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toscrollperchancetomeme · 3 years

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Lestat de Lioncourt - A playlist

So, guess who made a Lestat Playlist (like there aren't enough already) and decided to sit down for 4-6 hours to find some excerpt corresponding with each song? Featuring 80s and 90s music (clearly showing my age...) as well as many european songs and showtunes. Enjoy!

1. Cathedrals – Ramin Karimloo (Original by Jump, Little Children)

In the cathedrals of New York and Rome There is a feeling that you should just go home And spend the lifetime finding out just where that is

And that was not a good year for me. I was wandering aimlessly. I was sick of things. I was furious with myself that the „beauty“ of life wasn't sustaining me, wasn't making my loneliness bearable.

I wanted to join them. Always do want to join them and never do. „Go home,“ he whispered. - Prince Lestat

(I actually feel like there are quotes that would correspond to this song in every one of the books and indeed have not yet found any other song that captures the general spirit of The Vampire Chronicles as perfectly.)

2. Edge of Seventeen – Stevie Nicks

Well, I went today Maybe I will go again tomorrow Yeah yeah, well, the music there Well, it was hauntingly familiar Well, I see you doing what I try to do for me With the words from a poet and a voice from a choir And a melody, and nothing else mattered

He sat next to me, hugging me and asking me why I was crying, and though I couldn't tell him, I could see that he was overwhelmed that his music had produced this effect. There was no sarcasm or bitterness in him now. I think he carried me home that night. And the next morning I was standing in the crooked stone street in front of his father's shop, tossing pebbles up at his window. When he stuck his head out, I said: „Do you want to come down and go on with our conversation?“ - The Vampire Lestat

3. I ain't scared of lightning – Tom McRae

No I ain't scared of lightning And thunder never killed I was born in a summer storm and I live there still

I wasn't part of the world that cringed at such things. And with a smile, I realized that I was of that dark ilk that makes others cringe. Slowly and with great pleasure, I laughed.

And the labor that brought it forth was rapture such as I have never known. - The Vampire Lestat

4. Junge Roemer – Falco (Young Romans – Full Translation)

Don't ask for new old values See white light, see only feeling The night is ours till morning We play every game Don't ever let this journey end The doing comes only from the being Only from dimensions, that Are worth illusions and sensations Give me more, give me more, give me more...

... and again she laughed. „Ah, but we are splendid devils, aren't we?“ „Hunters of the Savage Garden,“ I said. „Then let's go into Paris,“ she said. - The Vampire Lestat

5. Running up that hill – Candy Says (Original by Kate Bush

If I only could, I'd make a deal with God, And I'd get him to swap our places, Be running up that road, Be running up that hill, Be running up that building,

„Not even with Nicolas?“ „No, god, no!“ I looked at her. She nodded slightly as if she approved of this answer. „Why not with Nicolas?“ she asked. I wanted this to stop. „Because he's young,“ I said, „and he has life before him.“ - The Vampire Lestat

6. Florence – Notre Dame de Paris (Full Translation)

The little things always triumph over the large And literature will kill architecture The school books will kill the cathedrals The Bible will kill the Church, and man will kill God This will kill that

„I never lived in it. I push against the glass. But how do I get in?“ „I can't tell you that,“ I said. „You have to study this age,“ Gabrielle interrupted. Her voice was calm but commanding. He looked towards her as she spoke. „You have to understand the age,“ she continued, „through its literature and its music and its art. You have come up out of the earth, as you yourself put it. Now live in the world.“ No answer from him. Flash of Nicki's ravaged flat with all its books on the floor. Western civilization in heaps. - The Vampire Lestat

7. Go your own way – Fleetwood Mac

Loving you isn't the right thing to do How can I ever change things that I feel

If I could maybe I'd give you my world How can I when you won't take it from me

You can go your own way You can call it another lonely day

„Keep your promise,“ she said. And quite suddenly I knew this was our last moment. I knew it and I could do nothing to change it. „Gabrielle!“ I whispered. But she was already gone. - The Vampire Lestat

8. Désenchantée – Olympe (Original by Myléne Farmer - Full Translation)

If death is a mystery Life isn't exactly tender If heaven has a hell Then heaven can still wait for me Tell me how to handle this headwind Nothing makes sense anymore, nothing's fine

Laughter. That insane music. That din, that dissonance, that never ending shrill articulation of the meaninglessness... Am I awake? Am I asleep? I am sure of one thing. I am a monster. And because I lie in torment in the earth, certain human beings move on through the narrow pass of life unmolested. - The Vampire Lestat

9. A kind of magic – Queen

The bell that rings inside your mind Is challenging the doors of time It's a kind of magic The waiting seems eternity The day will dawn of sanity

And quite completely I understood that it was looking for me, this sound, it was seeking me out.

Blood like light itself, liquid fire.

It seemed beneath the roar of the flow he spoke. He said again: „Drink, my young one, my wounded one.“ I felt his heart swell, his body undulate, and we were sealed against each other. I think I heard myself say: „Marius.“ And he answered: „Yes.“ - The Vampire Lestat

10. La quête – Bruno Pelletier (French version of „The Impossible Dream“ from Man of La Mancha)

To try when your arms are too weary To reach the unreachable star

This is my quest To follow that star Ooh, no matter how hopeless No matter how far

I would remain in New Orleans if New Orleans could only manage to remain. Whatever I suffered should be lessened in this lawless place, whatever I craved should give me more pleasure once I had it in my grasp. And there were moments on that first night in this fetid little paradise when I prayed that in spite of all my secret power, I was somehow kin to every mortal man. - The Vampire Lestat

11. Wicked Game – Chris Isaak

What a wicked game you play, to make me feel this way What a wicked thing to do, to let me dream of you What a wicked thing to say, you never felt this way What a wicked thing to do, to make me dream of you

Yet Louis gained a hold over me far more powerful than Nicolas had ever had. Even in his cruelest moments, Louis touched the tenderness in me, seducing me with his staggering dependence, his infatuation with my every gesture and every spoken word. - The Vampire Lestat

12. Do I disappoint you – Rufus Wainwright

Do I disappoint you, in just being human? And not one of the elements that you can light your cigar on Why does it always have to be fire? Why does it always have to be brimstone?

„And suppose the vampire who made you knew nothing, and the vampire before him knew nothing, and so it goes back and back, nothing proceeding from nothing, until there is nothing! And we must live with the knowledge that there is no knowledge!“ „Yes!“ he cried out suddenly, his hands out, his voice tinged with something other than anger.

And then I sensed it. He was afraid. Lestat afraid. - Interview with the Vampire

13. Ordinary World – Duran Duran

What has happened to it all? Crazy, some'd say Where is the life that I recognize? Gone away

But I won't cry for yesterday There's an ordinary world Somehow I have to find And as I try to make my way To the ordinary world I will learn to survive

I do not remember when it became the twentieth century, only that everything was uglier and darker, and the beauty I'd known in the old eighteenth-century days seemed more than ever some kind of fanciful idea. - The Vampire Lestat

14. I'm still standing – Taron Egerton (Original by Elton John)

And there's a cold lonely light that shines from you You'll wind up like the wreck you hide behind that mask you use And did you think this fool could never win? Well look at me, I'm coming back again

But after the third night up, I was roaring around New Orleans on a big black Harley-Davidson motorcycle making plenty of noise myself. […] I was the vampire Lestat again. I was back in action. New Orleans was once again my hunting ground. - The Vampire Lestat

15. Catch my fall – Billy Idol

I have the time so I will sing, yeah I'm just a boy but I will win, yeah Lost song of lovers, fellow travelers, yeah Leave me sad and hollow out of words

It could happen to you so think for yourself If I should stumble, catch my fall, yeah

I've survived, obviously. I wouldn't be talking to you if I hadn't. And the cosmic dust has finally settled; and the small rift in the world's fabric of rational beliefs has been mended, or at least closed. I'm a little sadder for all of it, and a little meaner and a little more conscientious as well. - The Queen of the Damned

16. I want it all – Queen

I'm a man with a one track mind So much to do in one lifetime (people do you hear me) Not a man for compromise and where's and why's and living lies So I'm living it all, yes I'm living it all And I'm giving it all, and I'm giving it all

It is not enough any longer that my little rock band be successful. We must create a fame that will carry my name and my voice to the remotest parts of the world. - The Vampire Lestat

17. Let me entertain you – Robbie Williams

Hell is gone and heaven's here There's nothing left for you to fear Shake your arse come over here Now scream

I'm a burning effigy Of everything I used to be You're my rock of empathy, my dear

So come on let me entertain you

"I AM THE VAMPIRE LESTAT!" I shouted at the top of my lungs as I stepped way back from the microphone, and the sound was almost visible as it arched over the length of the oval theater, and the voice of the crowd rose even higher, louder, as if to devour the ringing sound. - The Vampire Lestat

18. La bien qui fait mal – Mozart l'Opera Rock (Full translation)

I can feel a violent urge I feel like I'm sliding towards the ground If I don't find out where this plague is coming from I adore having it under my skin Bewitched by mad ideas Suddenly all my cravings take off The desire becomes my prison Until I loose my mind

Yet I was in her arms in this chilling darkness, in the familiar scent of winter, and her blood was mine again, and it was enslaving me. When she drew away, I felt agony. - The Queen of the Damned

19. Tainted Love – Soft Cell

And you think love is to pray But I'm sorry I don't pray that way Once I ran to you Now I'll run from you This tainted love you've given I give you all a boy could give you Take my tears and that's not living, oh

„What do you think I am that I am so easily swayed? I was born a Queen. I have always ruled; even from the shrine I ruled." Her eyes were glazed suddenly. I heard the voices, a dull hum rising. "I ruled if only in legend; if only in the minds of those who came to me and paid me tribute. Princes who played music for me; who brought me offerings and prayers. What do you want of me now? That for you, I renounce my throne, my destiny!" What answer could I make? - The Queen of the Damned

20. Dancing in the Dark – Ruth Moody (Original by Bruce Springsteen)

They say you gotta stay hungry Hey baby, I'm just about starvin' tonight I'm dyin' for some action I'm sick of sittin' 'round here tryin' to write this book I need a love reaction Come on now, baby, gimme just one look

"I want you to put the book aside and come join us," he said. "You've been locked in here for over a month." "I go out now and then," I said. I liked looking at him, at the neon blue of his eyes.

"Do you love me now?" I asked. He smiled; oh, it was excruciating to see his face soften and brighten simultaneously when he smiled. "Yes," he said. "Want to go on a little adventure?" My heart was thudding suddenly. It would be so grand if- "Want to break the new rules?" "What in the world do you mean?" he whispered. - The Queen of the Damned

21. I want you – Savage Garden

Oh, I want you, I don't know if I need you But oh, I would die to find out

"You don't think you'll be back?" he asked. "I think you will, whether I call or not." Another little surprise. A little stab of humiliation. I smiled at him in spite of myself. He was a very interesting man. "You silver-tongued British bastard," I said. "How dare you say that to me with such condescension? Maybe I should kill you right now."

I thought of David Talbot's face, and that moment when he'd challenged me. Well, maybe he was right. I'd be back. Who said I couldn't come back and talk to him if I wanted to? - The Queen of the Damned

22. Lay your hands on me – Bon Jovi

I'm a fighter, I'm a poet, I'm a preacher I've been to school, oh baby, I've been the teacher If you show me how to get up off the ground I can show you how to fly and never ever come back down

I sat down on the bed beside him. And then I bent down and kissed his face again gently, as I had in New Orleans, liking the feel of his roughly shaven beard, just as I liked that sort of thing when I was really Lestat and I would soon have that strong masculine blood inside. I moved closer to him, when suddenly he grasped my hand, and I felt him gently push me away. „Why, David?“ I asked him. He didn't answer. He lifted his right hand and brushed my hair back out of my eyes. „I don't know,“ he whispered. „I can't. I simply can't.“ - The Tale of the Body Thief

23. 20th Century Boy – Placebo (Original by T-Rex)

I move like a cat, charge like a ram Sting like a bee, babe, I wanna be your man, hey!

He drew back with a speed that astonished me, cleaving to the wall. „Don't do this, Lestat.“ „Don't fight me, old friend. You waste your effort. You have a long night of discovery ahead.“ - The Tale of the Body Thief

24. Way down we go – KALEO

Oh, Father tell me, do we get what we deserve? Whoa, we get what we deserve And way down we go

„In chains, to my friend and my scribe, I dictated these words. Come with me. Just listen to me. Don't leave me alone.“ - Memnoch the Devil

25. Personal Jesus – Depeche Mode

Reach out, touch faith

"Don't tell me," Gabrielle said slurringly, "that it's a matter of faith." She sneered and shook her head. "You come like doubting Thomas to thrust your bloody fangs in the very wound." "Oh, stop, please, I beg you," I whispered. I put up my hands. "Let me try, and let him hurt me, and then be satisfied, and turn away." - The Vampire Armand

26. Papillon – Editors

Darling Just don't put down your guns yet If there really was a God here He'd have raised a hand by now Now darling You're born, get old, then die here Well that's quite enough for me We'll find our own way home somehow

"And if I spill my blood down into this coffin now," Lestat asked her, "what do you think will come back? Do you think it will be our Louis that will rise in these burnt rags? What if it's not, chérie, what if it's some wounded revenant that we must destroy?" "Choose life, Lestat," she said. - Merrick

27. Sunday Light – Choir Boy

Why, why, why, are you silent on the ride home? I'd love to see the temple with you Heavenly and bright, golden angel twisted scathing You were one of us, one of us, one of us, you were one of us

"Then come, Little Brother, take me to where you want to talk," he said, and I felt the soft squeeze of his fingers on my arm. "Why are you so kind to me?" I asked him. "You're used to people being paid to do it, aren't you?" he asked. - Blackwood Farm

28. Für mich solls rote Rosen regnen – Hildegard Knef (It should rain red roses for me - Full translation)

It should rain red roses for me All wonders should encounter me The world should rearrange itself And keep its worries to itself

I want to be a saint. I want to save souls by the millions. I want to do good far and wide. I want to fight evil! I want my life-sized statue in every church. I'm talking six feet tall, blond hair, blue eyes- Wait a second. Do you know who I am? - Blood Canticle

29. Constant Craving – K. D. Lang

Even through the darkest phase Be it thick or thin Always someone marches brave Here beneath my skin And constant craving Has always been

I was hunting, thirsting though I didn't need to drink, at the mercy of the craving, the deep agonizing lust for heated pumping human blood. - Prince Lestat

30. Kalte Sterne – Jan Ammann (Cold Stars from the musical Ludwig² - Full translation)

Get up, ride home, on your horse, through your land Across the morning with your reins trailing behind you Build a castle like a dream, build it with mighty hands And it shall be named „future“

Build a castle like a dream Up from the ashes and close to the heavens Build a castle like a dream And realise the future as king

If we wanted to survive, if we wanted to inherit the millenia […] then we had to meet the future with respect as well as courage and count fear and selfishness to be small things. - Prince Lestat and the realms of Atlantis

31. C'est une belle journée – Mylene Farmer (Full translation)

I'm going to bed To bite eternity With my mouth wide open It's a beautiful day

And I felt the cold numbing shell of alienation and despair which had imprisoned me all of my life among the Undead – I felt that shell cracked, broken, and dissolved utterly into infinitesimal fragments. - Blood Communion

32. Princes of the Universe – Queen

Fly the moon and reach for the stars With my sword and head held high Got to pass the test first time, yeah I know that people talk about me, I hear it every day But I can prove them wrong 'cause I'm right first time

„I know that you meant full well to bring Rhoshamandes down, of course you did. But you had no way of knowing that you could. And no one would have predicted that you could. And with the willingness to die, you gave yourself over into his hands... and you disarmed him and destroyed him.“ – Blood Communion

And finally, because I can, a bonus track:

33. Primadonna – MARINA

And I'm sad to the core, core, core Every day is a chore, chore, chore When you give, I want more, more, more I wanna be adored

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killianmesmalls · 3 years

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On your comments about Jack: ye-es, in the sense that Jack is a character who definitely deserved better than he was treated by the characters. The way Dean especially treats him reflects very badly on Dean, no question. But, speaking as a viewer, I think the perspective needs to shift a little bit.

To me, Jack is Dawn from Buffy, or Scrappy Doo. He’s an (in my opinion) irritating kid who is introduced out of nowhere to be both super vulnerable and super OP, and the jeopardy is centered around him in a way that has nothing to do with his actual character or relationships. He’s mostly around to be cute and to solve or create problems — he never has any firm character arcs or goals of his own, nor any deeper purpose in the meta narrative. In this way, he’s a miss for SPN, which focuses heavily on conflicts as metaphors for real life.

Mary fits so much better in that framework, and introducing her as a developed, flawed person works really well with the narrative. It is easy for us to care about Mary, both as the dead perfect mother on the pedestal and as the flawed, human woman who could not live up to her sons’ expectations. That connection is built into the core of SPN, and was developed over years, even before she was a character. When she was added, she was given depth and nuance organically, and treated as a flawed, complex character rather than as a plot device or a contrivance. She was given a voice and independence, and became a powerful metaphor for developing new understandings of our parents in adulthood, as well as an interesting and well-rounded character. You care that she’s dead, not just because Sam and Dean are sad, but for the loss of her development and the potential she offered. So, in that sense, I think a lot of people were frustrated that she died essentially fridged for a second time, and especially in service of the arc of a weaker character.

And like, you’re right, no one can figure out if Jack is a toddler or a teenager. He’s both and he’s neither, because he’s never anything consistently and his character arc is always “whatever the plot needs it to be.” Every episode is different. Is he Dean’s sunny opportunity to be a parent and make up for his dad’s shitty parenting? Yes! Is he also Dean’s worst failure and a reminder that he has done many horrible things, including to “innocent” children? Yes! Is he Cas’s child? Yes! Is he Dean’s child? Yes! But also, no! Is he Sam’s child? Yes! Is he a lonely teenager who does terrible things? Yes! Is he a totally innocent little lamb who doesn’t get why what he is doing is wrong? Yes! Is he the most powerful being in the universe? Yes! Does he need everyone to take care of him? Yes! Is he just along for the ride? Yes! Is he responsible for his actions? Kinda??? Sometimes??? What is he???

Mary as a character is narratively cohesive and fleshed-out. Jack is a mishmash of confusing whatever’s that all add up to a frustrating plot device with no consistent traits to latch on to. Everything that fans like about him (cute outfits, gender play, well-developed parental bonds with the characters) is fanon. So, yes, the narrative prioritizes Mary. Many fans prioritize Mary, at least enough that Dean’s most heinous acts barely register. To the narrative (not to Cas, which is a totally different situation), Jack is only barely more of a character than Emma Winchester, who Sam killed without uproar seasons earlier. He’s been around longer, but he’s equally not really real.

I debated on responding to this because, to tell the truth, I think we fundamentally disagree on a number of subjects and, as they say, true insanity is arguing with anyone on the internet. However, you spent a lot of time on the above and I feel it's only fair to say my thoughts, even if I don't believe it will sway you any more than what you said changed my opinions.

I'm assuming this was in response to this post regarding how Jack's accidental killing of Mary was treated so severely by the brothers, particularly Dean, because it was Mary and, had it been a random character like the security guard in 13x06, it would have been treated far differently. However, then the argument becomes less about the reaction of the Winchester brothers to this incident and more the value of Jack or Mary to the audience.

I believe we need to first admit that both characters are inherently archetypes—Mary as the Madonna character initially then, later, as a metaphor for how imperfect and truly human our parents are compared to the idol we have as children, and Jack as the overpowered child who is a Jesus allegory by the end. Both have a function within the story to serve the Winchester brothers, through whose lens and with whose biases we are meant to view the show's events. We also need to admit that the writers didn't think more than a season ahead for either character, especially since it wasn't initially supposed to be Mary that came back at the end of season 11 but John, and they only wrote enough for Jack in season 13 to gauge whether or not the audience would want him to continue on or if he needed to be killed off by the end of the season. Now, I know we curate our own experiences online which leads to us being in our own fandom echo chambers, however it is important to note that the character was immediately successful enough with the general audience that, after his first episode or two, he was basically guaranteed a longer future on the show.

I have to admit, I’m not entirely sure why the perspective of how his character is processed by some audience members versus others has any bearing on the argument that he deserved to be treated better overall by the other characters especially when taking their own previous actions in mind. I’m not going to tell you that your opinion is wrong regarding your feelings for Jack. It’s your opinion and you’re entitled to it, it harms no one to have it and express it. My feelings on Jack are clearly very different from your own, but this is really just two different people who processed a fictional person in different ways. I personally believe he has a purpose in the Winchesters’ story, including Castiel’s, as he reflects certain aspects of all of them, gives them a way to explore their own histories through a different perspective, and changes the overall dynamic of Team Free Will from “soldiers in arms” to a family (Misha’s words). In the beginning he allows Sam to work through his past as the “freak” and powerful, dangerous boy wonder destined to bring hell on earth. With Dean, his presence lets Dean work through his issues with John and asks whether he will let history repeat itself or if he’ll work to break the cycle. Regarding Cas, in my opinion he helps the angel reach his “final form” of a father, member of a family, lover and protector of humanity, rebellious son, and the true show of free will.

From strictly the story, he has several arcs that work within themes explored in Supernatural, such as the argument of nature versus nurture, the question of what we’re willing to give up in order to protect something or someone else and how ends justify the means, and the struggle between feeling helpless and powerless versus the corruptive nature of having too much power and the dangerous lack of a moral compass. His goals are mentioned and on display throughout his stint on the show, ones that are truly relatable to some viewers: the strong desire to belong—the need for family and what you’ll do to find and keep it.

With Mary, we first need to establish whether the two versions of her were a writing flaw due to the constant change in who was dictating her story and her relationship to the boys, which goes against the idea that her characterization was cohesive and fleshed-out but, rather, put together when needed for convenience, or if they both exist because, as stated above, we are seeing the show primarily through the biased lens of the Winchester brothers and come to face facts about the true Mary as they do. Like I said in my previous post, I don’t dislike Mary and I don’t blame her for her death (either one). However, I do have a hard time seeing her as a more nuanced, fleshed-out character than Jack. True, a lot of her problems are more adult in nature considering she has to struggle with losing her sons’ formative years and meeting them as whole adults she knows almost nothing about, all because of a choice she made before they were born.

However, her personal struggles being more “mature” in nature (as they center primarily on parental battles) doesn’t necessarily mean her story has layers and Jack’s does not. They are entirely different but sometimes interconnected in a way that adds to both of their arcs, like Mary taking Jack on as an adoptive son which gives her the moments of parenting she lost with Sam and Dean, and Jack having Mary as a parental figure who understands and supports him gives him that sense of belonging he had just been struggling with to the point of running away while he is also given the chance to show “even monsters can do good”.

I’d also argue that Jack being many ages at once isn’t poor writing so much as a metaphor for how, even if you’re forced to grow up fast, that doesn’t mean you’re a fully equipped adult. I don’t want to speak for anyone else, but I believe Jack simultaneously taking a lot of responsibility and constantly trying to prove to others he’s useful while having childish moments is relatable to some who were forced to play an adult role at a young age. He proves a number of times that he doesn’t need everyone to take care of him, but he also has limited life experience and, as such, will make some mistakes while he’s also being a valuable member of the group. Jack constantly exists on a fine line in multiple respects. Some may see that as a writing flaw but it is who the character was conceived to be: the balance between nature or nurture, between good and evil, between savior and devil.

Now, I was also frustrated Mary was “fridged” for a second time. It really provided no other purpose than to give the brothers more man pain to further the plot along. However, this can exist while also acknowledging that the way it happened and the subsequent fallout for Jack was also unnecessary and a sign of blatant hypocrisy from Dean, primarily, and Sam.

And, yes, Jack can be different things at once because, I mean, can’t we all? If Mary can be both the perfect mother and the flawed, independent, distant parent, can’t Jack be the sweet kid who helps his father-figures process their own feelings on fatherhood while also being a lost young-adult forcing them to face their failures? Both characters contain multitudes because, I mean, we all do.

I can provide articles or posts on Jack’s characterization and popularity along with Mary’s if needed, but for now I think this is a long enough ramble on my thoughts and feelings. I’m happy to discuss more, my messenger is always open for (polite) discussion. Until then, I’m going to leave it at we maybe agree to disagree.

