same time, striving for perfection in this world is an exercise in vain.

Like any quotable or poem, its interpretation and what you get out of it are always subjective.

Perhaps for some it is cautionary- a reminder for parents to be mindful of the ramifications of our actions concerning our children, particularly in light of our own upbringing.

But for others, perhaps it is a comfort or relief: "man hands on misery to man..". It's the nature of the species- no matter what you do, your child is likely to grow up just as flawed and disgruntled, but as perfect and happy as anyone else.

But does that make life not worth living? To take the poem's last line at face value ("get out as quickly as you can, and never have kids of your own!") is to advocate for our own extinction. I for one think this line is ironic in nature; it invites us to accept that, regardless of our anxieties as parents and/or the grudges we hold against our own, life is still very much worth living.

Yet I should always remind myself that children shouldn’t have to sacrifice so that we can have the life we want. We should make sacrifices so our children can have the life they deserve.

One thing that comforts me though is the fact the we gave the gift of life to our children- that's something they'll probably appreciate, no matter what missteps we make in raising them, and love and respect us more for it.

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