#long post #long ask #so long answer #guys it's 1 am #i hope this made sense #watch me read this after sleep and register things i wish i said #oh well #jack kline #mary winchester #spn #supernatural #spn critical #supernatural critical #kinda?#eh just in case #spn meta #supernatural meta #jack meta

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sillytorch · 4 years

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I’ve seen multiple, if not so many different takes on Roman Torchwick’s canon backstory that I might as well say my take on it (No he’s not the Brunswick Farms kid. The artist for it confirmed it was just a random character design, check the notes for the source):

I like to think that Roman was always a little shit, even as a kid. Maybe not as horrible as he became during his adulthood, but he was definitely a delinquent. And he definitely did not have a good relationship with his parents... he might have not even grown up with siblings. Speaking of his parents, they were most likely just abusive (of the mental and emotional kind).

I don’t think he was dirt poor but I don’t think he was rich either. He most likely grew up in a middle class home (you can decide which spectrum of middle class he was on).

Even though he was a delinquent, he still attended school but he most likely dropped out b/c well... he seems like the type of person who was expelled at least one time in school. On top of that, Roman most likely either grew up in an urban area or a suburban area.

I feel like with what I said and the fact that the show implied that he himself was a streetrat based on Mercury’s comment to Cinder (“My dad once said if you want to get to know a city, ask the rats.”) so I’m just gonna say that Roman most likely ran away from home at a young age (13-14 y/o).

Speaking of his childhood, I do think Roman at one point, wanted to be a huntsman. It may sound very crazy considering his last words, but his last words are what made me think about it:

“You wanna be a HERO?? THEN PLAY THE PART AND DIE LIKE EVERY OTHER HUNTSMAN IN HISTORY!!!!”

The tone of voice he has as he’s screaming that to Ruby, he doesn’t just sound like an asshole, he sounds bitter. And before that, he starts talking about “THE REAL WORLD” being “COLD” and “NOT CARING ABOUT SPIRIT”

(and keep in mind, he says all of that after losing Neo, someone he trusted and was probably the only true friend and family he had. Before losing Neo, he was very confident about his position, that he was on the winning side. But once she gets thrown off, he suddenly becomes so negative and flies off into a rage that we’ve never seen of him before)

Those last words he screams during his emotional breakdown, it wasn’t just to break Ruby’s spirit before he (unsuccessfully) kills her, he was most likely venting about how he feels about huntsmen because he probably feels betrayed by his idealized version of huntsmen when he was a kid versus the reality of huntsmen.

Think about it: being a huntsmen to a kid seems really cool. You fight monsters, you get the glory as the hero, legends and tales are written about you... seems like a really cool thing to basically any boy. But we all know the reality of huntsmen as we’ve seen in the show, which... is pretty Grimm (*rimshot*). They don’t exactly have the best living conditions, they die relatively young, training is brutal, some huntsmen turn out to be corrupt or militarized into super soldiers, may I go on?

My point is, Roman during his teen years as a streetrat most likely knew a huntsman, possibly was even friends with them at one point. Maybe said huntsman straight up took him after awhile. MAYBE, said huntsman tried to help clean up Roman by properly training him to become a huntsman and applying to a huntsman academy. Probably b/c a huntsman academy has a lot of resources, like food, shelter, training, which would have helped out Roman. And well... it could have worked... but it didn’t...

Because something HORRIBLE happened to that huntsman friend, and Roman was there to witness it. Something so shocking that pretty much gave Roman the idea of the reality of a huntsman‘s life... and that lead to him becoming this jaded man who doesn’t care about anybody or anything. Why care about a world if no one’s gonna care about or respect you no matter who you are? The real world is cold... lonely... and doesn’t care about spirit... so why care at all? So, he went back to becoming a streetrat and eventually started his growth as a serious criminal.

Now how did he met Neo? Well... according to One Thing, Roman took her in during a hard point in her life:

Gone's the life That he gave

I was nowhere I had no one I felt nothing Lost without a voice and on my own Then a candle's flame Brought a brand new name

I had one thing And you've taken it from me A single light A single friend But you made that end There was one thing To help escape the misery And now it's all disarrayed You took my whole life away You sent me back to nothing Now you'll pay

This man took Neo in. I’m not sure EXACTLY when in his life he took her in and they became partners, but he took her in. And while this song is from Neo’s perspective, it kind of says a lot about Roman too, especially if you take how he treats her in the show in context:

V2 Ch 4: “Neo if you would!” (Roman proudly says after smiling at Neo for coming to his rescue)

V3 Ch 10: He takes the scroll from Neo’s hand and looks very happy and remarks at her as he takes it, “Now this one? This one’s gonna be fun!”

Also V3 Ch 10: “Go see what’s out there.” (Roman says even though he’s annoyed, he calmly tells her to check outside the ship. Keep in mind, this is the same man who insults his grunts, threatens his allies, and has even attempted to talk back to Cinder a few times)

V3 Ch 11: Literally their entire fight makes it clear that these two have fought together before based on their teamwork. For example: note how when Roman enters, he waits for Neo’s illusion to get hit by Ruby’s bullet, and once the bullet shatters it, Roman shoots right afterwards. He knows Neo’s semblance so he could have just shot through her illusion the moment he saw Ruby right? But he didn’t because, it’s Neo. If he shoots through the illusion (or what he thinks is the illusion), he risks hurting Neo in the process. And THAT is just one of the many examples of how much he cares about her during this fight, including his famous “NEO!!!” cry.

This man cares about Neo. She might have been the One Thing, Roman cared about. Probably the one thing that mattered to him in the world, a friend, a family member... she was probably the only thing left in this cold, cruel, spiritless world he cared about. And once a certain little red started foiling his plans to keep him and Neo afloat from whatever doomsday Cinder and Salem are planning on Remnant, and said little red threw Neo into a sky thousands of feet up in the air full of Grimm where for all he knew, Neo was dead.

This might actually be what led Roman into that rant about the world as he LITERALLY beat it into Ruby’s head: that the world is cold and cruel, and he ends up proving that right to her, because not only did he lose his only friend, he died at the moment he was about to kill Ruby. It didn’t matter what side he was on, he never got what he wanted. Basically it seems like his entire life, the world basically yanked the chain on him and his entire life, leading up to his death proved it.

Now does that excuse all of the horrific acts he’s done in the series? NO! It doesn’t!! He became a horrible person! Yes he did one nice thing by taking in Neo during a hard point in her life, but this man’s legacy was being a high profile criminal and he felt no remorse for that!

But this analysis and theory... if the theory is true that is, may explain why he did what he did. Explanation =/= Excuse.

#roman torchwick #torchwick #rwby #rwby theory #long post #mine #rwby analysis #i apologize for the long post but trust me #it's a good read #and i've typed all of this in the past hour so please give it a read

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akaiaowl · 4 years

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Happy Stranger Things Day!!

It’s been 4 years since Stranger Things was first premiered on Netflix! (already?) This series is very close to my heart, since it managed to inspire me after 3 long years of writer’s block. To commemorate that, I’ll be posting the epilogue to my first fanfic on AO3: Reality in Motion (also known as RiM by some in the ST fandom). Here goes the summary and first chapter:

Reality in Motion

Modern College AU.

It hurt her to listen to the ruthless voice in her head, but, as much as she hated to admit it, El knew it was probably right. It had happened countless times before. Well, actually two. Two times in which El found herself feeling funny and giddy and hopeful about someone, only to be disappointed. It always ended that way. She was destined to be alone and it was probably for the best.

AKA: Socially awkward Jane Ives' first semester in college. Also AKA: Not your typical nice-boy-meets-drunk-girl-at-a-party Mileven fic (because of all the angst and slowwwww burn, be warned).

Chapter 1: Changes

Wednesday 29th, November 2017

If there was something El Ives put her mind to, she was sure to accomplish it. Always.

Well, most of the times.

As a matter of fact, today was one of the few rare exceptions to that rule. This, since Will Byers, El’s best friend, had managed to convince the otherwise socially awkward El to finally come with him that weekend to some party at a friend’s house.

They were both currently seating on the beige colored carpet of her dorm room, supposedly trying to be productive by getting their History 102 assignment done before the due date.

“Pleeease El! I’m about to beg you, it’s almost Christmas break and, for once, I’d like for you to come meet my friends and not stay locked up here again like a loser”, Will had been pouting at his friend for over two hours.

“Hey, I happen to like being a loser”, said El feigning indignation and scowling at her skinny best friend.

Will managed to hold back his smile at his oldest friend’s antics and maintained a serious expression for the sake of getting his point across. They’d been friends since the age of twelve and both knew just how determined the other could be. Holding each other’s stares defiantly in a silent challenge, neither of them wanted to give in.

As she stubbornly stared into Will’s lively brown eyes, El suddenly felt a wave of nostalgia wash over her. She had been having a few of those for a while now, especially whenever she thought back on their high school days on Hawkins High School. Actually, the biggest irony was thinking about how much she had looked forward to graduating and moving as far away as humanly possible from that hell hole she called hometown. Whereas, now, she couldn’t help feeling strangely homesick. As a matter of fact, lately, El was often ambushed by random flashbacks from her teenage years and usually found herself wishing she could somehow go back and do it all better.

She regretted everything, actually, except for her friendship with Will.

Their friendship was yet another reason El kept thinking back in nostalgia to her high school days: even though Will and her had managed to get accepted into their dream college together and even lived in neighboring dorm buildings, she felt him more distant than ever before. Worse than that, El was painfully aware that she was the reason of the increasing (figurative) distance in their friendship and she loathed herself for it. Now, more than ever, she hated herself for her apathetic and awkward personality. Why couldn’t she be a normal eighteen year old? Why couldn’t she just stop feeling so nervous around other people? Because of this she was finally managing to drive her best friend away, her partner in crime, after being the closest of friends for over half a decade.

For most of their first semester at college she had declined Will’s enthusiastic invitations to parties and any social events, preferring to skip them in favor of spending her afternoons in the solitude of her room either reading ahead or watching some movie or TV show. It was just easier that way, it seemed. El had never really been a social butterfly and she knew how much Will loved meeting and bonding with new people. So, she just figured that she could give him some space by making herself scarce.

However (and she’d never admit it out loud), as Will started spending less and less time with her and his invitations became rare occurrences, El began feeling terribly lonely (which was weird). She usually cherished her alone time, often glad she wasn’t out there fake smiling and making small talk, getting emotionally drained after overthinking and worrying over every tiny detail of her social interactions. Nonetheless, now, it just felt like a very different kind of loneliness.

El felt lonely in a bad way, a way she hadn’t felt for quite a long time: the kind of lonely she used to feel before meeting Joyce Byers and befriending her son, Will.

Finally, after glaring at Will some more, El lowered her gaze in defeat. Mostly because she missed spending more time with him, and also because she was a bit curious about going to a college party.

“Ok. Fine, I’ll go. BUT I’ll only stay until a reasonable hour and you better not be dragging me up there so I can be your designated driver”, answered El with an annoyed huff, hurling one of her fluffy pillows on Will’s general direction and feeling quite annoyed (mostly at her pathetic, abnormal self).

Her friend easily managed to catch the pillow midair and offered El a sympathetic smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. She knew he was worried about her spending so much time by herself – the fact that she had no roommate made it easier for her to just hide away for hours on end without any excuse.

“I’m only doing this for your own good El, you know I look out for you and it’s about time you start having a normal college experience and, you know, getting to know people. After all, the semester is almost over”.

--….--…--…---

Friday 1st, December 2017

El bit her lip as she stared at her reflection on the mirror critically. Was her top too revealing? Was her midsection looking gross and bloated? Should she put any make up on? Was her hair ok? Were jeans and sneakers too casual for the party?

Man, I badly needed a School of Life 101 crash course, El thought with a groan.

It was always on times like this that El really wished she had a roommate or a best friend who could actually give advice on these kinds of things. It was also on times like these that El regretted not learning about this stuff back on high school. Finally, after examining her reflection some more, she decided to change her sneakers in favor of her black leather boots and apply some lipstick to her dry lips.

Feeling quite nervous, she turned her phone screen on and was surprised to see several messages from Will.

8:02 pm U excited yet for your first college party?

8:03 pm Totally getting drunk as skunks 2nite.

8:46 pm Waiting for the guys, we’re coming to pick u up

9:29 pm On our way, expect a call in 15

9:44 pm Almost there

9:59 pm Ok, let’s go

*3 missed calls from MY FAVORITE PERSON IN THE WORLD*

10:03 pm Pick up the phone

10:11 pm We’re waiting downstairs

10:27 pm What the hell u doing? We’ve been here for ages

El was surprised to find out how long she had taken to get ready, her nervousness was really not helping. As quickly as possible, she grabbed her tiny purse and keys and made her way out. At that very moment, her phone screen lit up and the contact name Will had programmed for himself popped up.

*incoming call from MY FAVORITE PERSON IN THE WORLD*

Smiling, El answered.

“I’m sorry, I completely lost track of time, that’s all. I’m almost there”, she said breathlessly while making her way down the flight of stairs.

“No problem El, just making sure you were still up for it”, answered Will sympathetically.

“Wait. So did I actually have an option?” replied El only half joking.

She really was terribly nervous, like she always was whenever she had to face a new social situation.

Will laughed at her lame attempt at making a joke and was silent for a bit, maybe trying to empathize with his best friend’s nervousness.

El could hear Will’s friends talking loudly on the background:

“We need to hurry if we want to get wasted before the night ends, that’s kind of the point of tonight”, a loud male voice whined pathetically.

“Hey, I’m actually enjoying watching this show”, another male voice answered in fake annoyance.

“Booooooring”, someone else interjected.

“You’re too lame Wheeler”, the first voice teased.

The conversation on the background grew faint as El realized Will must have walked away from his friends to talk to her privately.

“Everything will be fine and you’ll have fun, you’ll see. If you feel uncomfortable or something you have us”, finally whispered Will before hanging up.

El had really tried to avoid meeting Will’s friends for a while now, feeling resentment and jealousy towards them because her best friend spent most of his time with them now and talked all the time about how fun and loyal they were.

It actually made sense that they spent time together since they were all taking science related careers and had most of their classes together – Will was an engineer major, like Lucas, while Dustin and Mike were physics majors.

It was silly, she knew.

Calm down El, it’s going to be ok, Will’s friends are probably as nice as him.

Finally, El got to her building’s common area. She saw four guys sprawled comfortably all over the beige couches, two of them were fighting over the remote and the other two were trying to watch whatever show was on TV.

They didn’t notice her presence until she started timidly approaching Will, who was gazing at the screen with mild interest. He was the first one of the group to notice her and his face was instantly filled with a broad smile.

“You’re finally here!” he exclaimed, startling everyone.

“Guys, this is El”, Will said loudly. Then, pointing at each of the guys next to him, he introduced them, “These are Lucas, Dustin and Mike”.

“Thanks for waiting”, El managed to smile at them without making eye contact. She hoped they didn’t notice her nervousness.

“No problem”, said the smallest one of them, Dustin, “honestly, we were all dying to finally meet you”.

“Yeah, we had a bet going on about Will’s friend being imaginary”, laughed Lucas.

Upon hearing that last comment, El snorted while trying to contain a laugh and turned to look at Will with amusement. Her friend merely shrugged.

“See how you make me look bad El?”

“Oh, it was only for the sake of making the bet more interesting”, answered El with a laugh, “it would have been no fun without the mystery, now would it?”

The guys smiled, amused, and the air significantly relaxed. She felt a tiny bit more comfortable, and the voice in her head repeating her own doubts and fears in a loop grew quiet for the first time that night.

“So, who won the bet?” asked Will, looking at his friends.

“Me”, said the tallest boy, Mike, smiling.

He was the only one who hadn’t spoken up yet, but she recognized his voice from her phone call with Will – he was the one who claimed to be enjoying the TV show while they waited for her to arrive.

Overcome by curiosity, El risked a glance up at him and was surprised to find him already looking at her, matching her interest. They made eye contact.

“So thank you for being real, I guess”, he said smiling kindly at her.

She quickly averted her gaze, not knowing what to do or how to respond, and tried to keep her upcoming blush from actually showing on her face. It wasn’t even a compliment, why was she reacting like this?

Social awkwardness truly sucked.

There was a short moment of silence, which was (thankfully) quickly broken by Lucas.

“Ok, let’s get going”, said Lucas enthusiastically as he strode to the nearest exit.

--….--…--…---

Saturday 2nd, December 2017

She’d drank too much, too soon.

Of course, the fact that Will kept refilling her red solo cup with mysterious mixes of liquor didn’t help at all. But she wasn’t complaining at all. All things considered, El found the whole experience quite interesting. Actually, she was pleased to realize that the alcohol numbed that voice that constantly reminded her of all her insecurities and flaws. She found this quite liberating.

She felt like she could do anything. Be anyone she wanted.

Will’s friends had left them to join a game of beer pong not so long ago, which had also helped El feel a whole lot more relaxed. Up until then, she had been too scared of acting like a weirdo around the guys and so she had barely talked.

For the first time in a long time, no worries or guilt lurked El’s mind.

As time went by, the music surrounding her stopped being too loud and the vibration of the bass on the floor actually made her lively in a way she had scarcely felt before. Before she knew it, her foot was tapping the floor to the beat of the unknown song. She tried to pay attention to whatever Will was saying (maybe a funny story about someone in one of his classes? What was that about a teacher?), but words kept jumbling around making it hard for her to understand anything at all.

My thought process is screwed up, El thought.

Suddenly, it occurred to her that that was the funniest, wittiest thing she had ever come up with, so she giggled uncontrollably.

Will smiled affectionately at the giggling girl beside him. He had really tried to be a good friend that night, staying with her the whole time – probably suspecting that if she got to feel too awkward, she’d escape the party.

“I loooooove you so much Willy Will”, said El hugging her friend, “do you know that?”

El’s ears suddenly caught onto a tune, alerting her of something.

Something quite urgent.

Do you recall, not long ago We would walk on the sidewalk? Innocent, remember? All we did was care for each other

“BYERS!!!! COME ON!” she exclaimed giddily, standing up clumsily and dragging her skinny best friend to the middle of the room, “IT’S OUR JAM!”

But the night was warm We were bold and young All around, the wind blows We would only hold on to let go

Will could only smile at her random behavior. He had never been a good dancer and he had not drank nearly as much as El had, so he just sort of awkwardly tried shuffling his feet and swaying his body to the catchy song.

“BLOW A KISS FIRE A GUN, WHEN YOU NEED SOMEONE TO LEAN ON”, El was screaming while swaying her hips wildly, her eyes were closed, “BLOW A KISS FIRE A GUN, ALL WE NEED IS SMEBODY TO LEAN ON”.

Will tried his hardest to keep up with El’s moves, but she was like a woman possessed, jumping around and twirling in every direction. It seemed that all those months of pent up energy – probably gathered after all those afternoons of voluntary isolation – were finally finding an outlet. After a couple of songs and happy to see his friend finally having fun, Will decided his job there was done.

“El. El! EL!!” he screamed to get her attention.

She faced him, smiling wildly. Her face shiny with sweat from the exertion and the warmth in the room. Will couldn’t help mirroring her grin.

“I just can’t keep up with you!” he said teasing her, “I’m gonna go find the guys”.

El stuck out her tongue at him and waved goodbye.

“YOU’RE SUCH A KID ELEVEN!” Will exclaimed as he headed to the other room, where he last saw his friends heading to.

--….--…--…---

Her feet were killing her.

El made her way to the nearest sitting space she could find, a couch on the left side of the room. She sat down for a minute in the crowded couch, slowly trying to move her toes so she didn’t feel them cramping anymore. She was currently sandwiched uncomfortably between a sleeping guy and a couple making out. She tried to ignore the snores and the sounds the couple were making.

She hadn’t seen Will or any of his friends for at least a couple of hours and she was not about to go wandering off looking for them. Will was probably drunk by now, maybe talking to the cute guy from their History 102 class that he always rambled on about. El smiled fondly, remembering how much of a hopeless romantic her best friend was.

She tried laying back on the couch and closing her tired eyes, but everything was too hot and her feet hurt too much. It was way too uncomfortable.

El glanced hopefully at the glass doors that led into the balcony. With any luck, there wouldn’t be anyone out there smoking.

She hated the smell of tobacco. It reminded her of him.

El shut her eyes tightly, desperately trying to chase away the memories that begged to be replayed on her mind, and massaged her throbbing temples. She tried to take a deep, calming breath and relax somehow, but the air felt too moist and everything smelled like alcohol and sweat. Suddenly, she was too aware of the extremely loud music and the annoying presence of the people around her. And there were too many people. Too many unfamiliar faces. Frustrated, El opened her eyes slowly, glancing around at the room full of strangers.

Dejection filled her thoroughly, tonight had been great so far and she just happened to ruin it by opening a door she had closed more than five years ago. She’d promised it would never haunt her, never hurt her again. But it was always there, lurking. It was always him, never allowing her to escape his choking grip.

Without even thinking about it, she had started walking on the opposite direction of the balcony, towards the main door of the house. As she stepped outside of the house, she couldn’t help noticing the wide brown door was ajar. El moved forward taking slow, deliberate steps, knowing her balance was far from being the most stable.

She glanced around quickly.

Sighing in relief at the fact that she had apparently managed to escape the smokers, El leaned on the nearest wall and stared off into the darkened streets and houses. Her body still felt light, but most the energy she had at the beginning of the night had ebbed away by now, leaving her exhausted. Soon enough, she noticed that the volume of the music and the noise from the house was once again bearable for her. However, without the loud (loud! loud!) music infecting her thoughts, she was left at the mercy of the familiar cold voice in her head: it was her own voice, but ruthless and emotionless, and it never tired of always repeating everything she didn’t want to hear.

She wondered what time it was, she was too lazy to get her phone out and check the time. Her fuzzy brain was making everything a lot harder.

“You ok?” a familiar voiced questioned.

El found herself staring up into the freckle-covered face of one of Will’s friends.

“Just tired and hot”, she replied, “it’s like a freaking oven in there”.

He just chuckled.

“Why are you out here?” she suddenly asked.

“Oh, just getting some air to clear my head”, the tall guy answered shrugging, “I am the lucky soul who gets to be the designated driver for tonight”.

El smiled in amusement.

His name is Mike, El suddenly remembered, her scattered, hazy thoughts becoming a tiny bit clearer.

“You know, I was convinced the only reason Will invited me here was so I’d have the honor of being the DD”.

They remained in a comfortable silence for a while, both staring off and busy with their own thoughts.

“Will is worried about you”, Mike stated after a while.

“I know”, El answered sadly, “it’s just hard for me, you know?”

Mike furrowed his brow in confusion.

“No matter how hard I try, it’s hard for me to feel comfortable or relaxed or even normal around new people or in new places”, she explained almost in a whisper.

“It’s ok to feel that way”, he said like it was the most natural thing in the world, his gaze showing empathy.

El snorted, fully aware that no, it was not okay to be such an introverted freak. She was not stupid. She knew it was a limitation, something that held her back from experiences and people and things she really wanted. She was all too aware that it was what isolated her from everyone and ultimately stood like a solid barrier, shielding her even from the ones she deeply cared about.

“I felt very lonely coming here at first”, Mike confessed smiling crookedly in her direction, “I consider myself a lucky guy, having Dustin as a roommate and meeting Lucas and Will on my first week here”.

“Will is an amazing friend”, El answered smiling, “and all of you seem like pretty cool guys”, she added honestly.

Mike blushed a bit and lowered his gaze, focusing on his wristwatch.

Who even owns a wristwatch these days?, wondered El with amusement as she glanced at him with the corner of her eye.

“Hey, it’s barely 1 am, how do you feel about going for a drive and coming back to pick up our friends’ drunken asses?” suddenly asked Mike.

Full story: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12840366/chapters/29318523

#stranger things #stranger things fanfiction #mileven #mileven fanfiction #mileven fanfic #stranger things angst #stranger things day #mike wheeler #mike and eleven #eleven #jane hopper #el hopper #el and mike #eleven and mike #mileven fluff #st #fanfiction

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luciferpens · 4 years

Text

( HARRY SHUM JR, MALE, HE/HIM ) ⌇ have you seen KAI YEOH around icaria? they are the 35 year old child of HERMES. they remind me of a THOUSANDS OF FILLED BOOK SHELVES, SLIPPERY FINGERS WRAPPED AROUND A LOCKPICK, INFALLIBLE MEMORY, and A CARING NATURE. They’ve been on the island for 18 years.

BASICS

FULL NAME: Kai yeoh

NICKNAMES: K

FACE CLAIM: Harry Shum Jr.

AGE: Thirty-five

SEXUALITY: pansexual & panromantic

DATE OF BIRTH: June 1, 1985

GENDER/PRONOUNS: cis male he/him

EDUCATION: H.S. Diploma.

OCCUPATION: Librarian

GODLY PARENT: Hermes

GODLY POWERS: Enhanced thievery; he can steal practically anything without being seen. Prophecy & intelligence: These two combined into one allowing Kai to have a perfect memory and ability to tell people small glimpses into their future or their past depending on what he needs to know to help them get to what they need. Persuasion: He can sometimes persuade people into doing whatever he wants or pushing people to do what they actually want to do without inhibitions.

BIO + BULLET POINTS

Orphan -- dropped off the day he was born or within a day or so

Had a habit of leading parents to their perfect child -- even, no especially, if it wasn’t himself. Think Good Luck Chuck.

He was a bit chaotic as a little kid -- either soulful guide or a pickpocket trickster.

TW: Child abuse

At nine he was fostered; but he saw something he shouldn’t have and him, along with the bio kids, were all sent back to the foster system (they were trafficking foster kids)

Was bullied as a kid in school for being a foster kid.

His second foster home (12) screamed and yelled. so he stole money from them

The third (13) abused him; he was sent into the hospital four times most on life support or something similar.

The fourth (16) got him addicted to perception drugs. When he was pulled out he went through severe withdrawals but is doing good now.

The fifth (17) he doesn’t even try to think of. Its just dark. He refuses to talk about it.

End TW

He found out around 17.5 years old that he was a hermes kid after a slip up from a caregiver. Hermes appeared after a prayer and moved him to Icaria

He met Angelia the librarian. His older sister. She treated him like a son and took care of him while also teaching him the ways of the infinite library that moves around the world. (Think TARDIS but just a huge library)

At 24 he adopted another foster from his old home who he realized was a demigod. Her name is Dory. He’s raised her as his little girl since she was 10.

Angela died when he was 25 and he has since been the head librarian.

Kai has no earthly idea who his parents are. Or, well at least who his mother is. He arrived at the orphanage’s doorstep on the first of June wrapped in a blanket with talaria embroidered on the blanket. All throughout his infancy he was a calm and quiet child. Why he hadn’t been adopted out right, when babies are usually the first to go? He’s got no idea. All he knows is that for the first five years of his life? Things were relatively normal for someone living in the american orphanage system. He learned to take care of himself, how to bathe, wipe his own ass, how to dress and look semi-decent. No one was going to help him do it -- not really. But, he made friends -- then saw them get adopted and rarely ever saw them again after that. The average life of an orphan in the system.

When he was five though, things started to change. It all started with a simple sentence. “I’M NOT THE ONE YOU WANT, HE IS.” It slipped out of Kai’s mouth before he understood what he was saying, his finger pointed to a boy playing with a toy a few feet away. The parents were confused but took it as a sign Kai didn’t want to go with them. They adopted the kid not long after. This started a chain of events, parents would come in, they’d look at Kai and think “I want him” but Kai would point them to a child they actually wanted, the one that would fit their family best. Think Good Luck Chuck but with adoption instead. This was a trait he kept up for the next 12 years that he was in the foster care system.

Strangely enough -- Kai was okay with it. It kept him out of bad situations with parents who would have ended up sending him back, it kept him with others and helped them find good homes. Sure, it was lonely, it was depressing and quiet at times, but he knew he was doing some good in the world by being there. Besides? Who wouldn’t want to find their perfect family? All those kids got it… he wanted it too. So he worked on himself, he tried to be a model kid, tried to be a happy-go-lucky despite being in the system. As a young boy he was highly intelligent, curious, playful and quick. He was known around the orphanage as both a leader and a trickster. His siblings never quite sure which version of him they were going to get on any given day. Would he be the clever trickster that could steal anything out from under your nose or would he be the soulful guide that helped families find their perfect child? No one knew, hell he didn’t even know.

At 9 he was fostered for the first time, unable to convince the family that he wasn’t who they wanted. (He had no recommendation because no child jumped out to him as being perfect for that family) They took him home and for the first time in his 9 years he saw what a somewhat normal family was like. It started so simply, so happily. Kai was enjoying being part of a family, of having siblings and a mom and dad. The new family took him to the doctors, took him to camps, he had sleepovers with class friends, he played sports. He actually felt like a normal child. Things had been going so well… but life had other plans and he now knows… was trying to protect him. The thing that would end up with him back in foster care, was his insane memory. He could recite anything he ever read, almost any conversation he had. This by itself, not a bad thing, a bit of a burden, but not horrible. (Imagine remembering every word someone ever said to you and feeling like your brain could be overly full at times) The issue came when his mischievous trickster side reared its head and he snuck around the house in the middle of the night when they had a babysitter.

TW: CHILD ABUSE He found things he shouldn’t have, files that talked about how the money they got was spent, files that documented previous children -- ones he saw no proof of around the house. Files that lead a curious 9 year old to recite word for word to his social worker one day on a check up -- and ended with all of the children, even the family’s biological ones being taken away from them. He wouldn’t find out till he was a teen that the family had been “losing” teens for over a decade; claiming they ran away from home and just ended up back in foster care…. When in reality they were trafficking them. Selling the foster kids to the highest bidder; he wouldn’t find out until his mid 20s that most of those kids? They ended up addicted to drugs or dead, abuse of all types having driven them mad.

Back in the home, now 10 going on 11, Kai fell back into old habits; Pointing families to the perfect kid, helping out around the orphanage by taking care of the younger kids, pulling little tricks, stealing small things when he was out and about. Kai was -- back to his normal. An orphan who did his best to hide that fact at school. The kid who stole and lied his way into any clothing or food he would possibly want. An orphan who did his best to look normal. Trying not to get bullied for the oversized, dirty clothes that were a standard of being an orphan. He went in and out of four more foster homes before he aged out of the system. Each one having their own serious issues; It had started with the yelling in the first family since almost being sold. They yelled and screamed and called him all sorts of names. Soon Kai had stopped caring what people said and only cared how they acted. And his own acts? Well he stole money all the time from the family since he felt it was a good payment for dealing with their yelling. Soon he was taken then placed in another home…. This time it was physical, they said little to him and if they did it was always cold and mean. They hit him though, bet the ever living hell out of him. He ended up in the hospital four times on life support before they took him away. The third family had actually been decent -- but the bio kids in the house abused drugs and -- well soon Kai had fallen into that as well. Luckily for Kai he was ripped from that family after a couple of months, and while withdrawal had been hell on earth, he got past it. The fourth? He was 17 when he was put into his fourth and last foster home. And, well the fourth he was there for ten days before he ran away and showed back up at the orphanage. Kai doesn’t talk about what happened in that home, he’ll ignore any references to the last home.

TW END After each incident Kai became a bit colder, a bit more closed off. He went from a happy boy to a teen who’s look could cut you, whose words made you fork over your money and who’s memory you could never doubt and never wanted to go up against (people tried but they always lost that bet.) Once he was back at the orphanage and now 17.4 years old he spent all his free time at school and trying to avoid the home. To avoid seeing kids get their happy endings with their perfect family while he was left without. He made a family of friends and spent much of his free time sleeping over at their houses but -- it was never the same. No place felt quite right. It was around this time that he came back to the home and the oldest care worker was cleaning the kitchen. She started to talk about the night he had shown up. How his blanket had talaria on it and how they almost named him Hermes until they saw the name Kai scribbled onto the blanket. She pulled the blanket out of a closet and handed it over to him. That night he spent hours looking up mythos around Hermes, about where the blanket could have come from and who his mother might have been.

The research -- revealed some interesting things. Little things he had always noticed about himself stuck out as similar to Hermes. The ridiculous ability he had to steal anything without ever being noticed, how easily he could convince people do do whatever he asked, his -- insane memory. Now, Kai had never been a religious kid, but seeing how similar he was to Hermes? He prayed that night to the greek god knowing nothing would happen….. Except it did. Hermes showed up the next morning pretending to be a parent wanting a kid and asked to see the teens. He found Kai and the two spent the next day together -- and that's when Kai learned all about the greek gods, about how HE was a demi-god, about how he had powers and skills and how there was a whole island of people like him. Those who had powers and those who would allow him to -- live his life how he wanted without the shackles of the foster system and american government.

Without a second thought Kai said he wanted to go, he had no skills, no real job experience but -- well it had to be better than this. So Hermes’ took him, he was 17.5 years old when he arrived on the island. Hermes set him up in a house and then -- introduced him to the library. A building that comes and goes as its needed. It can appear anywhere in the world at any moment, it appears, always, as a small one story building that looks like it’d be one -- maybe two medium sized rooms; but when you open the door? It’s massive, as far as the eye can see, floors reaching for the sky, thousands and thousands of rows of shelves. It was bigger on the inside. Just like the TARDIS from his favorite TV show. He was instantly greeted by the librarian, an elderly woman with a sweet smile who grabbed him by the cheeks and said “AH, MY NEW ASSISTANT. NICE TO MEET ANOTHER HERMES KID.” She was like him, able to tell what it was people needed then to give it to them. He was left with her -- and for the first time in his life he actually was home. The stacks of books and this old lady -- this was where he was meant to be.

Angelia became the mother he never had, she taught him how to control his skills; they played games of stealing things from one another without being caught, Angelia taught him languages, she tested his memory, tested his ability to figure out what people really needed -- and then she taught him how to predict the future a derivative power of what people needed and wanted but more precise. Angelia taught him how to cook, how to do basic “adulting” things, she treated him like a human and for the first time in his life? As a kid -- She let him just have fun without worrying about food, about safety and others. And Kai? Kai finally learned to relax -- just a little. He learned to trust… just a little. In Kai’s mind, there was no one better on this earth than Angelia. She was a saint of a demi-god.

For the first time in his life Kai was also able to explore who he was as a person, he came out as bisexual, slept around and actually got himself a boyfriend for a short period of time. The two were quite happy but all good things must come to and end and around the age of 24 the two broke up and went their separate ways. Since then Kai hasn’t settled back down, he’s enjoyed being single and is a frequent face in Phryne much to the dismay of Angelia who wanted nothing more than to see him settle down and get married.

When he turned 23 he met the Larsen kids and realized that one of the children back at the home was irrily similar. After a talk with their father he knew what he had to do. He rushed back and within a week had adopted Dory. Dory had been a child he had seen come in and out of the home since he was 13. A cute little girl who wanted nothing more than to be loved and understood. Her love of bees needng to be appreciated as well. But she kept getting sent back, her love and understanding of bees being to much for most families. He knew she was a demi-god like him and just needed the right family -- and and -- he was the right family. Now she was his. His 10 year old to take care of. He brought her back to the library, set her up in her own room, and spoiled her like he had always wanted to be as a kid himself.

When dory was just hitting 11 she called him papa -- and his heart melted. He became even more wrapped around her finger. He'd do anything for that little girl. Between Angelia and Dory Kai had finally found himself a family and a home. Angelia did her best to try and set Kai up on dates, trying to find him that last little bit of a missing family she wanted so desperatly to see him have. She didn't care if it was a man, a woman or someone non-binary. She just wanted to see her own "adopted" son get something she never had; a true love. Someone to share it all with. A wedding.....

Sadly, Angelia would never get to see him marry. She died just three weeks after his 25th birthday. Kai had had 8 long wonderful years with his older sister/mother. But he had to step up and become the librarian. Before she passed she had trained him in every aspect that was the library. That they had the position and honor of gathering the history of the world in written text. It wasn’t something they actually wrote so much as it was -- like a digital download. The library would appear in a country, a new book would appear on the proper shelf and they’d leave to go onto the next. Over and over again. People came and went to the library -- never questioning why they could only see it once a month, or why they seemed to forget it existed until the day it appeared. They never questioned why they always had to trade knowledge for knowledge they just -- accepted it and moved along.

Kai now is the head and only librarian. He is looking for a pupil, someone to train and help him run the library. A part of him hopes it's another Hermes’ kid… or another orphan. One he can help like Angelia helped him. Kai lives in a smallish apartment inside the library. Kai is an eccentric, fashionable and all around chill guy. He cares deeply about others but does a good job of hiding it behind a facade.

#icaria: intro #its long again whooopppppsssss #Kai #Kai: Musings

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love-the-little-wonders · 6 years

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Face to FaceTime

Summary: Tired of being isolated, Adrien reaches out to his friend in hopes of finding some comfort late at night. Adrinette <3

The sound of loud rumbling thunder fills the emptiness of his expansive bedroom. Adrien blows against his windowpane and draws a frowny face on the glass. Once again, his father confined Adrien to his room. He hasn’t seen his friends in what felt like forever. Normally, he’d use his isolation as a chance to escape as Chat Noir but with the storm raging outside, transforming was out of the question. Adrien looked to his small kwami friend and found him sleeping on top of a round of cheese.

Typical.

Adrien looked at the clock on his phone and it read 11:56 PM. He knew it was late but he decided to try to call Nino on FaceTime. Adrien stares at Nino’s smiling picture and it stares back at him as his phone rings and rings but Nino doesn’t answer.

Dejected, Adrien drags his feet as he shuffles towards his bed and with an ungraceful flop lays atop the blankets staring blankly at the ceiling. How many times has he looked up at this very ceiling and stared at the bleak nothingness that the white paint gives off? Rolling over, Adrien looks over to his nightstand and sees his Marinette lucky charm. He grabs it and holds it over his head as he looks at it. Boy does he feel unlucky right about now. Rolling the bead between his fingers, an idea pops into his head. He recalls Alya berating Marinette on several occasions for staying up so late working on her designs. Maybe the designer is still up. It is Saturday night. Plus, after the events with Gorizilla a month back, they exchanged numbers and have texted on and off since. Staring at her contact picture, Adrien decides to call her. Pressing the FaceTime icon, Adrien waits for her to answer, the rings echoing loudly in his empty room.

The vibration of her phone wakes Marinette up from her impromptu nap at her sewing desk. Her hair is disheveled and she has scraps of fabric and loose thread stuck to her face. She answers the call without looking at who called her. She hears his voice before she can make out his face through her groggy eyes.

“Hey Marinette”

That woke her up. Marinette rubs away any leftover bleariness from her eyes and accidentally knocks her phone on the floor. She fumbles to get a firm grasp on it and promptly bumps her head on the underside of her desk.

“Ouuuch! A-Adrien calling me late ?! What are you calling at late- um I mean I mean it's uh kinda late aaand you're calling me?” She winced at her poor communication skills with her crush as she rubbed her head.

“Is it alright that I called you? I know it's kind of late…it's just my dad wouldn't let me leave the house again and with all of my photo shoots this week I missed school and I still had my extracurriculars. It feels like I haven't seen you guys in ages” His voice cracked from the emotion he was trying to suppress. “I really miss my friends and I miss hanging out with you, Nino, and Alya, y'know?”

This was a lot to process at 12 in the morning for a short-circuiting Marinette. Adrien Agreste considers her a close friend and specifically said he missed her. Well, her and his other friends, but still!! He called her! Marinette wanted nothing more than to freak out but she needed to keep it together for Adrien’s sake.

“ He’s feeling lonely and really needs a friend right now and that's what I’m gonna be,” she thinks to herself as she slaps her face between her palms, “ I can do this! ”

Adrien quirks an eyebrow at her antics but chalks it up to Marinette being Marinette.

“Y-yeah you can call me whenever you like! Just not like you know 4 in the morning or something or if I’m helping in the bakery or showering I won’t be able to answer…” Marinette’s eyes bugged once she realized what she just said. Embarrassment tinged her face and ears.

“Really?! That really means a lot to me, Marinette! Thanks!” He was relieved to know that he wasn’t bothering her and that she didn’t mind talking to him this late at night.

“You mean a lot to me” Marinette sighed.

“What was that?” Adrien asked.

“Oh uh um well I said...” Marinette was floundering. Did she just partly confess to her crush over FaceTime?! Should she hang up and pretend this never happened?

“ No!! Adrien called because he needs a friend! ” she reminded herself. With a deep breath, Marinette continued, “I said that you mean a lot to me. You’re my friend and it...it hurts to see you hurting”.

Adrien was taken aback by how sincere she was. Eyebrows knitted and mouth scrunched, Marinette looked like she had fire in her eyes. Her expression was oddly reminiscent of his partner against crime.

“But really, if you ever need a shoulder to lean on or if you need to vent, I’m all ears.”

“I’m all yours too if you want me to be,” Marinette thought to herself.

Adrien couldn’t believe how lucky he was to have such amazing friends, especially a friend like Marinette. It made him happy to think about that but it also pained him even more because he wanted nothing more than to be able to spend as much time with them as possible.

Adrien sniffled and fought back the urge to cry in front of his friend. He shifted his position on his bed from sitting up against his headboard to rolling onto his stomach and propping his chin on his pillow and put his phone against his headboard. Hopefully, the pressure of the pillow could be enough to keep the tears at bay.

Marinette could tell that Adrien was hurting and suppressing his emotions just because he was talking to her wasn’t healthy. Softly she suggested, “you can cry if you want Adrien. It's ok. Everyone needs to cry every now and again and afterward, you’ll feel much better. I know I do.”

He really has been feeling miserable lately. Yeah, it sucked that he’s been seeing his friends less and has had a more rigid schedule than usual but what hurt the most was that right when it seemed like he and his dad had gotten closer, his dad decided to put even more distance between himself and Adrien. They had watched his mother��s movie together and it felt like he had a dad again. But that didn’t last long at all. His dad pulled away and put even more distance between them leaving Adrien feeling more alone and isolated than before. He missed his mom. He missed having a dad who cared even if he didn’t show it that well.

Adrien’s breath shuddered as he inhaled as he began to cry. Face down in his pillow he cried away his feelings of helplessness and loneliness. He didn’t call Marinette just so she could watch him cry but like she said, he really needed this.

While Adrien had his cathartic release, Marinette was overcome with guilt. ‘Oh no! I made Adrien cry!!! How could I be so cruel?!” Marinette thought as she dragged her hands over her face. Biting her nails, she grabbed her phone and quietly made her way from her sewing station up to her loft and into her bed. Sparing a glance to the little bed that she made for Tikki, Marinette checked to see if the little kwami was asleep or not. Marinette couldn’t seek the kwami’s advice while she was FaceTiming with Adrien but having her near was calming. Tikki was in fact fast asleep. Marinette sighed. She was just gonna have to navigate this new situation by herself. Marinette nestled under her covers and set her phone against her kitty body pillow. A few minutes later, Adrien’s tears began to subside and his breathing became more regulated.

“Feeling better now?” Marinette asked. The whole time he was crying, Marinette wished that she could be with him in person and hold him. The thought made her face heat up but she really did wish that she could be there instead of on the other end of a phone.

With one last sniffle, Arien replied with a slightly raspy voice, “y-yeah”

“Hey, Adrien?” Marinette asked as she nervously bit her lip.

“Yes?”

“What do you get when you cross a lemon and a cat?” She asked as she looked down at her lap.

“Um, what?”

“A sour puss” Marinette had to admit that it was a pretty lame joke but she came up with on the spot so…

Adrien gave her a small smile as he chuckled softly.

“What do you call a cat that lives in an igloo?” Marinette asked with a smirk.

“What?”

“An eskimew” Marinette could honestly say that she was proud of herself for coming up with these jokes. It seemed like her kitty was rubbing off on her. Maybe that explained why she was only coming up with cat-related jokes.

At that, Adrien let out a louder laugh than before. “That was pretty cute.”

Marinette blushed and smiled to herself. She was happy that she could make Adrien smile.

“Can I tell a joke?” Adrien asked propping himself up on his elbows and he hugged his pillow.

“Sure”

“What’s a cat’s favorite way of keeping law & order?”

Marinette had a feeling that whatever Adrien was going to say, Chat would love it and eat it up.

“What?”

“Claw Enforcement”

Marinette was right. She grinned from ear to ear as she laughed thinking about how much of a field day Chat would have if he heard Ladybug say that joke.

“D-do you want to hear another one?” Marinette asked.

“I’d love to”

“Okay, I’ve got a good one.”

As Ladybug, Marinette pretended to be exasperated with her partner when he punned but she actually enjoyed them. She just didn’t tell him because he didn’t need another reason to have his ego fanned.

“How do cats end their fights?”

“How?”

“They hiss and make up,” Marinette said with a pleased smirk on her face as she mimicked a cat swiping their paw as she hissed and then made a kissy face. Who doesn’t like a good cheesy joke every once in a while? She wasn’t a stick in the mud.

Adrien seemed to really like that joke because he laughed so hard that he rolled out of bed. How that happened, Marinette had no clue. She was supposed to be the clumsy one. Adrien righted himself on the bed and thought to himself that he was in a much better mood than he was an hour ago.

Looking out his window, he noticed that the thunderstorm had blown itself out and was now a soothing sprinkle.

“I didn’t know that you were so well versed in the art of cat jokes, Marinette,” Adrien said with a relaxed expression. Gone was the storm that raged outside as well as within Adrien.

Marinette let out a small laugh “What can I say, I have a friend who likes to tell me cat jokes constantly and I guess they’ve rubbed off on me.”

Adrien wondered who this friend might be. He’d love to meet them and exchange notes.

They talked some more for another half hour. Marinette filled him in on the ongoings at school that he missed while he’s been gone. Max had brought Markov in again and had it play a game of basketball against Kim and the robot and boy had surprisingly tied, Alix debuted her graffiti art series at school in the main quad, and Rose and Juleka announced that Kitty Section would be performing for the upcoming open house. Adrien wished that he could have been there in person but it was nice to hear Marinette talk and fill him in. He told her about his latest modeling shoots and what his father’s new line was going to be like. At that, Marinette perked up and grabbed a nearby journal to take notes on what to expect. Adrien even mentioned that they would finally be debuting the bowler hat that Marinette designed and Marinette let out a sound of delight.

“Hey, Marinette?”

“Hmm?” Marinette looked up from her notebook to look at the blonde boy.

“Can we do this more often?”

“This? As in talk more?” Marinette asked as her heart skipping several beats.

“Well, that too. I like talking to you. I’m happy we’ve grown closer over the past few months. But I mean if I can’t make it to school or hang out with friends, that you’ll fill me in on what I missed?” Adrien asked with a sad smile.

Marinette really felt for this poor boy. How could his father be this overbearing to keep his only son basically a prisoner and keep him from things that brought him joy? She wished that she could do more but for now this would have to do.

“If that’s what you want, I’ll do my best” Marinette let him know with a reassuring smile.

“Hey, I can do you one better. I can FaceTime you while hanging out with friends or at school or something if you're not there if you’re not busy” Marinette suggested.

“That’s a great idea, Mari!!” Adrien exclaimed as he pumped his fists in the air. “You’re the best!”

Marinette gave him a smile as her stomach filled with butterflies.

“I’m happy I can help,” she says as she stifles a yawn. She glances at her clock on her nightstand and read the glowing numbers 1:40 AM.

Adrien noticed her yawn and also took a glance at the time.

“Woah, I didn’t realize how late it had gotten. It’s a good thing tomorrow is Sunday” he said as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes fighting back a yawn of his own.

“Thank you, Mari, for answering my call. I’m so lucky to have you as a friend” Adrien said as he gave her a heart-stopping smile. Marinette’s cheeks turned pink and she could feel them warm.

“You’re welcome, Adrien. I’m here for you anytime day or night.”

“I guess I’ll let you sleep now. Good night Marinette.”

“Good night, Adrien.”

They both stared at each other for another 20 seconds not wanting to be the first to end the call. Realizing that neither one was gonna do it, they both laughed. With another good night, Adrien reluctantly ended the call. Adrien plugged in his phone to charge and snuggled into his blankets. Closing his eyes, he drifted off to sleep after a few minutes.

Clutching her phone to her chest, Marinette laid awake in bed for another half hour heart still hammering thinking about what she had just done. She talked on the phone and FaceTimed with Adrien ( ADRIEN!!!) for almost two hours and barely stuttered.

“Alya’s gonna freak when she finds out,” Marinette thinks to herself. The sound of rain taps out a rhythm against her skylight and Marinette finds herself slowly drifting off to sleep phone still clutched to her chest.

The next morning Adrien was awakened by Nathalie at 7 AM. Despite only getting 5 hours of sleep, Adrien felt completely rested. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he had felt this rested. Even though it may mean that Adrien missed out on something yet again, he looked forward to his FaceTime calls with Marinette.

#miraculous ladybug #adrinette #ml fanfic #ml spoilers #ml fic #marinette dupen-chang #adrien agreste #adrien x marinette #fanfiction #fanfic #my fanfiction #my fanfic #anansi #gorizilla

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skillesswriter · 5 years

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250 Story Arc - Week 2, Part 08-11

Part 08 Shaking the shock from her head she reported into work, late. Madam L’ane had a few choice words for her. “To think you would be this much of a disappointment!” her shrill cry was damaging to the ears. She repeated her usual lecture until an hour passed and she decided to end it. “Just look at this mess. Have you any idea what today is!” Maria was stiff. Standing still while someone yelled at you took its toll on the body. Her mind, however, was clean, she was used to it after all. L’ane was a proud noblewoman who saw the peasant girl in front of her as nothing not then trash. Despite whatever feelings they had for each other, Madam L’ane had a point. In the earlier confusion, Maria didn’t notice but the supply closet was a mess. On top of the disheveled room, she was not only late but caught by the Housekeeper herself, and to make matters worse, “care to explain!” L’ane asked the worst possible question. Maria looked around wildly, she couldn't tell her about the prince. That would be suicide. Yeah sorry I’m late, I ran into the prince and after learning that he was planning on running out on his own coming of age I decided to let him go. Oh, did I mention that I slammed the door on his face? Knocked him on the ground and everything! Maria reflexive brought her hands to her neck. She could feel the cold bit of the guillotine severing her head already. Luck was on her side however as the annoyed Housekeeper grew impatient at her panicking. “You are lucky that we are short staffed today.” Madam L’ane said with a huff. “If we could do without the extra help I would match right over to the Silver Office and have a word with the House Steward about your future in this keep!” Madam L’ane turned on her heel to march off, elegantly as she spoke in a whisper just audible enough for Maria to hear, “Though one wonders at what cost such help brings.” Before she rounded the corner she turned to face Maria and said as she clapped her hands, “Clean this mess up and be quick about it! We need to prepare for the party!” Thanking her Maria started to clean up the mess as L’ane left with a “humph.” Part 09 Finished with the cleanup Maria was able to rush to the aid of the others. It was almost time, the party was about to start. Maria was standing in a beautifully decorated room. Its grand design and spectacular attention to detail had given it the ability to take the breath away from anyone who saw it. With only the odd detail here and there that needed adjusting as well as the last minute arrangements to be satisfied. The party was ready to begin. Even Maria, who had finished setting up the finer details not but a moment ago caught herself staring in wonder from time to time. “You really should close your mouth you know.” With a start, Maria quickly did as Diana had suggested. Her friend and comrade of the feather dusters was standing next to her. Diana was a beautiful woman standing just a few hairs higher than Maria. Her blond hair was fashioned into a bun, same as Maria but it had an elegant twist it that it stood out amongst the sea of Maids. Her golden eyes smiled as they reflected her friend and a smile played on her lips.“It’s impolite to laugh at other people you know.” Maria's pout was lost on her friend. “Oh, but don’t you know your station provided me with just the best excuse to do so.” Maria puffed her cheeks at Diana's gibe. She didn’t reply though, because what she had said was true. Normally only nobles could get a position as a maid in the castle. It helped to give work to those born without hope of being used for politics and gave them a chance to mix with many other nobles and catch their eyes. Maria was a special case however, while her father was a former noble Maria was born just too late to gain that title. She was only able to gain this position by accident and luck. It was Maria’s mother who brought her to the castle when she had to work. Part 10 Dana's words had caused Maria to recalled the days long past. Past the party down the hall and through the painted glass where she spent her time playing in the courtyard. As a child, she would always play there while her mother worked. She was always alone. There were no other children that resided in the castle, save for her. Each day her mother would bring her to work and leave her in the courtyard. She was left alone in that empty garden. Little Maria would always play alone, out of the way from everyone else. Then one day a boy appeared. He was startled to find a little girl in the garden and she was just as surprised to find him. It was the first time either one of them found a child of the same age in the castle grounds. They became fast friends. From that point on, whenever her mother brought her to work, left her to play at a courtyard out of the way from everyone, she would only have to wait a few minutes for her prince to find her. With a simple greeting, they would play together. They played together until the boys' father found them. He took him away one day leaving Maria to play by herself. She soon realized how lonely she was. The once beautiful garden suddenly seemed empty and cold. She would always arrive at the castle with her mother, go to the courtyard out of the way and sit in the garden. alone. Part 11 One day a man arrived. His exquisite cloths drew her eye. They were so colorful and bright that she lost her breath for a second. He must be a king she thought. He stood tall above her, his green eyes staring directly at her. His gaze was so deep that she could only look to him with a shy discomfort. She didn't know why this man had decided to appear in front of her, nor could she understand what he was doing. All she saw was a man looking at her. He measured her without a word. She wanted to ask him what he wanted, but she was afraid. Not of this man but of her mother's words. Mother had told her not to bother anyone. She wasn't to talk to any of the castle residences unless they started the conversation themselves. This man standing over her didn't say a word. He merely stared at her. After some time he nodded. He was satisfied by something she could not understand and took off leaving her behind. Maria who had come to realize how lonely it was here, in the cold and empty garden, took a few steps to follow him. She stopped short of the door. she wanted to call out to the man, but couldn't. She wanted someone to play with her, but mother had told her not to be a bother and it was important for her to be a good child. Her mother needed her to be good, she needed this job now that father was removed from his office. She reached out a hand, but he left her there with nary a word and didn’t look back to see the plea in her eye. Maria lowered her hand as well as her eyes. tears started falling.

#writing #oc #short story

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julius-vi-britannia · 6 years

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Pulling Strings: Stage 0

(*Small recording of the tune to “All Hail Britannia”*)

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‘Julius vi Britannia’

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Stage 0: Beginning

Pendragon Imperial Palace, Pendragon, Holy Britannian Empire June 1, 2007 a.t.b.

A soft melody could be heard from one of the bedrooms. Servants who worked in the halls would stop to listen. They would smile and then continue their work. They knew that song and who was behind the door: Julius vi Britannia, the 11th (½, that is) prince of the empire.

The seven year-old prince would play on his violin every evening, focusing on the gentle melody he perfected with ease. The song he was playing was something his mother taught him on one of his birthdays. “Moon Princess” would make him think of a beautiful maiden who would sing each night on the moon. The sweet gentle moonlight from her home would give people pleasant dreams, he believed. Because of the story he thought of, it became one of his favorite songs to play.

Speaking of concerts, he wished he could leave this cage of a room to perform for others. He loved how people from outside his bedroom would occasionally hear and praise. However, he wanted more than that. But the problem was that he can’t leave for whatever reason. Julius tried by asking the guards side by side his door. The answer he would get, “You cannot leave this room. Your father is trying to protect you. He’ll lift the order once the danger is gone.” Right. His father was emperor. He heard his own father was the reason he was locked up. At first, he was mad. The boy could argue, but he would never fight his father. He loved him as much he loved his mother, who would visit him from time to time. So, he cannot go against his own father, the man who was protecting him. He had wondered what this “danger” was, but he decided to drop it.

The young prince finished playing the song, sitting down on his bed to rest. His violin laid by his side. His violet eyes were looking down on the floor. Music sheets were scattered, but in a neat pile. Books, the same way. He picked up a sheet, reading the notes. That sheet, all of the sheets in fact, were all from his mother. The prince softly smiled. At least he was completely alone by himself. His mother would come by to check on him, making sure he was well. One time, he had played a song for her on her birthday to surprise her with his violin talent. She had enjoyed it, telling him he was a musical prodigy. A prodigy, huh, he was thinking to himself. If I wasn’t a prince, I would definitely become a musician. People would applaud and a lady might throw a red rose to me. He sighed, lying down. He held the music sheet close to him. Someday, I will be free and share my talent with the world. The child could only wait.

Little did he know, a lone woman with green hair was watching him through the window. She was standing on the grassy hill, her golden eyes watching the figure eventually sleep. She soon turned away.

~~~ April 12, 2009 a.t.b.

Julius hadn’t seen his mother all day. He was wondering what was going on. Could she be busy with running the empire with Father? She could be away to another country for some meeting? He stared out his window to see the sun still shining brightly. The flowers were in bloom, swaying to the gentle breeze. He never felt the breeze before. Maybe someday-.

His thought was interrupted by the unlock click sound on his door. The boy turned around with a smile. “Mother, you-.” His smile faded when he saw the visitor was not his mother, but rather a young man in a black suit with white gloves. His expression was making the prince confused. “Where’s Mother? Is she alright?”

“I’m sorry, my prince. She…” The man kneeled down to Julius’s height and hugged him. He felt the man’s body tremble and tears on the back of the boy’s dress shirt. Was he dreaming? Was this happening? Was his mother…? “She what? What happened?” The valet’s breathing quicken, more tears dropping. He said only one word that made the prince’s heart shatter, “Deceased.”

~~~

The funeral was being held. Members and staff of the royal family were attending, their faces cloaked with sorrow. A girl was being comforted by an older sister.

Once everyone was present, the pastor went to the podium. Even though he was deeply saddened by the tragedy, his mission to bring comfort to the people present was clear as day. “Friends and family. We are gathered to honor the memory of Marianne vi Britannia, our beloved queen of Britannia. She was killed by a terrorist attack. Many of us are deeply affected by this loss. Let us pray together.” He bowed his head, and closed his eyes. Everyone else did too.

After what seem like an eternity, the pastor lifted his head. “To conclude the event, we will have a young prince play a song in the queen’s honor and memory.” He nodded to a boy no older than 8 years of age. He was wearing a blue cloak to represent his mother’s service in the Knights of Round. The boy began to play his mother’s favorite song, his eyes closed to focus. He was thinking of her, imagining her best features: her angelic voice, her warm hug, her smile. He wished he could cry. But, he can’t. He must smile and remember for her. This is his beginning.

~~~~

[ending theme: Shatter Me (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wsysh9VWEv0)]

#julius kingsley #julius vi britannia #backstory #code geass #fanfic #fanfiction #Code Geass lelouch of the rebellion #stage 0 #muse #muse backstory

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evakviigmohns · 7 years

Text

punk chick [richie tozier]

request: hey could I request an aged up Richie x reader where Richie is transitioning into his bad boy style because of the reader because to impress her because she's a badass punk chick.

A/N: i!! had!! so!! much!! fun!! writing!! this!! I hope that the anon who sent this doesn’t mind that these are headcannons¿¿¿ cuz I just thought it was easier & im trying to get my shit done LMAO,,,,, soooooo hope u guys enjoy this!! don��t forget to send me request or such cuz i still have time until school begins & I want to write as much as I can before it does. i hope u have a great day!

-okay so let’s say you are the new girl in school at 11th grade (i would say freshman sophomore or whatever it is but I have no fucking idea how that works lol) & u came in with all of this bad punk chick vibe and everyone just went nuts

-bc its fucking derry, here everyone is just kind of average and the cliques are not really empathized or anything so seeing someone just look so much like a character from a movie and all of that is just different, u know what I mean?

-soooooooooooooooo, it’s your first day at school, you walk in and you literally feel how everyone turns around to look at you, which you just kind of brush off cuz just fuck it, you know what I mean?

-okay so you go into your first class and you just sit like in the middle of the classroom cause even though you are interested in this subject, you are not interested enough to sit in the front seats and wait to until the class starts; everyone is sitting with friends or such and you are still alone but you really don’t care cause you might as well just turn around and make a lil chit chat with the people sitting behind you because for fuck’s sake if you aren’t charming

-sOooOo as I was saying, people keep walking into the room and you see a guy with such an adorable smile and just looks like a real-life bunny and he gets closer to the seat where you at and he just smiles directly at you and nicely asks if he can sit next to you and you reply yes.

[MORE UNDER THE CUT CUZ I DONT WANNA FUCK UP YOUR TIMELINE]

-It turns out that his name is Ben Hanscom and he is the nicest boy you’ve ever met. The conversation between you two floats easily and right before the ring bells, he invites to hang out after school with his friends and you immediately agree; everyone could use some new friends and even more when you are the new girl at school/now.

-your day just floats normally, until you reach your final period, but you decide to skip it because who fucking needs to P.E

-so you are just hanging out behind your school, smoking a cigarette as you just look around waiting for the final ring to make its appearance and you see a couple of boys who are walking around and you just follow them with your eyes as you keep inhaling and exhaling smoke (out of context but if u smoke pls be careful bc of fucking cancer) apparently one of them notices you.

-and they just pull the shirt of the other as they keep staring, talking about being lowkey, the other guy who is wearing glasses and is just fucking tall smirks at your direction and tells something to the smaller one and he just starts walking in your direction as his friends follows him.

-once they reach you, your halfway trough your cigarette and you just look at him until he says something.

-“well, hello there” the glass-wearing boy tells you and you just nod your head at his direction “uhm, my name is Richie and this is Eddie” he said as he looked at his friend next to him “and I was just wondering what is doing a lady like you out here all by herself” “what you think im doing?” you say as you put the cigarette in your lips “to smoke? Yeah, well, im here to take a smoke too.” As soon as he said that, eddie looked at him just shocked bc for fucks sake Richie doesn’t smoke¿ wth is he doing¿

-but you have no fucking idea and you just take the cigarette off your lips and give it to him, so he can take a hint of it, to which he just opens his eyes and grabs it and puts it in his to give a big blow of smock and not even five seconds in he just starts coughing

-you just start laughing and so does eddie, you look up to Richie and he is still coughing a little bit and he is just blushing like a bastard

-you quickly look at the watch in your wrist to see how much time you had left until you and ben were going to meet up, 2:55 pm; since your school day ends at 3 pm you just grab your backpack from the floor and start walking away

- “bye eddie, see you later smoker-boy” you say as you leave bc yeah you might a badass chick, but you are also really fricking polite so

-you walk slowly and once you reach the entrance of your school, ben is already there with his friends and he just waves at you as he smiled bc ben is a fucking ray of sunshine

-so, you stand next to him and all of his friends just stare you, maybe because you are wearing all black, maybe because of your eyeline or probably just because ben aka cutie managed to talk to you aka punk chick

-ben clears his throat and starts introducing you to his friends: bill, stan, mike and bev, his eyes showed such an adoration as he introduced Beverly and you immediately realized how lovestruck he was for her, and he introduces as (Y/N) (Y/L/N), the girl on his history class who is super sweet when she wants to

-hardie outside softie inside TM

-but it turns out that they still have to wait for 2 other guys, so they can go to a little forest that it’s pretty much theirs by now

-the conversation between all of you floats so fucking easy that you are shocked like ??¿¿ beverly even asked you if you can give her tips on how to do her make up and you immediately agree bc she is just so great smh

-just imagine punk chick!reader and softie!beverly teaching each other to do their make up JNKJVDNVKDFNVKJFNKD, im so fucking gay im SORRY

-let’s get back to it

-so, you hear stan say that the guys who you were expecting are already coming and you turn around to see the infamous smoker-boy and eddie getting closer.

-once they’ve settled in, ben goes “okay, (Y/N) these are-“ “Richie and Eddie, I’ve met them before” you interrupt him “and Richie trying to make himself look cool or something just chocked in my cigarettes smoke” you say with a little smirk as the rest of the group just starts laughing at the brown-eyed boy.

-“well thank you for embarrassing me, princess” “suck it up, dickhead”

-also, you swear like a freaking sailor and literally 20 minutes in, everyone already knows it

-so you and your new gals are walking towards the forest and you are just amazed because everyone is just so nice¿¿

-you feel really welcomed and you are happy that ben spoke to you in the first place

-OKAY SO, the weeks pass by and you keep hanging out with them and you’ve gotten insanely close to ben, bev, mike and richie

-you keep showing Richie your favorite bands and you just kind of ignore the fact that he gets really fucking red when you get close to him

-because he is really fucking cute when he wants so he get’s a free pass at being lowkey flustered around you

-so, one day you are all hanging out waiting for classes to start but Richie hasn’t arrived yet, which is not weird because he is usually late

-but then he does, and he is not wearing his usual stuff, but he is wearing a sex pistols shirt and you are like ?? since when does Richie like sex pistols??

-and he is just smirking like an asshole and just winks at you when he realizes you are staring him and you just reply by flipping him off and then the bell rings

- so, you have physics now and you share this class with Richie, and you just walk to the classroom together and he keeps making remarks about how cool you two look all punkie and stuff and you just wink at him and all of his coolness is long gone bc you never wink at him????????

-physics just go by very lowkey because you really like this class and in middle of it you feel Richie pull your arm

-“hey, (YN), look down” “for what” “just do it for fuck’s sake” and you do it, and guess what

-Richie Fucking Tozier is holding a box of cigarettes under the table and you are just shocketh

-because like two months ago he almost chocked to death for smoking and now he does it

-like what the fuck Richard

-and you ask him what the hell is up with him

-and his explication was that it looked fun

-but in reality it was just because he had a silly crush in you. I mean, he is Richie fucking tozier, he doesn’t need to change to be liked by girls but he wants to be liked this girl.

-he even asked bev about it

-because he realized that you two became really close

-and she explained to him that you never really spoke about boys and such but that you were single but not lonely

-u know what I mean 😉

-SOOOOOOOOO, he is like fuckfuck what do I do now, so his best idea is to turn into a bad boy version of himself

-cuz that’s what all punk chicks want, right? -in reality, you knew about richie’s plans and you found it adorable and you also didn’t really have a type bc life’s too short to think about having types so

-but you also had a crush on him HDFJHFKJDJN, ben, bev & mike were the only ones who knew about it because even though you liked all the losers you trusted them the most

-soooooooooo, let’s say its Christmas break or something

-and there’s a party where everyone is invited but you reach there earlier because you weren’t in the mood to wait and you just wanted some alcohol because life is stressing oKAy

-and it’s like 11 pm when you see the rest of your friends getting to the party and you are really happy bc you were tipsy, not drunk, tipsy

-everything is going super great and then you hear someone say something about Beverly and you are like ??? protective gf activated

-it turns out someone was calling her a whore bc apparently she slept with someone named Patrick

-but you know it aint true and you also know that the girl who is talking trash about Beverly has done it for some time

-so you walk up to her and you ask her what did she say

-she says without looking ashamed any second that Beverly was a disgusting slut and that it made sense that you were her friend

-and wait?? Is that your fist against her cheek?? What is she doing on the floor?? Yeah you just punched her cause she deserved it

-so, you kneel down next to her and softly say: “say anything about Beverly or my friends ever again and I will make your life fucking impossible, understood?” the girl just nods, and you go to your group of friends and everyone is just in shook and bev just hugs you and you just hug her back bc awe <3

-richie’s brain kind of stopped working and it’s insanely cute

-like, he is just staring at you, with his lips partly opened and his hair is just a big mess and wow, is he wearing a leather jacket??

-“Richie, can we go to talk outside?” “what? Oh, okay, yeah, sure” talking about being flustered

-the moment of shook is long gone and as soon as you walk off with Richie everyone is just freaking out because you two have been pinning for the each for a long ass time now and everyone knows it except you two, like how stupid is that?

-they had bets and all of that going on to see how long it took you two to date LMAO

-so you and Richie are outside of the house and you just look at him and he looks like a damn mess but you need to get this out of your chest

-also Richie + leather jacket is a combination made by the gods

-“Richie, I like you” and before you even manage to say something else, his lips are already on top of yours, his hands are on your waist and at first you are kind of shocked

-but a few seconds in and one of your hands was on his chest and the other one was in his hair and if this wasn’t one of the greatest kisses you’ve gotten in a while

-so after a while you pull away from each and you just smile at him and he just smiles back nsjkfd

-“I like you too, princess.”

-“yeah, you’ve kind of made it clear” you say scrunching your nose a little bit

-“I’m trying to have a moment, for fuck’s sake YN”

-you just laugh at him and kiss him again and he doesn’t complain

-because your lips are really fucking soft and he just wants more

-so by the end of the party you two are officially A Thing and everyone is really happy for you

-also make out sessions as you listen to The Ramones? SING ME UP

-so yeah, lol, you and Richie re just a happy punk couple who smoke together and are just really fucking happy with each other

-THTAS IT BC ITS ALREADY 2.4K WTH

#it 2017 #it imagine #richie tozier #richie tozier headcanons #richie tozier x reader #richie tozier imagine #sofia writes it #sofia writes richie #the losers club

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pennyfuckerr · 7 years

Note

Can you do richie x reader fanfic Please if you don’t mind🙏🏻☺️

Of course!!

I had lived in different quaint towns, most were quiet and weren’t too interesting. My grandmother lived in a small town in Maine called Derry, and she had fallen ill, so, being the kind of woman she is, my mother wanted to go there to look after her for as long as possible, and I tagged along. We packed our bags and we were living in a town in the middle of Maine.

We had moved around the end of August, just before September, so we had just enough time to shop for school equipment. There’s apparently different parts of Derry, there’s a wealthy area (Where I am now, my grandmother was well off) and a poorer area. We had gone out into the town, my mother and I, just to grab some of the books we needed.

I searched around, still following my mom, but still looking around, there was a girl, dirty blonde hair and pink bubblegum blown into a bubble from her lips, I recognised her, from the area I was in. She locked eyes with me, brows raised, giving off an intimidating vibe. Her fingers waggled as the bubble popped, her jaw popping up and down as she chewed, her footsteps in line with her chewing. She came over, walking by my side. “So, you live with the alzheimer’s or dementia, whatever, lady?” She questioned, she didn’t make eye contact, but kept her voice low. “Alzheimer’s, and yeah, I guess so” I replied, keeping my eyes away from her as well. “A pity, she was nice, anyways, you’re new I guess?” She questioned, I nodded followed by a hum of affirmation. “Good, we can start fresh, Greta Bowie” She looked over, a tight smile plastered on her face. “Y/N” I replied, looking over at her.

“Let me tell you a few things, one, don’t mess with me, we can be friends as long as you don’t fuck with me” Greta began, her voice low and smile having fallen, I’d already lost my mom by now, she ran off into some crowd. I nodded quickly, and she smiled once again. “Perfect, now, secondly, there’s this…group, don’t trust them” She began once again but I interrupted. “Is it that group of the boys, the one with the mullet?”. “Henry Bowers? No, he’s fine, as long as you don’t get on his bad side, but, it’s this Losers Club” She snorted, I guess she had a bit of an ego but she seemed quite kind.

“These…six or seven people, let me describe, Bucky Beaver, he’s got like these big glasses, makes him look like a tool, Stuttering Buh-Buh-Bill-” She cut off and giggled at herself. “His brother died or something, I don’t know, the Fat Boy, that’s self explaining, the Jew, the Girly Boy, he broke his arm over the Summer and made a mistake of letting me sign his cast” She smirked, giggling once more. “Some kinda farm boy, I would call him something else but I’d get jumped by someone” She scoffed, still chewing her gum that had surely lost it’s flavour.

“And then…the almighty herself, the biggest bitch and loser of them all: Beverly fucking Marsh” She blew another bubble, popping it before bringing the gum back into her mouth. “She’s a slut and a piece of shit” Greta narrowed her eyes. “Well, well, well, look at that, there they are” She smirked, pushing my head to look across the street, to see a group of people our age. One had glasses and seemed to be messing with a shorter one, one had a hat thing on his head and was handing a bird book to the only black person of the group, there was a girl who I assumed to be Beverly and she was holding hands with the fattest one of the group and then there was one who walked alone, ahead of the others, he was talking to himself with frustration on his face.

“What a heap of losers” I heard myself say, something I never thought I’d say.

—

Mid September. I became friends with Greta and her friend Sally, at least I think they’re friends. Greta’s revamped my style, it’s not too different…but it’s an update so to say. I haven’t talked to that Losers Club either but Greta’s brought me along to mess with a few members, it’s kinda fun, I feel guilty…but not too much.

Greta wasn’t in that day, neither was Sally, so I kept myself company. I remembered what it was like at the first year of my old school, lonely and quiet (till someone came along). I sat at the cafeteria at a table away from where we’d usually sit, but no one took that table anyways. I knew they weren’t in school today, so I dressed more ‘casual’ than usual, nice September clothes, to keep myself warm, I looked so conservative than what I normally wore when I was with her, my mom and grandmother was so shocked to see me wearing my past favourite jumper. I didn’t think my look changed that much.

I looked through one of the books for my next class after the break, which was going to be a long 40 minutes. “Richie! Can you fucking knock it off” I heard from behind me, I glanced over my shoulder, the Jewish boy and the boy with glasses, I wasn’t too fond of the Bucky Beaver nickname, were at the table behind me, pestering each other.

“I’m not doing anything, Stanny!” ‘Richie’ grinned, wrapping a curl of ‘Stanny’s’ hair around his finger and gently tugging on it till his hand was swatted away. “Can you fucking not?” He scooted away as Richie laughed to himself. He looked over and through those glasses that made his eyes as big as flies, “You got an audience, Stan” He grinned, winking at me to which I immediately stood up, walking towards the bathrooms. “Oi!” I heard yelling after me.

I kept walking, trying to zip up the bag I had my books in as I walked. I heard running after me. “Hey! Hey!” I heard, and the footsteps got louder till the sound of soles on the tiles filled the hallway. “Y…Your book” I hear panting and a tap on my shoulder. “Bucky Beaver’s trying to talk to Greta Bowie’s friend” I heard a passing group whisper and giggle. I turned around, face to face with him, he had a small, toothy smile and his big glasses were running down his oily nose. “You…you forgot it at your table” He added, holding it out to me. “Oh, wow, thanks” I replied, taking it out of his hands, noticing how dirty his fingernails were. “No problem, babe” He grinned, “Beep, beep Rich-” I heard a girl’s voice, and I looked over. Beverly Marsh was about to come to my defence till she recognised who I was. “Come on, Rich” She muttered, grabbing the collar of his Hawaiian shirt. “I was so close to getting a smash!” He whined, “No one says smash” She replied with more enthusiasm, now that I was out of the picture. “Just you wait, maybe in the twenty first century everyone will be saying smash” He added before they disappeared around the corner.

I guess I was a little quick to judge ‘Bucky Beaver’.

—

Halloween break. Greta said she would go and spend time with me on Halloween, but I’m standing outside the local 7-11 and it’s almost 40 minutes after our meet-up time. I’ve decided myself that she ditched me, so now I look like I’ve been loitering so instead of standing outside, I go in, and get a Gulp size of Coca-Cola out of being sad that I got ditched. My mom dropped me down here…she had a place to go with my grandmother, so I couldn’t walk home and stay home.

I walked around the town…to a poorer part of the town as you could call it. I was barely a quarter way through the Gulp, and I just threw it over a fence which fell down a mound of earth. I sighed, it was already dark and there were little children running around, knocking on doors. A few teens were around too, short ones were knocking on doors as well and gathering sweets.

“What’s someone like you doing out on Halloween by yourself?” I heard, and then a familiar face was by my side, and then my other. Henry Bowers and Victor Criss. “I know your new and all, but what makes you think you can stumble…” Henry began, an arm draped around my shoulder, which I have to say, did make me more uncomfortable than usual. Maybe it was because I was used to be with a group of people I knew…but I barely knew Henry past the name. “Into my town, and try and become all cool” He carried on, his hand gripping onto my shoulder and I heard a few adults pass with their children: “What good friends” and “I wonder if they’re a couple”. I guess they didn’t see the fear caught in my eyes.

“You better start running, pretty, can’t find them losers…so you’re their replacement” He whispered quietly, and his grip tightened but then I was roughly shoved and I looked over before I just felt my feet running fast, like a gazelle from lions. I could hear their feet behind me and I kept going, I didn’t know where this burst came from, I don’t remember bothering them…

I keep going, I start to feel my lungs giving out, and my legs start to cramp, but I have to keep going. A turn, left or right…I choose right. Right wasn’t…right. I hear my own heaving breath. “Keep running, you fucking bitch!” I hear him yell, it’s not too far from me, I keep going with the last of my energy, despite the fact that I’m slowing down. “Bev! Bev! Give me your fucking candy corn!” I hear ahead of me, it’s them…who else, but that Richie and Beverly.

“Help! Help!” I yelled out, in desperation, and I swear I can hear the feet behind me slow down. I eventually lost my energy but luckily, there were the two, both smoking cigarettes. “HELP!” I screamed, and then, I glanced over my shoulder, Victor right on my tail, I see the pair look up, and Richie, his cigarette falls from his lips and he hands over a filled up pillow case to Beverly.

“Hey Vicky! Why don’t come for someone more your type~” Richie called out as Beverly grabbed my sleeve, pulling me towards her. Richie took a few steps forward, slapping his own butt and blowing a kiss to Victor. “You trying to call me gay, Beaver Boy?” Victor slowed down and narrowed his eyes, “I’m not calling you gay…not calling you straight either” He shrugged his shoulders, hands on hips. “Are you okay? Did they get you?” Beverly whispered to me, directing my attention from Victor and Richie to her. “I know I’ve been a bitch to you but thanks, I owe you one” I whispered, smiling weakly. “You were with Greta Bowie, she had an affect on you, come on, just run a little bit more, Richie will follow” She mumbled, grabbing my hand and starting to jog before we ran. “Leave him Vic!” I heard Henry yell from afar. “You’re fucking dead, faggot!”.

—

“Maybe hanging with Greta isn’t for you” Richie commented. We sat in the park, Richie on the swing and Beverly and I sitting on the ground, all of us smoking, because you only live once. “She was the first person I met around here, she seemed nice at first…I guess I should have noticed something when she started making fun of you guys…” I admitted, taking a drag. “She’s always been like that, what she call me? Trash? Slut?” Beverly snorted, blowing out the smoke as she spoke. “Well uh, a slut…a piece of shit too” I replied, frowning a little. “I don’t see how I kinda…accepted that…” I added, blowing the smoke out. “Did she call me Bucky Beaver? If so, be a little more original Gretty~” Richie snickered to himself.

I looked up at him, and he seemed to be staring off into space, big glasses drooping down his nose. He has a lot of personality. “Alright, I’m gonna go piss in the trees, be back soon Bevvy and Y/N-y” He hopped off the swing, going off towards a series of trees. “You know, if he didn’t feel how he does towards you, he wouldn’t have really helped you” Beverly started, putting out her cigarette on the ground. “He had a crush on you since he saw you across the street with Greta, I mean, he said a few…inappropriate things, cause’ he’s Richie” She kept going, holding onto her suspenders. “He has a crush on me? Fat chance, Marsh” I scoffed, taking a final drag of my cigarette. “He does, said he’s the only love he’s had besides his Spaghetti Boy” She chuckled, shaking her head dismissively. “He was tempted to keep your maths book, but Stan managed to kinda convince him otherwise, he probably wants to ‘smash’ still” She shrugged her shoulders.”Hey, Y/N! My fly won’t close, mind helping?” We heard Richie yell from the trees, we could even hear a grin from his words. He came out from the trees, grinning to himself before he plopped down in front of us instead of the swings.

I looked to him and he looked back, followed by a bright smile, and puckered up lips to blow an air kiss. “Take a picture, lasts longer babes” He smirked, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Y/N is mine now, Rich, gotta work faster” Beverly smirked, wrapping an arm around my shoulders, laughing softly. “What kinda dates are y’all going on?” Richie looked at us, with faux curiosity. “To the arcade, diners” Beverly listed off, she said whatever peaked his interest, things he liked I guess.

Things that formed a light bulb of ideas over his head.

—

2nd weekend in November. “What’s up Y/N, handshake!” Richie yelled, trying to hop on my back before turning to make up a random handshake on the spot. “Great!” He grinned, arm draping around my shoulders as we walked. I had barely exited my house and he was already here. “Hey, I gotta ask you something” He added, he had some kind of accent on, as if he was some kind of New Yorker, a mashup of the accents.

“Speak normally and then you can ask” I raised my brows, looking to him as he continued to grin but he nibbled on the inner portion of his lip, laughing nervously to himself. “Alrighty, alrighty, whatever floats your boat” He smiled brightly. “I know we didn’t start out on the right foot, you were with her and I said I would smash you, but I thought; I should buy you dinner at least before smashing” His finger lightly tapped against the fabric of my coat. “Smashing is?”. “Not important right now, but how’s about, you and I, the diner, tomorrow…six o’clock?” He stopped walking, looking over, his joking demeanor had lowered, and he had a more natural, smaller smile on his face.

“I mean…uhm..” I thought, I just needed to get this around my head. Only a few months ago, I was tormenting this poor boy alongside Greta and here he is asking me…out on a date. “Please? Just one time?” His voice was lined with hope and he moved to stand in front of me, taking my hands into his, both gloved while his were bare. “Alright, but be sure to pick me up early” I smiled softly and I swear, if his eyes held the stars before:

They were burning brighter than the sun now.

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fuckyeslilkim · 7 years

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Throwback Interview: The Mask Of Lil’ Kim

In a nondescript warehouse in Manhattan's Chelsea district, the rapper Lil' Kim is being primed for yet another fashion shoot. The theme of the day is baby-doll innocence, and the 4-foot-11 celebrity is appropriately undressed in a sheer blue and pink negligee and high-heeled sandals. With the final touches of turquoise eye shadow, pink lips and, of course, her trademark blond wig and blue contact lenses in place, the picture is complete. Sex symbol. Feminist icon. Freak mama.

Change the circumstances only slightly and you could imagine a porn shoot happening in this warehouse. The final products--the photographs that will sell Kim's raunchy lyrics and persona to the world--often come close to that. A full-page advertisement for her new album, "The Notorious K.I.M.," shows the star in the back seat of a limousine, naked except for black spike-heel boots and a safari-style hat. It's like the kind of pinup men find useful in prison cells and toilets.

But nobody seems bothered by the actual work of this shoot--least of all Kim, who patiently strips down. Quite the contrary: She considers herself a good role model--an empowered, independent woman in the highly misogynistic world of rap. Her fans include many young women who find in her an enviable example of personal strength.

To cash in on the marketing moment, corporate America has come running, showering her with endorsement offers--from Candie's shoes to Viva Glam lipstick. She earns cover treatments from mainstream and edgy magazines alike: The Source, XXXL, Vibe, Vogue, Harper's Bazaar, Jet, Interview (on which she appeared wearing nothing but head-to-toe Louis Vuitton body tattoos). And now, Atlantic Records has provided the 25-year-old with her own label, Queen Bee.

From the moment she was discovered by rapper Christopher Wallace (a k a Notorious B.I.G., a k a Biggie Smalls) as a round-the-way girl roaming the streets of Brooklyn's Bedford-Stuyvesant neighborhood, Kimberly Jones has set new standards for female rappers. Her 1996 solo debut, "Hardcore," made the highest-ever debut on the Billboard charts for a female rap artist. An unparalleled fusion of hip-hop and pornography, the album opens with a scene in which we hear a fan buy a ticket to a triple-X flick, and then loudly pleasure himself while watching Kim onscreen.

At last year's MTV Music Awards, her outfit spawned a media frenzy fueled by the shocked response of presenter Diana Ross, who reached out and jiggled Kim's exposed breast on national television. (Ross later offered a public apology, noting that she thought Kim "was beautiful and . . . didn't need to dress in that manner.") The incident solidified Kim's image of sexual fearlessness--and her career as a fashion trendsetter.

We've seen so much of her, and yet nothing at all. Who is Lil' Kim, really?

Talking to her, you're taken by any number of contradictions. She considers herself a devoted child of God, for example. "I'm not perfect," she explains. "I mess up. I'm not Miss Sanctified, but I believe in my Father. We have a really good relationship."

She has allowed powerful men to shape and exploit her sexpot image, but touts her own brand of feminism. "If you look at me, no man has really given me anything," she contends. "I got my own money."

She raps about the joys of fellatio, but likens herself to Queen Elizabeth, the so-called Virgin Queen of England. ("I watch that movie over and over again," she says.) Like Elizabeth, she has had an unhappy love life. "I had a lot of guys betray me," Kim says, "and she reminds me of myself because, toward the end, she really wanted a man. She was lonely. She didn't wanna be this strong woman that everybody portrayed her to be, but she had to be."

On one point the star is adamant: Lil' Kim is not Kimberly Jones.

Except: "Most of the things that I talk about [in my lyrics], yeah, they're true." In the song "Hold On," for example, "I talk about the pain of being pregnant and having an abortion."

"I talk about the things that women have gone through that they don't think I've gone through," she says. "Like fightin' with your man or losin' a man to death. Being alone. I talk about just bein' in the streets having no money and having to do illegal things to get the money."

All of which happened, too.

So, after one spends many hours with both Lil' Kim the rapper and Kimberly Jones the woman, the similarities between the two become as apparent as the differences. "We wear the mask that grins and lies," wrote Paul Laurence Dunbar, "with torn and bleeding hearts we smile."

It is not easy to remove the mask of Lil' Kim, which she wears as a brilliant defense against full disclosure. She doesn't want to show us all of the damage that lies underneath. Like many other black women, she has become so good at conjuring the mask--signifying at a moment's notice, for hire--that we no longer know where it ends. Or where Kimberly Jones begins.

In the June issue of Vibe magazine, there is a photograph of young Kim dressed in a neat school uniform: plaid dress, white blouse, knee socks. She is brown-skinned, with brown eyes and nappy hair, neatly pulled into a bun. She sits like a proper schoolgirl with her hands folded in her lap and legs crossed at the ankles, smiling and polite.

But inside, she feels ugly. She thinks of herself as too dark and too short. She has just moved to an all-white neighborhood in suburban New Rochelle, N.Y., where little blond girls tease her and confirm her monstrosity.

Her mother, Ruby Mae Jones, brought her to live there, at age 8, fleeing the ruins of a marriage. But Kim wants to go back to Brooklyn. She wants to go home, to her old neighborhood where little girls look like her. Even if it means going back to the home of her father, Linwood Jones, a former military man who enforced a brutal discipline on wife and children.

"There was a great deal of verbal abuse," she recalls. "And there was times . . . when my mother had black eyes. My father told people she had fallen."

Linwood Jones could not be reached for comment, and there is no record of his having spoken publicly about his daughter's career or her allegations of physical abuse. According to Kim, he did comment privately on her overtly sexual image, asking that she "tone it down."

After her parents' separation in 1983, Kim's life became increasingly unstable. At first she and older brother Christopher stayed with their mother, who relied on the kindness of friends for shelter--including the time spent in New Rochelle. But when options ran out, Ruby Mae Jones granted custody of her children to her husband.

"I was basically living out of the trunk of my car," Kim's mother explains over a posh dinner in a New York restaurant--a contrast made all the more striking by her fur coat and her gold-and-diamond-spangled hands. "And I didn't feel it was appropriate for [the children]. So I let Kim go to live with her father."

When he was away--sometimes for weeks, for reserve duty--the children were deposited with an aunt who was raising several sons of her own. "I grew up around . . . maybe eight guys in my family," says Kim. "I stayed with my cousins when my father went away. They lived in the projects."

"Kim had no sisters," adds Ruby Mae Jones. "She was surrounded by boys all the time. But she had such a strong personality, I never had to worry about her taking care of herself. I knew that she would be able to do that. From when she was like 2."

Despite the frequent absences, father and daughter remained on good terms during Kim's prepubescent years.

"We were very close," she recalls, "until I was about 13." Which is when Kim committed an egregious offense in her father's eyes: She liked a boy and agreed to be his girlfriend. Although the circumstances seemed innocent enough by Kim's account--the boy was 15, a schoolmate--Linwood Jones was outraged. Kim says he called her a bitch and a whore, "just like your mother."

The words had a devastating effect. "If he hadn't said what he said to me," speculates Kim, allowing the idea to play in her head for a moment, "I probably would have stayed a virgin until I was 21. But after that I rebelled."

Fights between father and daughter became more frequent--and violent, she says. On at least one occasion, Kim remembers, her morning wake-up call was a fist crashing into her face. At the age of 14, she packed a bag and hit the streets, wandering in and out of neighbors' homes. Lil' Kim has often described her life during those years as a procession of doing "whatever I had to do to survive."

She peddled drugs for boyfriends. Worked odd jobs in department stores. And had sex with the men who housed and fed her. By the time she met up-and-coming rapper Biggie Smalls at the age of 17, Kim was, by her own admission, desperately in need of protection.

Biggie, who at age 19 was a 6-foot-3, 300-pound drug dealer who had already done nine months in jail, signed on for the job--bringing Kim into the fold of what everyone called the "B.I.G. family." There was Sean "Puffy" Combs, who had been working day and night to launch Biggie on his emerging label, Bad Boy Entertainment; Mary J. Blige, whose success as an R&B artist had also been strongly influenced by Puffy's hand; Damion "D-Roc" Butler, Biggie's friend and security guard; and "the boys"--James "Lil' Caesar" Lloyd, Antoine "Banga" Spain, and Money-L, who would later become members of Junior M.A.F.I.A. (Masters at Finding Intelligent Attitudes), a rap group Biggie hoped to launch on the momentum of his own success.

"She came from the streets," says 22-year-old Spain, who lives today, along with several of the other "boys," in Kim's New Jersey mansion. "I could relate to her 'cause my mom sent me to the city when I was, like, 13."

It was at Wallace's behest that Kimberly Jones assumed the role of Lil' Kim--a vulgar-mouthed emblem of what had been dubbed "porno rap." Following Biggie's lead, the young protege exploded onto the hip-hop scene as the lone female member of Junior M.A.F.I.A. at the age of 20.

Almost immediately, Kim became the showcase of the act. They were like "peanut butter and jelly," says Voletta Wallace, Biggie's mother. "Kim and Christopher were the same voice."

And that voice was determined to push the limits of gangsta rap, a genre whose biggest selling points were unabashed violence and uncensored sex.

By the mid-1990s Biggie Smalls and his crew were at the top of their game. Biggie's second album, "Life After Death," would eventually sell eight times platinum, and with the release of her 1995 solo debut, "Hardcore," Kim arrived in her own right. But the good times were not to last. Kim loved Biggie and hoped to be his wife, but he married and then quickly separated from R&B artist Faith Evans (who would also become the mother of his son, Christopher). There were rumors that Evans had been having an affair with rapper and longtime Biggie rival Tupac Shakur. One Biggie music video co-starred Kim as the defiant and loyal mistress.

Amid the lovers' quarrels and sexual betrayals, tragedy struck in the early hours of March 9, 1997. Following a Soul Train Music Awards party in Los Angeles, a still-unknown killer approached the passenger side of Biggie's GMC Suburban and unloaded seven rounds into the rapper's head and body at close range. Both Lil' Caesar and Damion Butler were unharmed as they ducked down in the back seat. Puffy, who was driving his own Suburban in front of the target vehicle, rushed to Biggie's side reciting psalms. But Christopher Wallace was dead at age 24.

Since the loss of her mentor, Kim's allegiance has remained eerily well preserved. In the immediate aftermath, she and the Junior M.A.F.I.A. boys stayed in Big's New Jersey condominium--where, according to Kim, she shared her slain lover's bedroom with her would-be mother-in-law, Voletta Wallace, and T'yanna, Biggie's daughter from a previous relationship.

In an article for People magazine, a mourning Kim posed for the camera draped in Biggie's shirt, coat and hat. Even today, more than three years after his death, she often refers to her "big poppa" in conversation and lyrics, and even credits the rapper as a posthumous producer on her new album. The bond seems unhealthy, as even Kim's friend Blige noted in an interview: a "kind of co-dependency with someone who just isn't here anymore."

It took Kim four years to release her second album, which had been held up due to conflicts with her label, the theft of material by bootleggers and her own creative process. Meanwhile, Kim's marketing machine hummed along, patiently building her image despite a lack of new releases.

"She's brilliant," says Michael Elliot, president of Source Entertainment. "I mean, here's a woman who [hadn't] had an album out in years and she's a presenter at award shows, and a successful model. She's found a way to market herself and, at the end of the day, she's a businesswoman."

"I think she's a feminist in a funny sort of way," says John Dempsey, president of MAC cosmetics, one of many packagers that hold up the Kim image as a bold new form of sexual expression. "She speaks like a man would speak."

Her fans agree. "She doesn't care what anybody has to say," says 19-year-old Teena Marie Schexnayder, a Los Angeles psychology student and aspiring singer. "She's a bad girl . . . doing whatever she has to do to survive. She's deep. I love the stuff she talks about."

While '80s female rappers like Queen Latifah and MC Lyte embraced "womanist" images, combining ancestral and gender consciousness, Kim provides a very different social commentary for young black women and men. The message behind Lil' Kim is, in fact, heartbreakingly feeble.

Sex, she believes, is a commodity. It is a way for a woman to earn money--and, in her view, respect. She learned that lesson on the streets. As for the women selling their bodies, "I don't see anything wrong with that."

"Money is power," says Kim, and "a lot of women out there are just givin' it away." Kim aims to change that. As she raps in her new single "Diamonds" (sung to the tune of Diana Ross's "I Want Muscle"):

"She says she wants a man / To buy her a Lexus Land/ Well that's all right for her / Still it ain't enough for me / I don't care if he's young or old / Just make him very rich / I want diamonds / This p---- ain't for free."

Is this really feminism?

"I'm a feminist because I love women," she ventures, graciously asking her interviewer to correct her if she misunderstands the term. "And I feel like, in this rapping game, men have been bashing women for years. But some women overemphasize that feminism word. And some of them are very male-bashing. I'm not a male basher."

In her collection of images titled "Women," photographer Annie Leibovitz captures something of the inner sorrow of Kimberly Jones, a black girl who covets blue eyes and blond hair. Juxtaposed with the image of a gloriously dreadlocked Toni Morrison, who is seen looking into a wide expanse of clouds and possibility, Kim appears small and helpless against a wall of color that threatens to engulf her--her nipples visible beneath a trashy net T-shirt. In this image, we see more of Kimberly Jones than Lil' Kim: the real woman who has masked private suffering as public defiance.

"She's just like every little abused girl that I knew growing up," asserts Asha Bandele, a poet, author and critic who is attuned to hip-hop culture. "I do not believe that Kim is in control of her image because there's nothing powerful about it, nothing rounded, nothing human. It's a caricature. Just like when you see a male presenting himself as only a gangsta. . . . We're so much more complicated than that."

But if it is icon status we're shooting for, Kimberly Jones is the real deal. Closer in spirit to Monroe than Madonna, she is a genuine enigma, which is precisely why she intrigues us. The same little girl who remembers jumping into the middle of a fight between her father and older brother (taking a chair across her stomach in the process) became the grown-up Lil' Kim, who prefers "big poppa" lovers because daddies "don't let nothin' happen to their baby girl."

"Kim needs to ask herself what she's selling," says Voletta Wallace in her Jamaican-accented, no-nonsense way. "When my son was here, that's all you would hear: Kim and Christopher [saying], 'Sex sells, sex sells.'

"But . . . when you look at Kim, the strength is there. The beauty is there. The talent is there. And she needs to let [the world] know . . . they need to see a human being. She needs to find her inner self and see what she has to offer."

At the Gazelle Beauty Center and Day Spa in Manhattan, I have requested a private room in which to interview Kim. I am trying to get closer to the real woman, to get behind the mask. But it is a busy day and there are constant interruptions from other clients (who include guests on "The Montel Williams Show"). Nevertheless, Kim and I enjoy a lunch of Caesar salads, as well as joint manicures, pedicures, massages and facials.

We are two sisters drinking herbal tea now, and Kim is relaxed, makeup-less and wearing a cozy white robe and paper slippers.

Unanswered questions have been nagging at me. Kim is like so many other women, it seems to me, who have grown up with trauma. And yet there is no talk of the long-term effects. I decide to put the question of sexual abuse to her plainly. She tells me that yes, something did happen in the home of a relative when she was a girl, but she doesn't want to get into the details. She has never talked about this before. She doesn't want to dwell on the pain. I am saddened by her admission, and the fact that so many years later, she is still so clearly devastated.

And I am saddened that even here, in a place for relaxation and nurturing, she is unable to divest herself, even for a few hours, of the blue contact lenses and blond wig.

"Think about it," she confesses when I ask her to talk about her experience of skin color. "The girls that [men] dated when I was younger were light-skinned and tall. I'm short and brown-skinned. And I always wondered . . . how do I fit in?"

Did she ever overcome the feeling of being ugly?

"I really haven't," she admits. "Honestly, though, I think being Lil' Kim the rapper helped me deal with it better. Because I got to dress up in expensive clothes, and I got to look like a movie star or whatever. I think doing photo shoots and seeing all the people respond to me has helped. [But] I still don't see what they see."

can't help but think of Kim as standing on a precipice, making a great leap toward transformation. In recent years, she has expressed a desire to tone down the raunch and express more of "who I really am." There are rumors that she was wary about spreading her legs for the photo shoot for "Hardcore," and she herself has said she would have rather done four sexual songs instead of seven. "You get tired of certain images," she explains.

So what's stopping Lil' Kim from showing us more of Kimberly Jones? "It's hard," she says. "Because in our world, the rap world, you have this thing called selling out. You don't want people who liked you for doing a certain thing on your first album to not like you for not doing it on the second album. So I have to stay in that realm."

Yes, there are market forces pushing her to stay in the same place, but the market is also a fickle lover and people tire of what is too easy to predict. "Notorious K.I.M." started out at No. 4 on the Billboard album chart, but has slipped to No. 35.

"How much more of her body can she show?" asks Ramon Hervey, manager for R&B artist Kenny "Babyface" Edmonds. "From Madonna to Prince, everybody has to re-create themselves at some point."

"I see the strength in her," Mary J. Blige says of her friend. "All she's gotta do is let go of the fear."

Source: The Washington Post

#A must read #lil kim #lil' kim #rap #rapper #hiphop #hip hop #female rap #female rapper #washington post #queen bee #queen of rap #fashion #real life #interview

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dbtrilogy2 · 7 years

Text

Released(20 pt2)

Camila

Knocking I wait before twisting the nob. "Stanley...you ok baby?"

She looks up from a book taking off her headphones. "Yeah I just ignore her now."

Sitting I sigh. The fact that my two oldest are having some kind of disagreement hurts me. Am I not doing something right as a parent?

"What's going on with you two?"

She sighed setting her things aside. "I'm trying to look out for her but for some reason she thinks I'm taking over her life or something. Her words cut deep and it's getting really hard to keep my sanity and be the bigger person." Her eyes tear up.

"What started all of this?"

"Just a uh...disagreement on a topic."

"Something to do with school or a boy maybe?"

"Something like that but I can't say I don't want to betray her like she already thinks I do. Just because she's being mean and what not doesn't mean I have to send that same vibe back but I know this will come to a end soon."

I always thought I was the parent my kids would come to and just talk. Uh these teenage years are killing me already and they just entered it. Figuring being in the house right now isn't gonna have her opening up. Since I need to make a quick run I asked Stanley to come with me. As I drove I noticed her tense body language.

Mona is a very spoiled girl...had been since she was born. Chris and I tried our best to raise her to be basically what she isn't right now. The last thing I wanted is her to be this cold hearted person but a parent can only do so much. At a certain age the child starts to make decisions on their own and eventually learn important life lessons.

"Do you think we took you in as charity?"

Stanley shyly shrugged. "I know you and my mom were at a time friends and when I was taken in by you guys it was because she went to jail."

"We don't get anything for having you. There's no government check or special privileges or anything like that. You became someone dear to both chris and I heart. I just couldn't stand back while you lost your mom and do nothing about it. Both Chris and I love you so much Stanley please believe that."

"I try I swear I do but. When we're all together you know everyone sometime I just can't help knowing that this isn't my family. No one is related to me and then I get people reminding me daily. I hate feeling that I do not belong here."

So much I did not know. Who is bullying my child.

"We may not be blood related but I treat you the same way I do to those I pushed out. I have the same love for you I care about you and hate that you've been feeling this way. Why didn't you come to anyone sooner?"

"I caused enough trouble behind the papers....I didn't want to seem ungrateful for what you and dad I mean Chris did for me."

"You still call us mom and dad regardless what Mona says. I just wish I knew what was behind all this. What are you holding for her is it the boy she's interested in? What does she have against you that's making you shy back and allow her to disrespect you like this? I can tell you now not that I want this to happen with you two but me and Rebecca almost dropped our entire friendship we even fought. At the end of the day if you really love her you should do what's right no matter how she's feels about the truth."

She looked at me then down to her hands. This situation is making me real nervous because I'm starting to think it's not just the boy or whatever had Mona acting up. It's all starting to look like something more serious than I thought and I'm scared to find out the truth. I'm not emotionally ready for whatever storm is coming.

As I pull into the grocery store parking lot finding a good enough spot I turn off the car.

"I like Julian." She said before I reached for the door handle. "And he likes me back....we confessed this to each other and we agreed to not fully take in a relationship but have an understanding."

"Oh...ok."

"Mona said if I spoke on her business she would tell someone and get me sent to be with another family since it is frowned on for foster kids and members of their foster family to be together." She wiped her face fumbling with her fingers a nervous habit of her's. "I don't want to lose you guys."

"You won't and that's something I can promise." ******* Finishing the last braid I sigh standing from my mirror. Chris groans walking into our room fall face first on the bed. Being the great husband he is he put the twins to bed after feeding and bathing both.

"Why did we have two more after the last one?"

Smiling I grab one of his lotions sitting on his butt. "Because someone doesn't like to use condoms and can't seem to keep his baby supplier under control."

Working the lotion into my hands they rub onto his bare back. His deep slow breaths and occasional grunts let me know I'm doing good.

"I blame you and that gold between your thighs. It's not my fault you stay tight and moist all these years."

"Uh shut up with your dirty talk and turn over." I was now sitting facing him. "What did you and Maurice do earlier?"

"I just wanted to spend some time with him. We played some ball at the academy messed around in one of the recording studios it was fun."

"Well that was nice what made you wanna do that?"

His hands squeeze my thighs as mind rub on his pecks. He has kept his nice toned body and I love it.

"After talking with Carlton I thought I could take some of my own advise especially with the kids. I'm taking Maliki with me to work tomorrow see what I can get out of him cause you know he's getting older and I wanna get some good advise in him now."

Looking at my husband is my favorite thing to do. This man is my everything my life was changed for the better with him with. I have my kids because of him my career turned in a better direction with his help.

"Your such a great father." He chuckled deep. "I'm serious baby you really are."

"Well they say behind a great man is a greater woman. If I'm great then you are the worlds greatest."

I couldn't help the pink faded color on my cheeks.

"I guess personally I think I could use some work in the parenting department. I mean lately I feel so left out with the girls. Did you know their basically not sisters anymore at lease on Mona's end."

He frowned sitting up keeping me on him. "Nah what you mean?"

"Their going through some kind of loyalty thing like me and Rebecca back then. Someone is in Mona's head and she's turned on Stanley. Earlier she asked why we allow Stanley to call us mom and dad because she's not our daughter and then called her the charity we brought in."

This is such a horrible situation. Being that I've been through something serious like this I know the odds of a good out come is very slim. Mona is so much like me I just know it'll take something drastic to open her stubborn eyes.

"So it's like you and devin? Stanley must be warning her about this person whoever the hell is it and Mona isn't listening...all I know is it better not be some ugly knuckle head boy."

"Their at that age baby it probably is a boy." He sigh rolling his eyes. "I didn't think we would have to go through this so...early their only fourteen. Baby Stanley thinks she doesn't belong here like she's some outsider. What can we do to convince her it's nothing like that...I know I've said this a million maybe a billion times but I love that girl like I birthed her and this hurts that she's feeling like this and we're just now finding out."

Seeing me getting emotional he pulled me in kissing my head.

"Relax we can get through this just like we get through everything else. We've raised amazing girls this is just something they are going through. It's sad to see them so distant and not like themselves but baby all we can do is parent and let them work things out. If they don't come to us we can't help but they'll be back to normal in no time. Mona has to learn her lesson just like you did."

"I didn't want her to have to...I almost lost my best friend and sister from something just like this. My girls shouldn't be going through this!"

"Yo se lo se baby....it's gonna be ok." *I know I know baby* "Come on we gotta get you relaxed. Let me give you a massage."

Laying on my stomach I hear him rubbing his hands together. "Ok but no funny business."

Laughing he started on my lower back. "Yeah....right."

Rebecca

"Why did you schedule this appointment so early."

Rolling my eyes I slip my shades over them stepping out our car. "So neither of us could back out for anything work related."

"You mean me? These shady comments gotta stop Rebecca foreal babe."

After signing us in I lead to some open seats. "One I'm not being shady not everything is some kind of blow to you and second your not the only one who works so I could've been talking about myself. Stop being so selfish not everything is about you Carlton."

It's way to early for BS right now and I really would rather not go in with us arguing already.

"I'm not you started it with the petty comments it's not my fault-"

"But it is because you took it the way you wanted to. I'm really not trynna argue right now Carlton seriously...relax for once."

"There you go again."

Imma kill him.

"Mr and Mrs Willis? Follow me please." The receptionist says with a bright smile.

We sit in the two chairs opposite of the doctor. "Welcome how are you guys this morning?"

"I'm great my wife seems to be feeling a little shady but what's new?"

Cutting my eyes I sigh out my nose putting on a smile to the therapist. "I'm also great my husband may think I'm being shady but that's understandable with the lonely dark nights I've spent in our bed alone. I guess it's just grown on me."

"Wow getting right things huh? Why don't we get to why we are here today."

"We need to work on communication in our marriage." I say crossing my legs.

"Ok that's normal. Marriage is never easy two different souls coming together as one will bring complications. Now how long have you two been married?"

"11 years we got married the same year our first child was born."

Nodding she writes in her note pad. "So you say communication is an issue? What was it that stopped it in the first place."

"Work for the both of us started to...pick up. Scheduled dates would get pushed back so it just wasn't the same."

"Mr Willis you haven't said much if anything just yet."

He sighed slouching. "It's to early for all this for me."

Me rolling my eyes caught the therapist attention. "Problem?"

"Yes him. This is suppose to be helping us but timing is getting in the way of us getting our marriage back on track. So you'd rather be sleeping than being here saving eleven years worth of love and emotions problems and two freaking kids."

"Excuse me for being tired Rebecca!"

"Ok ok let's just calm down. I don't want things getting to far ahead." The doctor says yet gets ignore by us both.

"I do what I do for her so she can live comfortable without a want in the world but all I get in return is nagging! Constantly every got damn day soon as I get home."

"Reminding you of the family YOU HELPED ME CREATE NEEDS YOU IS NOT ME NAGGING YOU! That is me loving you and staying by your side supporting your career over my own. This producing job has gotten into your head I don't even know who you are most of the time."

Chuckling he stood ruffling his hair. "I'm doing this shit for you and it's like you don't even recognize me trying."

"How is not speaking trying Carlton? Yes it was my idea but remember you said and I quote "if that's what you think we need I'm all for it". Was it a lie or just something to get me quite?"

He shook his head starting to pace the room.

"Ok I see where the root is and I'm more than sure we can work things out between you two in no time. Mr.Willis could you come sit back down please."

He looks at me slowly coming and taking his seat again. The doctor hands me a tissue to wipe away tear I didn't even notice had started falling.

"If I can I'd just like to first say that this step you all are taking coming to a complete stranger bringing them into your personal life is big. So many people have taken up a defensive strategy of keeping problems small or big bottled up inside letting them grow to a point where they explode at any random time. It's clear as can be the love you two have still blooming and very much fresh."

We look at each other loosening our bodies relaxing into the leather seats.

"My job will be to just be the voice of reason to help you come to a happier ending together. In the end I can guarantee as a team we can get you all back to that honeymoon stage in the relationship." She smiled before standing. "Now there was a study that shows the consumption of alcohol can cause a uh word vomit as it is effect. Loosen you up and let how you truly feel be known by word or mouth. Since the saying is drunken words and sober thoughts....but I'm not going to try and get you guys drunk."

She goes to a cabinet taking out to two crystal glasses. "So vodka or rum?"

#darlene cisneros #chris brown #kayla phillips #Lil Fizz #chris brown fanfic #chris brown fanfiction #chris brown fiction #fanfiction #fanfic #fiction

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our-legacy-rp-blog · 8 years

Photo

ARCUS LAURIER SEVENTH PUREBLOOD GRYFFINDOR

HISTORY

Though pure blood ran through some members of the Laurier family’s veins, there were many that held the title and were products of blood traitor unions. Steeped in tradition and honour, the Laurier name hasn’t held the same status in over a hundred years - their powerful family members were exported to other families, and the weak were left to marry half-bloods trying to climb up the social ladder. The Laurier’s are a shadow of their former selves, clinging to the glory of the days long gone while sipping wine in a mansion. Removed from society and politics, the Laurier family has slowly weaned itself off of the drama of pureblood society, preferring instead to keep to themselves and their own. The Laurier name, when mentioned, is usually tied to a strange new incident at the house or a spectacle in public - madness, it’s said, runs in the Laurier veins.

Lena and Mathias Laurier married in the winter in the backyard of the Laurier estate. Mathias, an alumni of Durmstrang, was the sole heir to the Laurier family - or at least, the only pureblood one that they cared to acknowledge. With the name itself beginning to die out, Mathias had been sent abroad as a boy to get an education, find a wife, and ensure that the name Laurier wouldn’t die with Mathias’ grandmother. He returned to Scotland with Lena on his arm and the two were wed under the watchful eye of Mathias’ grandmother, who passed away not long after. The Laurier name would live on, and she’d passed over with a sated, peaceful heart. But Mathias had inherited the Laurier trait for being removed and distant from not only society, but people themselves. His wife had seen an opportunity to marry a beautiful man, believing that his icy nature would melt once they were wed - but it only deepened.

A rift widened between the newly weds until Lena became a shadow of former self, haunting the Laurier mansion feeling lonely and bitter. Her own family believed she was having the time of her life with the man of her dreams - and with four older sisters, Lena wasn’t prepared to be the humiliated and unlucky sister who would die a spinster. She instead tried, in vain, to win Mathias’ heart - she would ply him with gifts, conversation, surprises, flirtation, but nothing worked. He was a cold man who always seemed to see right through her, and Lena would retreat to her wing of the house lonelier and more desperate than ever. It wasn’t until their third anniversary that Mathias broke his chilly exterior and, in an unnatural display of affection, hosted a dinner for Lena. Believing it to be a sign of his love - belated but still welcome - Lena received it warmly, and that night, the two slept together for the first and only time in their marriage.

Arcus was born nine months later to a mother who was exhausted, lonely, but overjoyed to have a child - and to a father who stayed only long enough to glimpse his child before disappearing once more. For Lena, Arcus was a companion - a pet, almost, that she used as a crutch for her failed marriage and to fill her lonely days. She raised her son to be her best friend, but simultaneously she stunted his imagination and faith in the world, because everything Arcus ever knew was limited to the Laurier mansion. Lena’s own bitter, broken dreams were passed to her son, however unconsciously, and he grew into a shadow of his mother - on the face of it, able to paste on a smile, but inside feeling hopeless. He sympathised with his mother, even as a boy - he wanted more for her, but every time he tried to dream beyond the walls of the mansion, she would reign him back in. Arcus learned that dreaming was best left for when you were asleep.

By the time Arcus was seven, he’d seen his father so sparingly that he almost forgotten what it meant to have a father. But Mathias hadn’t forgotten his son - and he came for him when the boy was seven, telling Lena that it was time for Arcus to learn the family’s history and business. Of course, there was no family business: the Laurier’s had no trade or occupation, and instead lived off the wealth accumulated over the years. Thanks to the booming business of their cousins, the Vaubadon’s, the Laurier’s needed to never work a day in their lives. Mathias instilled in Arcus a sense of entitlement and laziness - everything they needed was provided for, and as long as Arcus did the bare minimum, he would be fulfilling his duty. Arcus was scared of his father, who seemed like a stranger and a prison guard simultaneously, and took the lessons to heart, promising he would do what was needed by his family when the time came.

Mathias handled Arcus in a cold and clinical manner - there was no father-and-son bonding sessions, but instead more like a business transaction between them. Mathias took Arcus to see the Vaubadon’s business in Knockturn Alley, explaining the situation with the werewolves and the potential upcoming war between wizarding kind and the creatures. This affected Arcus deeply, because it proved what his mother had always said: there was no hope, and dreaming of a better future was a waste of one’s brain power. Arcus was accepted to Hogwarts at the same time as his cousin, Georgie, but the two couldn’t be more different. Where she craved knowledge and wanted to try, Arcus was lazy, nihilistic, and despondent - nothing could motivate him to care about the state of things, especially when he knew what awaited them all at the end of the day. Arcus hated werewolves, but he also didn’t care enough to fight them, either - he didn’t wish for a war, but at the same time, he saw it as inevitable.

Arcus is someone who feels hopeless and expresses it through sarcasm, banter, and substance abuse. As someone who knows how things will end, Arcus sees little point in trying to change things - it feels pointless, and instead he seeks to enjoy himself while he can. Hedonistic, wild, and unapologetic, Arcus is a loose canon with nothing to lose and everything to gain. His free-wheeling path means that he doesn’t care who he hurts with his words, and he doesn’t see the point in developing personal relationships, either - it’s all a waste of time. Arcus wants to have fun while he can, believing that he’ll die one way or another, and the Laurier’s let him get away with a lot. His mother cares, but is too busy in her own head, and his father cares even less, so long as Arcus does as he’s told when the time comes. With parents all but out of the picture, Arcus is a someone who sees himself as Nero standing on top of Rome watching it burn to the ground. He knows he’ll crumble with it, but he’s going to enjoy the time he has left.

NOW

There is a strict regime waiting for Arcus after graduation. The one that many young males from pureblood families are looking towards as they edge towards the prime age of eighteen. The Laurier name held no prestige within the high society of purebloods, but that didn’t tarnish the purity of their blood. It was still pure, and his father was not one to stray from tradition or even fathom the idea of him not continuing on their name. Be it to continue on the rumored insanity that runs through their veins, or the simple status it gave them to keep their lives cushioned and lavish - Arcus truly has no choice in the matter of his future. He was doomed to repeat what his father had been forced into; and then whatever sad and pitiful children his chosen wife would be forced to birth out would have to go through the same torture because thats just how shit worked. There was no such thing as dreaming and hoping for something outside of what you were born into. His father wanted the family name to live on, his mother wanted grandchildren, and Arcus wanted nothing more than to sink into a dark pool of nothingness and fall away from the expectations placed on his shoulders but he knew once more he would only find himself disappointed again, and again, and again. He could find himself a job within the ministry if he chose to - but Arcus didn’t really care much for politics. He didn’t care much for the war manifesting itself within his world either. He held much disdain and hatred for werewolves but not enough to join a movement.

Even as he stays within the castle walls of Hogwarts, surrounded by those just like him with futures that are entangled and intertwined forever now within their world – Arcus finds his classes are boring. He sees no point in joining clubs. The only thing he looks forward to every day is falling into bed and drowning himself in whatever substances he can get his hands on. Arcus’ days are spent being loud and obnoxiously gregarious, skipping classes and rolling eyes at the stern looks and conversations his professors attempt to have with him. He has yet to get expelled; and part of him wishes for it. But another part of him finds himself enjoying the ability to be as far away from his home as he can be, enjoying the taste of freedom he had never managed to get while growing up within his family mansion. The walls had kept him in for so long, he’s gone a little crazy now that he’s out, but no part of him seems to want to stop. Perhaps that insanity rumor was true afterall. What he does know is that he’s going to milk his time at Hogwarts for as long as he can and do whatever the fuck he wants until graduation comes around, because the minute he walks out those doors, his hands will become shackled once more and whatever fleeting feeling of freedom he had will no longer be there.

DETAILS

BIRTHDAY: December 15th. FACECLAIM: Tyler Blackburn WAND: 11", Red Oak, Dragon heartstring, very sturdy. POSITION: N/A. CONNECTIONS: Arcus is cousins with Georgie Vaubadon.

STATUS: TAKEN

#hp rp #harry potter rp #skeleton rp #harry potter roleplay #lsbio #arcus #gryffindor #m #tm

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forkergirl · 7 years

Text

You may read, and I hope that you enjoy ths essay in its context here: (http://abstractmagazinetv.com/2017/09/24/fuckinmuse-a-journey-into-collaboration-by-thylias-moss/)

I am indebted to Jaclyn Jacobs for her interest in Collaboration, for it is my sincere belief that no one and nothing makes alone.

I repost that article in its entirety here:

Art credit: Nathalie von Arx, Zurich, Switzerland

fuckinmuse: a journey into collaboration

(therefore, also into a True Love story in Love Jungle)(1)

Thylias Moss

Emily Dickinson had her Thomas Wentworth Higginson, and I have my Thomas Robert Higginson,(2) a man, poet himself, who became my muse.

In some ways there is startling similarity in how these writers became correspondents and more, so essential to the making of our poetries. Both Higginsons are writers in their own right—I am simply astonished by how much is shared. What channeling my Thomas Robert Higginson seems to have accomplished of Thomas Wentworth Higginson, both men assuming similar roles in the lives of female poets. Roles they were born into, inevitabilities:

“MR. HIGGINSON,—Are you too deeply occupied to say if my verse is alive? The mind is so near itself it cannot see distinctly, and I have none to ask. Should you think it breathed, and had you the leisure to tell me, I should feel quick gratitude. If I make the mistake, that you dared to tell me would give me sincerer honor toward you. I enclosed my name, asking you, if you please, sir, to tell me what is true?

That you will not betray me it is needless to ask, since honor is its own pawn.”

April 26, 1862 (excerpt)

“MR. HIGGINSON,—Your kindness claimed earlier gratitude, but I was ill, and write to-day from my pillow. You asked how old I was? I made no verse, but one or two, until this winter, sir. I had a terror since September, I could tell to none; and so painful as I supposed. I bring you others, as you ask, though they might not differ. While my thought is undressed, I can make the distinction; but when I put them in the gown, they look alike and numb… and so I sing, as the boy does of the burying ground, because I am afraid… When a little girl, I had a friend who taught me Immortality; but venturing too near, himself, he never returned…for several years my lexicon was my only companion. Then I found one more… You ask of my companions. Hills, sir, and the sundown, and a dog large as myself, that my father bought me. They are better than beings because they know, but do not tell. They are religious, except me, and address an eclipse, every morning, whom they call their ‘Father(3)’”

Art credit: Gary Frier, South Africa, @gary_frier

Long before I knew my Thomas Robert Higginson, as well as I now do, he had written a review of my book Last Chance for the Tarzan Holler (nominated for the National Book Critics Circle Award, by the way):

Last Chance for the Tarzan Holler – by Thylias Moss

and it is quite telling to share that review at the outset, for it reveals his interest in the life of this poet:

“Last Chance for the Tarzan Holler is the sixth book by Thylias Moss, her first after grabbing one of the MacArthur Genius grants. Her work has changed—moved further out, encyclopedia-ized. She has memories of playing jacks sans hands, Thalidomide-esque, but all it is, is nose-sucking, the end of the world. Included are The Brothers Grimm, Zora Neale Hurston, Amy Clampitt, and Stanley Crouch: this is a thin volume, but spectacularly dense, provocative (is her cheating poem about Lazarus “cheating” death? or her and her husband’s affairs?). To read her Susan Smith/baptizing poem is to be horrified—yet, as Moss posits, ‘’tis poetry’s job.’ The long, more formal open-field works, particularly ‘Advice,’ ‘Sour Milk,’ and the title poem, all break new ground. I want the book! I want the movie!” Thomas Robert Higginson

It is when I read this passage from Thomas Wentworth Higginson: “Once set foot on such an island and you begin at once to understand the legends of enchantment which ages have collected around such spots. Climb to its heights, you seem at the masthead of some lonely vessel, kept forever at sea. You feel as if no one but yourself had ever landed there; and yet, perhaps, even there, looking straight downward, you see below you in some crevice of the rock a mast or spar of some wrecked vessel, encrusted with all manner of shells and uncouth vegetable growth;(5)”

it was when I read that passage that I realize how similar these men are, aware of the beauty of the world, that interest in being connected—all this is essential, for the gestation and subsequent birth of collaboration, an extension of sharing, and admitting that no one entity knows everything, nor even what “everything” is, for such knowledge would require a foreknowing of completion, as there is no “everything” until there is an ending as point of reference, so that everything including that which will contain that everything, even just a thought of it, may be included, and whose thought?—for each thinker, each experiencer has a sense of everything, a personal understanding, not universal, and yet each one true. Perspective and point of view, real, but not quantifiable, in a general sense of definition. The specialness of what was forming, both of us aware, and not questioning it as if a destiny neither one of us could control nor wanted to control.

He called this truth our “US-ness.”

A great word and he has invented many, whenever there is need, whenever the rare and impossible are born, the only children He and I will ever have, and who can say how many children these children will have? How many populations? Descendants of all time just as time itself gave birth to our connection.

I noticed how in so many of the letters, Emily Dickinson addresses her friend as “Mr. Higginson,” something I do also to my Mr. Higginson. I noticed Emily’s habit of thanking her Mr. Higginson, something I do too, for how can I not thank this man who was the singular vehicle for my return? from so many things that set out to derail me from a life of joy and love? —a life of poetry? He has signed correspondence to me as “Higgzy,” “Higgs,” or “Thomas Robert”—most often I simply address him as “Mr. Higginson”; I like the formality of that, a simple title bestowed on him.

How do I thank the man who has done so much?

And I must thank him; this generosity is astonishing to me; never imagined it would happen. Was I looking for this? I must have been.

I think that I was looking for him, without realizing I was, when I developed “Limited Fork Theory,” a way of understanding how all things are connected, “limited” in that we are bound by our abilities to notice and a related inability to meaningfully notice everything that exists or has existed or ever will exist. Bound to the limits of our senses, those devices for accessing

information and bringing it inside ourselves where it is processed for meanings, some of which are just beauty often expressed through ways in which what is accessed sings. And not all senses of all things access the same information and certainly do not process it the same way which is also beauty and variety.

I am always amazed by these ranges.

Both deficits and extensions of senses, that measure differently yet refer to related realities, that expand in both space and time, sometimes the same things expressed differently, and here is where personal preferences contribute to a delicious complexity of it all. For instance, the blind experience both increases and decreases, elsewhere, yet not all is even seeable, and the mind itself is able to perform some seeing for which conventionally functioning eyes are not required and would interfere with meanings issuing from a certain visual range, while acknowledging that human seeing does not include an entirety of the visual spectrum.

Limited.

All means available to us for measuring how existences are experienced, are limited, and without collaborating, without sharing, without augmenting our own perceptions, there is little chance of moving beyond our limited understandings, limiting them even further and our understandings

even further. Limited by limitations themselves limited by other limitations, all ranges outside of “everything” are necessarily limited. Takes a conglomeration, a community of all seeing to produce a more accurate understanding of seeing, not seeing; understanding, not understanding; comprehending, not comprehending, and so forth.

A realization that everything has significance has burdened this writer; I have even felt guilt about what I have failed to notice. And I cannot even know what all of that is. So, I realize that making is collaborative. All things have a part in whatever I consider, and all things that have a part are collaborators. Nothing I do is done alone, in every part of everything I do, others contribute, without exception; unseen people and things, even spores about to burst with no more than possibilities, building blocks of proteins, enzymes, atoms, linking, connecting into molecules, fabulous chains of existence, substances whose contributions are invaluable, and they should be thanked, in the very least acknowledged as being our co-makers. Unseen things, and

that which has attempted to manipulate these things. Such awareness totally transformed my life; I self identified as “Forker Gryle,” even on Facebook, until I was told that “Forker Gryle” did not sound like a real name, although I had been in the world, teaching and living, using this identity since 2004. Renaming of self to better understand the changing is essential.

Why a fork?

Consider the hand, or a tree with its hand-like branches; please note how fingers are branches of a hand, yet are connected, those branches rooted, even from what is referred to as the lifeline. Now also consider this; there is no limit to how many branches may exist or into what a branch may point to, or that a branch, like an arrow may connect, harshly or gently, perhaps each branch leading to something different, simultaneously, a road, a means of access both, in at least, to and from some location for some duration of time, those locations which could be any dimension, past, present, future; any parcel of time itself, and each branch may further subdivide and branch itself, those bends, those curves, those mobius branches, for those are possibilities also, those knots on a hand, those moles of dark tunnel, those cancers of opening new roads, all connected somehow to a singular hand of some sort, each part making a connection with something.

(Better angels.)

For connecting tends to be intimate, a touch of some sort, recognitions of humanity, that touch that brings all together, for no matter how briefly, something has been shared, each entering this temporary partnership differently than they leave, for something of each participant remains and

this happens in every interaction, something is left and something is taken away, mixtures, endless mixtures, masalas everything, fiestas of possibilities, changed forms changing further and further, the more interactions occur. And parties involved in an interaction are forever changed by this very partnership, temporary though it may be, of interacting; each now knows more about an other, and this is so useful, for this knowledge lasts and as subsequent interactions are made, particles of what has been shared, exchanged in a previous interaction are shared at some level, on some scale, in some location with whatever is next touched, for some duration of time.

Mighty Forms of embrace.

All temporary, unless, until, and here is where hope may harm as one entity of a connection seems to bend, twist, curve out of contact; however, when connection is made, there is memory of it, and this memory does enhance what may occur in a subsequent interaction: it becomes easier for these entities to connect again. Perhaps in a stronger bond that too may be permanent. A priming for interacting, for connecting. A risk that must be taken for the sake and possibility of change itself. We should not remain as we are, ideally improving as ultimately, we are sure to do. I have that kind of faith, that kind of naiveté if that is what is–

–Did not Kinnell say it, Saint Francis and the sow? –the only poem I have ever wanted to steal — I met with sme success in my collection of poetry “Tokyo Butter”

Tokyo Butter – a search for Dierdre

Persa Boosks, 2006, the poem: “Dierdre in Kinnell’s Saint Francis and the Sow with the Aid of France Bourély’s Micronautics: Also the Culture of Epistle.)

Saint Francis and the Sow

BY GALWAY KINNELL

The bud

stands for all things,

even for those things that don’t flower,

for everything flowers, from within, of self-blessing;

though sometimes it is necessary

to reteach a thing its loveliness,

to put a hand on its brow

of the flower

and retell it in words and in touch

it is lovely

until it flowers again from within, of self-blessing;

as Saint Francis

put his hand on the creased forehead

of the sow, and told her in words and in touch

blessings of earth on the sow, and the sow

began remembering all down her thick length,

from the earthen snout all the way

through the fodder and slops to the spiritual curl of the tail,

from the hard spininess spiked out from the spine

down through the great broken heart

to the sheer blue milken dreaminess spurting and shuddering

from the fourteen teats into the fourteen mouths sucking and blowing beneath them:

the long, perfect loveliness of sow.

Galway Kinnell, “Saint Francis and the Sow” from Three Books. Copyright © 2002 by Galway Kinnell. Reprinted with the permission of Houghton Mifflin Company. All rights reserved, www.houghtonmifflinbooks.com.

Source: Three Books (2002)

——–

I have needed to believe in an ultimate improvement system, some things so limited, so contaminated that growth itself is thwarted, falls short; they refuse to improve and are left behind as the change machine of existence continues, plowing through field after field, upturning hope buried under rigidities that must give up control; those delicate flowers manifesting thorns and other forms of armor that allow their very beauty to exist, their scents to become better atmospheres. Bouquets of hope, Hopeful Garden spots freckle landscapes; so this is where we live now, all Pollyannas do, becoming pollyanna in interactions, some of that goodness, that optimism, rubbing off and onto every participant who interacts with this more rugged hope, more likely to survive, circle game after game, concentric circles widening, that embrace becoming bigger and bigger, wider and wider, the best possible circular-esque rip in spacetime, the colorful and productive circulating destinies that now come into and out of view, reachable view. Grab it! That brass merry-go-round and round and round ringing roulette wheel of chance liberties, libraries of liberties, each with a trailing ribbon that suffices for hair of the world, and wind, melodies of movements, concertos all. Nourishing also. Why not believe in this and make it true? What palate does not prefer the taste of this, so long as there is no other food, the breast milk root, child itself of prolactin: O lucky hormone.

Art credit: Chris Rivera, @chris.rivera, [email protected]

There is no limit to how many times forms of entities that have connected may reconnect, for each connection or form of collaboration changes what has connected, making it easier for them to connect again. There is memory of having been connected. And that ease is hope when the

connection has been beautiful, which is what I emphasize, in my preference for the beautiful possibilities.

Love is one of them.

In July 2011, I nearly died when a cranial aneurysm ruptured, and I consider this the most fortunate thing that ever happened to me, for it allowed a friendship with my Mr. Thomas Robert Higginson to blossom into a fulfillment that it never could have blossomed into without that rupture.

A rupturing through which a salvation entered; I literally was looking out the window from the couch, and saw the sky seem to break, as if a rainbow had become a colorful saw, each color lengthening and bending, a tooth growing able to split the sky it was tasting, dripping slobber as

the colors themselves, more ropes of tasty rainbow, the licorice of it all. It was a moment that had me run onto the deck, to see this splitting better, to be a more involved witness, my t-shirt reflected nothing but colors, I was only part of a spectrum of energy and colorful wildness, I was transmitting this rainbowed effect, a job I took most seriously, passing along information, being only a connector which is what I was even with my co-learners, a sharer of information. I had helpers, lots of them, everything that existed and was able to transmit in whatever ways it could impart the knowledge that it was still acquiring, information never static, but constantly adapting

—it could be just his nature to help others,

for me the rupture, those neurons, my cranial rosebush as it were, a stunning pink flower blossomed in my head, a bouquet that life itself gave me, preparing me for something else, a romance with existence and with Thomas Robert himself, in my head—that is what the rupture gave me in a collaboration with a localized, blood-filled balloon-like bulge in the wall of a blood vessel, fertilizer of a sort.

Everything is poetry, this is what I have come to believe after nearly losing my life, and Thomas Robert Higginson was waiting for me—I didn’t know he would be, although I had appeared in a movie he produced in 1990 or thereabouts, The United States of Poetry, where I met him in Chicago for the movie shoot. How innocent that was, but connection indeed, a beginning of our physical collaboration; our words had already touched and enmeshed. For once connection happens, it is easier for reconnection to occur as what has reconnected remembers that it has

connected before, and no matter how changed these entities have become, there is on some cellular or sub-cellular level, addresses of the internal heavens for instance; there is some memory that these entities should connect. My belief for which I have not lived long enough to either prove or disprove.

I am limited;

my own thinking goes only so far, each of my senses also has limits, and I cannot remove them all, but I can collaborate, make stuff with others and their differing limits. That is what happened with Thomas Robert Higginson. When I survived the fortunate rupture of that aneurysm, on 23 July 2011, released from the hospital to the disbelief of everyone on 9 October 2011, I lay on the couch at home, and saw light enter the room in a way I had never seen it enter, as if the sky itself had had an aneurysm. I saw everything differently from that moment; I myself

astonished to be alive. Just alive. Nothing else mattered. And then began the task still underway of reclaiming life, with which I was already collaborating, more aware of my limits then than ever.

It was in this heightened and necessary sense of being that I read some of Thomas Robert Higginson’s poetry again, and found things there all along, but that I had somehow overlooked; it took that reorganization of my brain and an admitting of the impossibility of knowing everything, and a looking into that poem and realizing that there were locations to take further, to actually turn corners introduced there, to journey into the lines and find much more than it would ever be possible to locate if I looked only through my even more limited and incomplete lens system. Those microscopic universes even became essential, those worlds that lived unseen on us; a tool of a poet also became a microscope. Any and everything that helps access, for if unaccessed, cannot be considered.

Yes; the work of making. The peeling away of layers and the accessing surface after surface, for surfaces are where things occur. Interior surfaces. Surface of the heart, brain, spleen, Thomas Robert Higginson’s poems, So much there, and I became determined, a hunger that I cannot

fully explain, and that is a good thing for to be able to “fully” explain something is to be a mystery thief, one thing that I hope remains impossible, and I will work to make it so.

Thankful to have finally had a baby in 1991 —all of this leading to that moment of when Thomas Robert Higginson could enter my life in a most real way, taking me beyond my limitations to new limitations—for limitations—in some form exist. Death being considered one such limit. But I was not yet collaborating with life as I needed to. For collaboration is a

way of exceeding limits, in my case, traps. I had searched my whole life for an opportunity such as what the rupture afforded me, for “rupture” is so close to “rapture”—that is never lost on me.

About my finding so much in his work, my Thomas Robert Higginson said this:

“Here’s what I think — I think somehow I’ve become a fuckin muse, and that’s just fine with me so long as you keep pouring out the outpourings. That’s right, Write On, o! Great Crusader of the Pen Nib.”

Art credit: Chris Rivera, @chris.rivera, [email protected]

The big question is what happened to allow me to see further? And why that day? What did the angle of light entering my house have to do with it? And could this precise angle be repeated? I knew I was recipient of something most rare, and I didn’t want to lose this gift.

It began, all of it, in collaborations with poetry, with daily my finding unexplored locations in his work, and I traveled; from the beginning, he took me places I had never been. One of us would write a line or stanza and send it to the other, adding a line, a stanza, and before you knew it, there was a new poem, something neither one of us would have written separately. Realizations possible only via connection; ideas the other may not have had; poetry itself is that great thing that always connected us, metaphors and the like, expressions, tastes, things barely there in abstract ways. First the writing connected, first we each realized something special in the writing the work of the other, and it made so much sense that a collaboration, a reaching beyond what one could accomplish would extend itself to a corporeal realm, and connect, collaborate there also, and what a grand connection that also was, profound, words, bodies, and everything, for the words are part of the body—through and complete connection in every way—you do not find this often, And once this manner of connection happens, though the components may for a time seem to go their own ways, their own ways have forever been changed, and they find their way back to each other, their paths having been rewritten by coming together in the first place

surviving tremendous interference from that which was outside the bond. Tiny essences remain, Poams and Poems themselves reinforced by these things we believe, these things defying senses and usual ways of knowing. Proof, of something greater than either part separately. Naturally we would explore what becomes possible in a corporeal way then the physical sources of the poems come together in something a simple as a Kiss,

And then came a chance to actually be with this man, and that was nearly beyond my ability to conceive. We met in Chicago for that movie Thomas produced, and when I had an opportunity to go to Chicago to accept an award, naturally, I thought of someone accompanying me, and I thought of him, and what he had been saying to me about his always having been interested, waiting in fact, 25 years just to Kiss me was the beginning stanza of a poem we would write together , would be together, collaborating as nothing has ever collaborated.

He said we would : “make the poetry of this and that, the poetry of everything, the poetry of my being with you; the poetry of you being with me, the poetry of us together; the poetry we’ll be writing all over the bed, all over the room, whole weekend of poetry, that whole lifetime.”

These makers attempt, these makers try, experiencing instant chemistry that is simply poetry connecting their bodies. “There is nothing else to breathe, only the deliciousness of air that has

touched your lungs, has been purified there, crystal molecules that spell out your name, even your hair that I’ll finally touch becoming that Thomas Robert Higginson alphabet, where every word translates into pleasure…”

“Very soon, Thomas Robert; —I have been waiting for this moment!”

“Not nearly as long as I have! Twenty-five years for me!—don’t forget that! —all that I’ll be thinking about is seeing you, holding you, touching you for the very first time; already Wonderland for me. My understanding is that in Wonderland, the only utensil is a fork —all anybody in Wonderland, ever needs.”

“At this late date, a couple of necessary questions, please. If that’s all right.” “Well, what do you want of me, ideally? —I know sex; I invited you for that purpose. Guess at this late stage, I’m wondering just what your intentions are with me. I’ve made it quite clear that I’m interested, very interested in making love with you —in fact, I would like for you to

make love to me, and I’ll make love back… I want one beautiful, exceptional weekend; ideally, you’ll want much more from me —but I need to know your intentions… ”

“This is brilliant and clear and bone honest, Dream Baby. And I can say I want the same. IDEAL:LY is a great word. You don’t get hung up on what obstacles, just quotidian reality boring shit, IDEALLY must overcome And I take my cues from you on the Drunken Boat Grid, the Full Body Grid, the Total Life in a Weekend Grid, the Pulse of Morning Grid, the Sky Blue Dress Grid, your tender touch my body gloving you. See? I rabbit hole down go why not stay there long as possible no way out whoosh it’s morning. Alarm clock. Bzzbzzz. Hello, Dream Baby Thylias, it is Mr. Higginson, For me, aged sixty-six, it is still, Hey, ya never know. And I wouldn’t say it except you really want to ask directly and you yourself have set this Truth Grid and I can negotiate it as I can, and I don’t know if this will be our only time. On the Truth Grid I can only say I do not know: I think this might be our only weekend, yes. But I do know that I anticipate a lot for and from our time together, and that looms lives as long as it took to get here, the intricacies, details, loop whorl menagerie. I want us to just do and be and live and penetrate the Universe with our Us-ness. Can that be done on the Truth Grid, Tine Forker Dream Baby Thylias? —Can it?”

Excerpt From: Thylias Moss. “New Kiss Horizon.” iBooks.

NEW KISS HORIZON, ROMANCE NOVEL ABOUT VASHTI ASTAPAD WARRREN AND THOMAS ROBERT HIGGINSON

And this these poets attempt, these makers attempt, and I have the best Kiss of my life, endowed with all the feelings, for I find myself in the arms of a poem, a poem written for me, and a poem written about me, and he is a poem for me, and I am a poem for him, as if he has never seen a poem before, poetry is born right then, and we would be the discovers of it, if poetry had not already existed.—and I am forever changed by the collaboration of our bodies, there is nothing like it. There will never be anything like what Thomas Robert Higginson and I, Thylias Moss, two poets make in collaboration on every level through with anything may touch, make, create, and Be, penetrating every connected universe with the Best Love ever, that instant chemistry was simply poetry connecting their bodies. A Kiss.

Talk about collaborations, well, I felt orgasmic just from that poet’s Kiss. The first time I had ever felt such things. Our finest collaboration, senses operating beyond what anyone would have said was possible, the finding of a more that can never be fully demolished, a Kiss that can never be duplicated as that is a moment unlike any other. Monument also. Everything.

He is in my Life, and I am in his Life. Permanently.

“See, I will be writing to and about you for the rest of my life. No matter what. As you yourself said: “That’s the truth of it. Everything. It means so much. It means everything.” —You wrote that to me, and now I write it back; does it really matter who initiated any of this at this point?

It is, I continue, for old times sake, for looking out for “our” past to find “our” future, whatever it is, as if I could ever forget you, and I assume that even though you do not acknowledge me right now, you know who I am, and know what we had together. For you are part of it, whether or not you want to be.

You cannot erase it; it is established, we are the monuments of what we accomplished.

So many wonderful things to be said about Thomas Robert Higginson, a writer of course. From somewhere in the Universe?

The solar system?

Planet earth?

Well through him,

I have felt that I have known the universe, visited stars without getting

Burnt or breathing poisoned air,

Think my lungs adapted to be able to maintain respiration processes dependent on his cologne, Dakar —I never forget that, and when the atmosphere cooperates, which is every day, I move through a Dakar soup, rather primordial from which existence begins again and again and again, whenever I am with him, which also includes thought, ideas that collaborate with him, connect with him. All the time. Our connection is that profound. Our writing talks to each other, and the conversation, the poetry that comes out of these conversations, are transcripts of the experience. I did things with him I will never do with anyone else, unless an instant connection is felt, unless there is instant chemistry.

I am sorry that I felt a need to make you real —I wanted to claim my space and time in your life; I wanted to make clear that I was with a “real man.” And that you were with a “real woman.” That I made up none of it. That there really is a past to look out for,” “to [try] to find our future,” that a “future was not yet written,” etc. It is poetry afterall. It is meaning afterall. It is truth. All we have ever had is truth,

I do not know what happened to us; I think I misunderstood something important and basic about him: everything is poetry.

I am not sure how to recover this as he has asked me not to contact him further. But we will come back to each other; this is just a natural and temporary split in the constant ebb and flow of existence. I just happen to write this during the ebbing part of the cycle. Tomorrow and many tomorrows later, flow will resume, as we collaborate with Andy Goldsworthy.7

But this was purely the foundation of us. Everything is poetry, including and especially sex; in some ways the body’s greatest achievement.

It is not that I cannot write without him, but what I write is better, reaches further, moves further out, travels to locations I would never consider without the inspiration, the motivation of his eyes, his thoughts, his ears; his senses extend my senses, and it hardly matters which of one of us begins a poem, when we make it together, it always travels to locations neither of us could take it alone, and that is the beauty, the distance discovered. Discovery is the outcome of our collaboration, perhaps also the point, and, Oh, the surprise! That to be writing for as long as we have been writing and to still find surprise. Our poems Love each other probably better than Thomas Robert Higginson and I love each other.

But we try.

I am still pulling for “US-ness” –you know I am and always will be. Forever beside him on a bridge in Chicago.

My favorite picture of Thomas Robert Higginson and myself on a bridge in Chicago.

Sacred ground now, as is room 304, a hotel room that is already immortalized. For that is where we make stuff, and realized we really could. Chicago. Manhattan. Ann Arbor. Detroit. Minneapolis. Wherever we go this power goes with us, this voracious power that is never the power of one, but the power of two, so coiled together, they are inseparable. Pull them apart, and there is an ordinariness never possible when they make together, that exchange of the bits and bytes, neurons of the machinery, even the machinery of our minds. Buzz, Buzz; we are working. We are making. Even making love, Love of each other and Love of poetry. Inseparable love supreme.

What You Can’t Understand Is Poetry Is Connected to the Body Again —Truth directly from Him; truth we told each other, tell each other; truth that made it necessary for us to actually touch, to make that “US-ness:” already real and truth, gospel truth to us, also truth in the world to which we are connected and with which we collaborate, every moment of every day, whether or not we are physically together, for in my mind I certainly am, sometimes so exasperated with him, but loving him just the same.

He is a real man, a living collaborator, and I accept the eccentricities and inconsistencies of realities; he is definitely part of them, but when we get together, such magic happens. If I were to see him right now, just being honest; I would be unable to keep my hands off him; I might try not to touch him, every moment wanting to fail. He knows this also, for we have collaborated so deeply and thoroughly, he knows exactly what I feel, And with him, always with him. I will never be free of him. And more importantly, I do not want to be free of him, not really, for writing this, revisiting the journey of our collaboration makes me realize again as if for the very first time how special our coming together is. He once said I was bad, and added that that is a good thing. And he is right. I was bad with him, in all possible good suggestions of bad, except for tying him to the bed; adventurous, eager to know the full realms of pleasure; full throttle —I was fully alive with him, and responded breathlessly to everything he did, and he responded to everything I did, and he said he wasn’t worried, because from the beginning, he could tell how much I liked everything he did; I didn’t know that level of compatibility existed. I had no idea —do you think for one minute that I want to give that up?

Both Poetry and Sex, for they are indeed equivalent

—Maybe I wouldn’t be writing this were I not missing him right now.

But talk about collaboration, and I have to talk about sex, that give and take, that take and give, the most erotic spell —spell, because it is so magical, like nothing else, oh the basic mechanics of sex are the same for most people, I presume, but they lack our motivation and reason for collaborating in the first place— most erotic spell in my life, yes; my whole life; the only sex in my life worth talking about is sex with Thomas Robert Higginson, that poetry of our bodies.

I am glad that he is such a noisy lover; I was always aware of what gave him pleasure. Just as he is aware of what gives me pleasure. He was determined to find out. I admit that I become a little sex machine with him, but only with him; something about him exposes feelings and connections that are with him and because of him. Face it, I am aware of how I look, and aware of how I look to him. So many men approach me because of how I look, not understanding that my look does not mean that just any man gets some. You do not realize what Thomas Robert does, and of course he was really after what every man seems to be after, but he was smarter than most because he actually got it, because of how he allowed me to feel, because my feelings in this connection matter to him. He didn’t want me to pretend, something that never occurred to

me.

I am not one who has faked an orgasm, if I feel it then you will know it, and so far I have genuinely felt that only with Thomas Robert; I didn’t know until I felt it, although I had once been married for forty years. He really should be proud of himself. And f of course, there is also what he felt, and I assure you that I know a lot of what he felt, all that energetic thrusting as we collaborated with and became tangled in sheets. What he did standing behind me as I tried to look out the window, but looking at him is so much better.

You do not understand, but from the very first time, we came together like hand and glove. In fact, given what he talked about I don’t think he has any inhibitions in connecting. He told me that anything I desire would be mine. He talked about my tender touch in our collaboration, his body gloving me —do you realize how physically close we had to be for this to happen? It was sometimes more like masturbation, and we did that too, together somehow, a whole weekend of sex—we met for that purpose. We were really collaborating when he said this: “I guess this is awkward. Not sexy. But there’s so much going on the planet Us that my head is spinning. Not unpleasant, mind you. But the view’s quite complicated. When what I want see. All I really want

to see. Is a clear view of all of you. And me” I don’t like when men approach me just for sex, usually because of how I look; puhlease! He said this and he meant it. Thomas Robert adores how I look, part of the collaboration; part of what drew him to me, and part of what drew me to him, and now I look even more like an ideal woman for him; exactly his type, a woman who cares about him so very deeply, the very long hair, all of it natural and, as if it grows just to connect with him, wherever he goes in the world, those black patterns and designs in asphalt are really filaments of my hair; reaching out to Thomas Robert, and he is not afraid of this; in fact, he expects it, and sometimes has wondered why it has taken me so long to allow my hair the same full reign that he encourages in me.

I love that about him, and many other things with which every memory of mine collaborates: “Well what I want you to know is this I’ve carried a torch for you since I first laid eyes on you. And if we’re ever alone, whatever you desire shall be yours. What an extraordinary woman you are, Thylias! Your directness is not provocative, it is All Being, All the Tine (to use your language!). My body reacts to your written words as if you were touching me, it’s amazing and I like it I like it I like it.”

Art credit: Chris Rivera, @chris.rivera, [email protected]

And he was serious about how we would collaborate. I wish I had known more then than I did that first time with him; I love when his voice called out strongly; everyone knew what we were doing, the volume suggested that he wanted others to know that he was with me, because I am a prize and he knew how victorious he is, and I wanted others to know that I am just as proud to be seen with him, for he is also a prize for me, and he kept busy enjoying every ounce of pleasure he could from my tiny body.

Such intensity of pleasure,

and I was glad to be doing all of it with him, the tickle of his mustache, and feeling his mustache every-time we Kissed, OMG —a little bit of champagne! —also his tongue in my ear —I almost couldn’t stand that, and my first thoughts that all of him would never fit inside me, but he did, and he had all kinds of lubricants just in case.

He really prepared for this as if he was being ordered to the mines, and there was just the mine he was heading to, a homing device, the taste of me, right between my collaborating legs. I was a fuckin muse for him just as much as he became a fuckin muse for me.

I can’t believe I am saying all this, for the sake of collaboration, much more than simply sex, for this was the actual writing of an indelible poetry right inside my body, and what a pen he had, every centimeter mightier than a sword. And he Kissed every centimeter of me, and I kissed every centimeter of him. I know you’re not supposed to Kiss and tell, but I must use superlatives about this man. It’s as if I didn’t really know what Poetry is, until we made love to each other. No parts of our bodies were off limits. Yes; we used condoms, but not for the oral parts, and there was lots of that. I really trusted this man, and he similarly trusted me. I have to admit that I liked his tongue the best, because with it, he wrote poems inside me, and my breathing punctuated them, the rhythms of the sex, oh my, oh my. We talked about this extensively, how condoms were an absolute necessity, the margins on the pages and pages of rarefied sex, just not

for the oral part, he asked, and I agreed. How else could I taste him, know a superb root of his poetry?

The best part of preparing to see each other to physically collaborate, beyond only with our minds that had already made love, but Thomas Robert asked, and he wasn’t shy about this; he knew what he wanted, and called me one night to talk me through my body, from head to toe, he told me exactly what he wanted to do, and asked if he could. If there are rules in collaboration, the first would be to ask; just to let me know what he wanted, and since it was a question, I had

opportunity to refuse, but I didn’t; just his asking the way he did, allowed me to want him, and then there is the sound of his baritone, the recording he made me so that I could have the soothing sound of his support as I wrote about him; just the sound of his voice makes me horripilate, little champagne bubbles of his inflection all over my arms, torso and legs, my breasts also. How I love the collaboration of my breasts in his mouth…He kissed away the goosebumps and then I got more just from his nearness, so he could never stop Kissing me and holding me, gloving me just as he said; I even had a Brazilian wax to invite him in, oh the language his tongue spoke inside me, and the melodies of my mouth sliding up and down him.

There are no words,

and here is where I lose my poetry, because there comes a point where words are insufficient; he and I didn’t even talk in usual ways of talking, sign languages instead, the way we looked at each other, the warmth of his palms, the smoothness of his chest. I didn’t tell him this, but from the moment his hand touched mine in O’Hare, the first connection of his flesh and my flesh, I started feeling sensations that became full-fledged and unstoppable desire by the time we were outside the airport and he opened his coat, and welcomed me inside it with him, and the only air then was his Dakar. My nose is always looking for the scent of him; it isn’t just Dakar that anyone may buy, but the scent of Dakar on his skin, a scent unique to him. Thomas Robert Higginson was prepared for anything that might happen. We were writing a very different kind

of poem, in that extreme collaboration, of our bodies: tongues and fingers everywhere. That touching without limits. Stanza of Kiss, onomatopoeia of Kiss also, metaphor of everything that exists from those fiery touches, he said the fire would meld us together and it did, because this wasn’t the primary goal of our connection, —which is poetry— but a completion; it wasn’t just sex at all, but so much more; he indeed wanted to collaborate that way also, but he is smart enough, he feels enough not to ask me for only that, the way too many men do; he never rushed me but knew what I would need to feel, and that is it right there; I have to feel it or I can’t do it; I had to really desire him just as he really desires me; I had to want to collaborate with him physically; that is what is important; I wanted to do everything I did with him.

There is no part of each other that we did not explore, one way or the other. I am remembering the first time with him because that set the tone for everything that followed. It was easy because we had already Kissed in the taxi all the way from O’Hare to the hotel, and I had no idea that I would respond to him as I did, this 60-year-old woman making out with a 66-year-old man in the back seat of a taxi, but I was hoping; the physical things he promised as no one can ever promise because it was him, that is the only reason; he is the only reason.

Art credit: Vivian Nimue Wood, @viviana_boscardin, Vale d’ Aosta, Italy

My Thomas Robert Higginson knew how to do everything exactly the way I needed for them to be done. Somehow he just knew, and he didn’t approach me just for the physical enactment of

our connection, but I am so glad he wanted that —I would have felt insulted otherwise; the man does indeed have eyes, and so much more than that; he would make me laugh by telling me I had no idea what he can do, and he was right; I had no idea at all, for if he had told me that physically collaborating with him would cause me to feel, what i feel with him, I would not have believed him. And he did work far beyond the mere necessity of asking; Thomas Robert understood the kind of sex I needed, that is what he promised the kind of sex I needed, he made it his business to figure out just what it was, and knowing exactly what I needed, besides what we both wanted, made this the most fulfilling experience of my life that and how I responded to him thoroughly, We really collaborated in a most enticing and seductive way.

Don’t let his look fool you!

That man is far sexier than you may think. I ought to know. We collaborated in the shower; he can do simply amazing things. Anywhere. I ought to know because I did them with him. I’ve done that only in thinking about him, sometimes that dildo he gave me in hand. Yes; a lot of my

time with him —even time in my mind— was good and nasty, and that is a part of the complexity that makes being with him so good. Maybe I emphasize the physical right now, for what we have is complete, the cerebral and the nasty —even Einstein9 did that,

What You Can’t Understand Is Poetry Is Connected to the Body Again

—Thomas Robert Higginson10

POEM

What You Can’t Understand Is Poetry Is Connected to the Body Again

(Dateline: 9/2/97)

What You Can’t Understand Is Poetry

Is Connected to the Body Again

(Dateline: 9/2/97)

Jean allowed the body to drop The beautiful face bluing so perfect A fly buzzed by — but no one would believe it She raced frantically to the offices of the National Enquirer A reporter wrote up the story — it made the cover Now she could get the attention of the radical newsweekly That only told the truth She just casually flipped it down on the desk “Hey,” an editor reading upside-down said, “What if this story is true? It would certainly change Our story — maybe we should look into this. Hey! Stop those presses!”

Jean walked away. Horns were blaring, It was a brilliant dusty sunset and the sirens were distorting. She didn’t hear em. She was remembering her lover’s face, What they’d said about how you never know If someone else’s orgasm is better than yours But that shoudn’t stop you From coming together Even if it’s not exactly At the same time.

ESSAY

What You Can’t Understand Is Poetry

The title says it all and says it with a line break in case you think that “Spoken Word Poets” are not “Real Poets.” Real Poets eat line breaks for breakfast.

I love to read the title at a reading, parsing it out like this:

“What You Can’t Understand (take a little pause here) Is (big emphasis on IS, and a little pause, get ready for the matter-of-fact, always with us:) Poetry.”

The Perfect Lie. One always “understands” poetry! When you jump on the horse and it takes off, you don’t ask where’s it going, you exalt, here we go! No no. Wait. Reading a poem, that’s not like that is it? not like riding a horse?….

What you can’t understand is poetry – because it’s a mystery why poetry exists in the first place. Although you could actually say the same thing for language itself, which I suppose is what philosophers do. Which came first, the thought or the word? sounds Wittgensteinian to me. It’s like when you say, something is lost in translation, what part is it that gets lost? The poetry. The poetry is what’s lost, get it? The joy is in knowing that what you don’t understand, exactly that, is a mix of sound and meaning, body and song that is, all together, what makes a poem a poem.

Again and again, not making sense! And this is what so many think (please don’t agree with them!) — that poetry is hard, obscure, difficult-to-impossible to understand.

WHEN IT WAS CONNECTED TO THE BODY YOU JUST DANCED IT—Who said that?!

Hey, hey, Order in The Poem! Let’s PLEASE stick to this first line of the title before releasing the second. So ok, let’s just say that the first line of the title is simply agreeing with what everyone is always saying – Oy, Poetry! You can’t understand it.

Thus Ends The First Line Of The Title

What You Can’t Understand Is Poetry

so we take a little pause here, in performance, and then (finally!) go on to:

Is Connected

And then a little pause here, so that it becomes: What You Can’t Understand is Poetry is Connected, which is another truism that’s actually a false-ism: the easy way is to say that – Poetry IS connected, is the essence, to life/to meaning , and, here back to the title (say it!) – To The Body. Now we’re getting to what the body of the poem is, and why this is the title – it’s about the physical, and when I think physical, the body, I think of Orality.

Even though we think of it that way, the dialectic is not Literacy and Illiteracy. Illiteracy simply designates an individual’s inability to read. Orality, as Walter Ong points out, is a separate and equivalent consciousness: when there’s no writing, the only way to pass things on is person-to-person, body-to-body. You could say, “We Are the Book.” This idea, devastatingly simple, is at the root of this poem, indeed, of my whole “body of work” as a poet. How to capture the way Poetry was connected to Existence, something that was inherent in Oral Consciousness, is what I’m after. It’s what my mother showed me – she didn’t read a book to me. The book was talking. In her voice.

Again

Comes in after a pause. Because we used to “understand” this. In fact, “understand,” the way we understand understand, is totally colored by literacy. Before writing, there was a spew of sound that carried the speaker’s meaning – you’d ask the person to explain what they meant, but you never asked someone what a word meant because – there were no words! Before writing there were no words there was only meaning, and I know that seems crazy but again only because we don;’t get what a different consciousness Orality is. When writing began, there was no separation between words because what was being said came at you like a block of meaning, not words arranged in a pattern.

And now, in this time of Literacy Consciousness, I am suggesting that we learn (unlearn?) to “connect the poem to the body again.” Since the triumph of Literature, Poetry’s voice has been owned by the book. And I love books, I write ‘em myself and read a lot – my walls are lined with them. And the quiet space midbrain where we read to ourselves? That is a private space where we are most ourselves, a holy space. But the Poem has another power, a power we left behind when we left Oral Consciousness behind. We can feel it as children, when we haven’t yet learned to read. Some kind of magic and musicality, inherent when reading aloud, that’s what I’m after, in general, in my work, and specifically in the two-lined title and following body of the poem known as:

What You Can’t Understand Is Poetry Is Connected To The Body Again

The poem is divided into two stanzas, twelve lines and ten. Kind of ungainly and awkward as to line lengths, form doesn’t’t sit easily here, even if both stanzas end with four-word lines. The poem is prosy, it sort of seems to tell a story, even if we can’t quite tell what it’s about (the old “understand” bugaboo again), a story that makes headlines. It has a character with a name (Jean, named for Jean Howard, who I knew in Chicago as one of the first poets to use film to make poetry, someone who understood the non-separation of poetry performance), and it even ends with what may well be a joke. So it’s a Poem that evokes all manner of non-poetry forms – novel, play, journalism, joke.

Let me tell you a story: the “Plot” of the Poem

Jean allowed the body to drop

OK. Is this the “body” from the title? At least. Right after we learn that the body and poetry are connected again, our hero, Jean, drops the body! Is this so that her poetry is completely for the Intellect? Because as she drops the body (which we will later learn is her lover’s), the body dies.

The beautiful face bluing so perfect

“Beautiful” and “perfect” in the same line – ach! Redolent of romantic poesy, these are words that each signal Poem without the work, and here they are, together – the face is “beautiful” but dying (or dead? “bluing”) and thus can become “perfect.” What a move!

A move so insistent, so bold, so over-the top, that the only thing that can possibly cap it is line 3

A fly buzzed by—

Emily Dickinson! At her best! “I heard a Fly buzz – when I died” (Johnson #591/ Franklin #465). This sure enough is the way Death sounds, sigh. Well, the fly was buzzing and still is buzzing and forever will be buzzing as sure a sign of Death as the Death Haiku, that Japanese form where the dying poet holds quill and scroll and just as last breath escapes, concludes the final character of the final line – 5-7-5. but no one would believe it

Dear Reader/Listener, you are perfectly within your rights to ask What is it that no one would believe? That our hero, Jean, would drop the body? That words like “beautiful” and “perfect” could conjure up dear Emily’s fly (“bluing” is pretty cool), the Essence of Death? Indeed, why is Jean even concerned that anyone believe that her lover/Poetry itself has died? Is she the murderer? Must she have the Truth be told, it’s what she as a Poet must do? All the above? We don’t know, so it’s all these things and probably more and we’re only at line 3, my God!

Because what happens next makes one thing pretty clear about our Ms Jean – she certainly does know how to get a story out. Since this is taking place during the Media Age Stage of Late Literacy, just before the Birth of the Digital Age,

She raced frantically to the offices of the National Enquirer,

the biggest, ever-lying, sleazeball publication of them all. Jean knows the world of print: to get the absolute widest possible distribution, the most explosive telling of this Death, it’s got to be — the checkout counter rag!

A reporter wrote up the story

The story of course is that the body died from lack of connection to the poem. And guess what,

—it made the cover.

And our story could end there, the headline “POETRY FOUND DEAD: BODY SEVERED FROM SOUL.” But Noooo. Jean has a bigger game plan. As Lines 6-7 state ,

Now she could get the attention of the radical newsweekly That only told the truth

So first she goes for and gets the Big Blast Sensationalism Launch, and now she’s circling back to get the liberal Truth-tellers. She wants to get the story told to the biggest possible audience AND she wants it to be politically correct. Or at least be validated by the liberal media.

She just casually flipped it down on the desk

She may have raced frantically to get this into The Enquirer, to play into the demands of yellow journalism, but here for the thoughtful Voice or Nation, she plays it cool.

So cool that (Line 9)

“Hey,” an editor

(she’s moving up, no mere reporter here!)

reading upside-down

(truly literate, can read upside-down!)

said. What if this story is true?

(you can never be sure about Enquirer stories – but something in Jean’s demeanor….)

It would certainly change Our story

(they had a story? How interesting? What could that have been?)

maybe we should look into this.

So the radical newsweekly already has the story but it is Jean’s version of the Body dying from lack of connection to the poem, for which, even filtered as it is through the hyperbole of the Enquirer, the radical newsweekly is willing to Stop the presses!

It’s an image I loved in black & white, the massive whirling printing presses grinding to a halt, screaming headlines erupting. The news is overpowering!

We know that Poetry is News that Stays News (Pound), that it Makes Nothing Happen (Auden), that It Is Difficult / To Get The News From Poems / Yet Men Die Miserably Every Day / From Lack / Of What is Found There (Williams – Rich used the last six words as the title for her great book of essays). Hey! Stop those presses!

Now we understand, as Jean understands, that the life, music, vitality of the poem can never be separated from the poem’s meaning. By physicalizing the so-called Death of Poetry, she in fact shows us that poetry will never die. THAT POETRY IS CONNECTED TO THE BODY AGAIN and the single voice and vision of our poet-hero Jean is going to make, well, not sure what, let’s call it Nothing. Make Nothing happen. But I mean, make it really happen.

She does. She just puts an end to the literary tradition, right then and there. We get the poem to the book and then our job is done. Gets published, distributed, bought, and read. Each step of course is fraught with complications, and at the end maybe 2000 copies will sell, but hey, this’s a poem, so let’s just give it the drama that Mayakovsky did when he demanded an airplane with propeller whirling be parked outside his study so that when he finished one it would be whisked away to the publisher – not a second to lose.

The second verse begins, like the first, again with our hero, Jean. But now

Jean walked away. Horns were blaring,

Is it celebratory tooting, poetry’s reconnection being cheered on by the public at large? Or simply the continuing, ongoing noise of our blatting culture? Both? Both. The Poet’s Choice, as Gregory Corso once told me, “When somebody asks you to pick one, always take both.”

The cinematic vein of “Stop the presses!” continues,

It was a brilliant dusty sunset

Yes, in a poem you can pick both, and the unusable poem-word “sunset” can become even more golden when it’s “brilliant” and “dusty”

and the sirens were distorting.

Is it the Apocalypse brought about by reconnection of Poetry with Body (again)? Or is it Just the Apocalypse? Both (you’re getting it!).

It’s the end of The Terminator, of Snowpiercer, the end of every walk-into-the-sunset Hollywood potboiler poem ever written.

Jean has passed on the oral tradition into print. She has insinuated Orality into Text, clawing her way into the inner sanctum of the print medium. And, in so doing, she has preserved her lover’s face for all eternity.

She didn’t hear em.

What didn’t she hear? The car horns playing music – Beethoven? Ode to Joy? Guns N’ Roses? Randy Newman’s Faust? Aretha’s Respect? David Thomas’s Mirror Man? or Captain Beefheart’s, for that matter.

She was remembering her lover’s face

Yes, the action of creating art, of living her life in the service of Poetry, has caused her to lose the Poem Itself, the Source! Her lover’s face now fades in through the Apocalyptic Sunset Waltz, and now she does hear, not music nor horns nor sirens but words, just words and now it’s clearer, the conversation with her lover,

What they’d said about how you never know

True Poet lovers know you Never Know, echoing the poem’s title, and in that way stay connected – Poem as Body – but this line break skittering into riot control

If someone else’s orgasm is better than yours –

Yes! Exactly! Understanding a poem and demanding a locked-down analysis, forever footnoted and irrefutable, — who would know, who could know? The meanings keep changing. Eros is flowering out the mouth, People! Only the poem/orgasm stays the same.

But that shouldn’t stop you

from what? From having an orgasm? Well, yes, of course, but there’s more –

From coming together

Yes, that’s it! That’s what the poem in the oral mode is about – it’s about the audience experiencing together the meaning of the poem, the connection of the griot to the body politic, the poem bringing/giving Rapture that the listener accepts/understands. Brings all that inside.

Even if it’s not exactly

o! the quivering between Oral and Written, the twin mouths finding each other, that poem that is the kiss, not exactly, OMG whatever IS exactly, Jean, Jean you must not leave us in the vagueness of not exactly, the orgasm goes back inside …

At the same time

Yes, she said, Yes! “You never know if someone else’s orgasm is better than yours, but that shouldn’t stop you from coming together. Even if it’s not exactly at the same time.” Oh God! as these realizations ripple through the audience, wave after profound wave of orgasm, feeding each other, yes, coming together years later, why, it is – it’s a Poem! It can be read later, after the poet is long-gone dead, it’s still being read. You are coming with the poet years later as the orgasm of meaning reconnects you at that moment. Ah, Jean and Emily! The gentle laugh as her lover, dead and blued and perfect and gone gone gone, reconnects through the poem. The fly! The fly! Then the fly buzzed by

Art credit: Nathalie von Arx, Zurich, Switzerland

RESPONSE

BLUE COMING

Blue Coming: After Bob Holman’s “What You Can’t Understand Is Poetry Is Connected to the Body Again” Colorado Review – Volume 42, Number 2, Summer 2015

(in response to Bob Holman’s Poem: “What You Can’t Understand is Poetry is Connected to the Body Again):

BLUE COMING

RESPONSE

BLUE COMING

(CLICK TO HEAR THYLIAS MOSS READ THIS POEM,

Thylias Moss

Poetry is connected to the body,

part of my fingertips, just as blue as anything that ever was or will be blue–

–blue that dye aspires to, true blue denied to any sapphire,

Logan sapphire included, even

if she wears some on those blue fingers, blue spreads, consumes her

as if she hatched from an Araucana egg:

SHE IS BLUE, fingers, bluest hands ever, shoulders, breasts, every

nook and cranny blue, big bad wolf says: how blue you are!

The better to blue you….

She, so blue today, visits Offices of the National Enquirer to

report on this surging of blue epidemic, Blue bottle fly bluer

than any sound buzzing, fly buzzing as blue as it can, making

the Blues, making

The Blues mean something very different –such music from

beating of wings, some of what has spread blue throughout

her bluing body,

blue buzz

even layers of atmosphere: blue buzz: name of a new Crayola crayon

and marker, manufactured from her fingertips Blue

Buzz Blood group She bleeds an orgasmic paint set. She bleeds

a blue layer her lover’s face becoming blue she’s dreaming of

again, blue as his face That defines blue for her blue orgasm,

so much blue everywhere world become blue for her –story of

this massive bluing –true story on the cover of papers –turning

blue once in her atmosphere

Blue static Blue stuttering

Blue hands

Blue —Code Blue–coming together, what a mighty tincture–-

not exactly at the same time, but coming, connected to coming

Her fingertips writing a

Blue coming.

by Thylias Moss

also published in “Wannabe Hoochie Mama Gallery of Realities’ Red Dress Code” by Thylias Moss, Persea books, 2016, a New and Selected volume that contans poems from all of her publihsed books of poetry except “Small Congregations” a previous collection of New and Seleceed poems published by Ecco press and praised by by Harold Bloom.

Cover of “Wannabe Hoochie Mama Gallery Of Realities’ Red Dress Code

The Charlie Rose Interview in which Harold Bloom mentions me at 12:01

ENDNOTES:

1 From a love poem Thomas Robert Higginson wrote for me, “You Are the Corner of My Eye” published in New Kiss Horizon as “A Trip to the Tienda.”

2 A pseudonym

3 Excerpt From: Emily Dickinson. “Letters of Emily Dickinson.” iBooks.

4 How prophetic on his part, for this volume was nominated for the National Book Critics Circle Award.

5 Excerpt From: Francis Bacon, Ignatius Donnelly, Thomas Wentworth Higginson, C. J. Cutliffe Hyne, W. Scott Elliot & John, Third Marquess of Brute. “Tales of Atlantis.” iBooks.

6 “Limited Fork Theory” <http://www.4orkology.com> and <http://www.4orked.com>

7 “as in “Rivers and Tides” =, his definitive film about flow and collaboration, see that film here: <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f7sZv4_0Fxg>

8 A collaboration of Thylias Moss and Thomas Robert Higginson forthcoming likely in Nightboat, 2017, a collaboration that began as “Moving Dance of Reduction” with a quote by Bringhurst; Thomas Robert sent Thylias the initial salvo, and back and forth the emerging poem went until Thylias wrote the line “armadillo style” to which Thomas Robert responded “Wow!” and whenever Wow comes, the poem is done. Praises to armadillos. I never would have arrived at armadillo without collaboration through time and space with Thomas Robert Higginson. I will always love this expansion of space and meaning that I know only with him, my muse, and if that isn’t Love, what is?

9 “Einstein” — the Genius series on National Geographic <http://channel.nationalgeographic.com/genius/videos/einstein-chapter-one1/>

10 Published acknowledging the real man behind the pseudonym, Bob Holman.

11 “Blue Coming” was also published in “Wannabe Hoochie Mama Gallery of Realities’ Red Dress Code” by Thylias Moss, Persea Books, 2016, and in Poets & Writers online, also in 2016, where you may hear Thylias Moss read “Blue Coming”: <https://www.pw.org/content/wannabe_hoochie_mama_gallery_of_realities_red_dress_code>

About the author:

Thylias Moss, a self-employed multi-racial “maker” at Thylias Moss Writing LLC, is also Professor Emerita in the Departments of English and Art & Design at the University of Michigan. Author of 13 published books, and recipient of numerous awards and honors, among them a MacArthur Fellowship, and a Guggenheim Fellowship, her 11th book, a collection of New & Selected Poetry, “Wannabe Hoochie Mama Gallery of Realities’ Red Dress Code” (from Persea Books, October 2016) as part of Limited Fork Theory, an approach to making and thinking developed in order to assist co-makers and co-learners to become more collaborative in thinking and being. All about how things interact across all boundaries, and encouragement of interaction that becomes more meaningful over time; all have collaborators. Nothing makes alone, and everything makes; there is nothing that exists that does not make stuff in some form, which is also open: any form that becomes possible; invent whenever necessary. “Making” is not static, is evidence of life, as is book #12, collaborations, with Thomas Higginson, a collection of poems, Aneurysm of the Firmament, 2016 and a romance novel, New Kiss Horizon 2016, about Vashti Astapad Warren and Thomas Robert Higginson. Follow the lives of these characters beyond the book in Vashti’s Blog. She has also completed an as yet unpublished collection of prose poams: “LFMK (Looking for my Killer)” –an act of public service, currently being read by a potential publisher. And a book about her fther.

Follow Thylias Moss on twitter: @4orkergirl

[email protected]

http://www.4orkology.com http://www.midhudsontaffy.com http://www.moxiesupper.com http://www.lex97.com http://www.thyliasmoss-writer.com

Fuckinmuse: a journey into collaboration (therefore, also into a True Love story in Love Jungle)1 by Thylias Moss You may read, and I hope that you enjoy ths essay in its context here: (

#AbstractMag #Bob Holman #Emily Dickinson #JLJacobs #KISS #Thomas Robert Higginson #Thomas Wentworth Higginson #Thylias Moss

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